Broken Harbour

“Where’d you throw it from?”

“The rocks. South end of the beach.”

We were never getting that knife back. It was halfway to Cornwall by now on some long cold current, rocking fathoms deep among seaweed and soft blind creatures. “And the other weapon? The one you used to hit Jenny?”

“Same.”

“What was it?”

Conor’s head fell back and his lips parted. The grief that had been looming under his voice, all night long, had made its way to the surface. It was that grief, not fatigue, that was leaching the willpower out of him, scouring his concentration away. It had eaten him alive, from the inside out; it was all that was left.

He said, “It was a vase. Metal one, silver, with a heavy base on it. Simple thing, it was; beautiful. She used to put a couple of roses in it, have it on the table when she made fancy dinners for the two of them…”

He made a small sound between a swallow and a gasp, the sound of someone sliding underwater. I said, “Let’s rewind a little, shall we? Start from the point when you entered the house. What time was it?”

Conor said, “I want to sleep.”

“As soon as you’ve talked us through it. Was anyone awake?”

“I want to sleep.”

We needed the full story, blow by blow and packed with details that only the killer would know, but it was heading for six o’clock and he was heading for the level of fatigue that a defense attorney could use. I said gently, “OK. You’re nearly there, son. I’ll tell you what: we’ll just get what you’ve told us in writing, and then we’ll take you somewhere you can get a bit of kip. Fair enough?”

He nodded, a lopsided jerk, like his head had suddenly turned too heavy for his neck. “Yeah. I’ll write it down. Just leave me alone while I do it. Can you do that?”

He was at the end of his strength, way past trying to get smart with his statement. “Sure,” I said. “If that’s what works for you, not a problem. We’ll need to know your real name, though. For the statement sheet.”

For a second I thought he was going to stonewall us again, but all the fight was gone. “Brennan,” he said, dully. “Conor Brennan.”

I said, “Well done.” Richie moved quietly to the corner table and passed me a statement sheet. I found my pen and filled in the header, in strong block capitals: CONOR BRENNAN.

I put him under arrest, cautioned him again, went through the rights sheet again. Conor didn’t even look up. I put the statement sheet and my pen into his hands, and we left him there.

* * *

“Well well well,” I said, tossing my notebook onto the table in the observation room. Every cell in my body was fizzing like champagne with pure triumph; I felt like throwing a Tom Cruise, jumping up on the table shouting I love this job! “Now that was a whole lot easier than I was expecting. Here’s to us, Richie my friend. Do you know what we are? We’re a bloody great team.”

I gave him a pumping handshake and a clap on the shoulder. He was grinning. “Felt like that, all right.”

“No two ways about it. I’ve had a lot of partners in my time, and I can tell you, hand on heart: that was the real thing. There are guys who partner for years and still don’t work together that smoothly.”

“It’s good, yeah. It’s good stuff.”

“By the time the Super gets in, we’ll have that statement signed, sealed and delivered to his desk. I don’t need to tell you what this is going to do for your career, do I? Let’s see that prick Quigley give you hassle now. Two weeks on the squad, and you’re part of the biggest solve of the year. How does it feel?”

Richie’s hand slid out of mine too fast. He still had the grin, but there was something unsure in it. I said, “What?”

He nodded at the one-way glass. “Look at him.”

“He’ll write it up just fine. Don’t you worry about that. He’ll have second thoughts, of course he will, but they won’t kick in till tomorrow: emotional hangover. By then, we’ll have our file half ready to send to the DPP.”

“It’s not that. The state of that kitchen… You heard Larry: the struggle was full-on. Why isn’t he more beat up?”

“Because he isn’t. Because this is real life, and sometimes it doesn’t go exactly the way you’d expect it to.”

“I just…” The grin was gone. Richie was digging his hands into his pockets, staring at the glass. “I have to ask, man. You’re positive he’s our guy?”

The fizz started to fade out of my veins. I said, “That’s not the first time you’ve asked me that.”

“I know, yeah.”

“So let’s hear it. What’s got up your arse?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. You’ve been awful sure all along, is all.”

The anger shot through me like a muscle spasm. “Richie,” I said, very carefully keeping my voice under control. “Let’s review for a second, shall we? We’ve got the sniper’s nest that Conor Brennan set up to stalk the Spains. We’ve got his own admission that he broke into their house multiple times. And now, Richie, now we’ve got a fucking confession. Go ahead and tell me, old son: what the fuck else do you want? What the fuck would it take to make you sure?”

Richie was shaking his head. “We’ve got plenty. I’m not arguing there. But even back when we had nothing, only that hide, you were positive.”

“So what? I was right. Did you miss that part? You’re getting your knickers in a knot because I got there ahead of you?”

“Makes me nervous, being too sure too early. It’s dangerous.”

The jolt hit me again, hard enough to clench my jaw. “You’d rather keep an open mind. Is that it?”

“Yeah. I would.”

“Right. Good idea. For how long? Months? Years? Till God sends choirs of angels to sing you the guy’s name in four-part harmony? Do you want us to be standing here in ten years’ time, telling each other, ‘Well, it could be Conor Brennan, but then again, it could be the Russian Mafia, we might want to explore that possibility a little more thoroughly before we make any rash decisions’?”

“No. I’m only saying-”

“You have to get sure, Richie. You have to. There is no other option. Sooner or later, you shit or you get off the pot.”

“I know that. I’m not talking about any ten years.”

The heat was the kind you get in a cell in a bad August: thick, motionless, clogging your lungs like wet cement. “Then what the hell are you talking about? What’ll it take? In a few hours’ time, when we get our hands on Conor Brennan’s car, Larry and his boys are going to find the Spains’ blood all over it. Around the same time, they’re going to match his fingerprints to the prints they found all over that hide. And a few hours after that, assuming that please God we get hold of the runners and the gloves, they’re going to prove that that bloody shoeprint and those bloody handprints were made by Conor Brennan. I’d bet a month’s salary on it. Will that make you sure?”

Richie rubbed at the back of his neck and grimaced. I said, “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Right. Let’s hear it. I guaran-damn-tee you, by the end of today, we’ll have physical proof he was in that house when that family got killed. How are you planning to explain that away?”

Conor was writing, head bent low over the statement sheet, arm curved protectively around it. Richie watched him. He said, “This guy loved the Spains. Like you said. Say, let’s just say, he’s up in his hide the other night-maybe Jenny’s on the computer, he’s watching her. Then Pat comes downstairs and goes for her. Conor freaks out, goes to break up the fight: legs it down from his hide and over the wall, lets himself in through their back door. But by then it’s too late. Pat’s dead or dying, Conor thinks Jenny is too-probably he doesn’t check too carefully, not with all the blood and the panic. Maybe he’s the one that brought her over to Pat, so they could be together.”

“Touching. How do you explain the wiped computer? The missing weapons? What’s all that about?”

“Same again: he cares about the Spains. He doesn’t want Pat taking the rap. He wipes the computer ’cause he thinks maybe whatever Jenny was doing on there could be what triggered Pat-or he knows for definite that it was.