Broken Harbour

“He’d been made redundant. He was doing his best to get another job, but it wasn’t happening. We were… we didn’t have a load of money. Pat was a bit stressed.”

“Anything else?”

Another shrug. “That’s not enough?”

I waited again, but this time she wasn’t budging. I said, “We found a trap in your attic. An animal trap.”

“Oh my God. That.” That laugh again, but I had caught the zap of something bright- terror, maybe, or fury-that brought her face alive for an instant. “Pat thought we might have a stoat or a fox or something coming in and out. He was dying to have a look at it. We’re city kids; even the rabbits down in the sand dunes had us all excited, when we first moved in. Catching a real live fox would’ve been, like, the coolest thing ever.”

“And did he catch anything?”

“Oh, God, no. He didn’t even know what kind of bait to use. Like I said, city kids.”

Her voice was cocktail-party light, but her fingers were clawed into the blanket. I asked, “And the holes in the walls? A DIY project, you said. Was it anything to do with this stoat?”

“No. I mean, a little bit, but not really.” Jenny reached for the glass of water on the bedside table, took a long drink. I could see her fighting to speed up her mind. “The holes just happened, you know? Those houses… there’s something wrong with the foundations. Holes just, like, appear. Pat was going to fix them, but he wanted to work on something first-the wiring, maybe? I don’t remember. I don’t understand that stuff.” She threw me a self-deprecating glance, all helpless little woman. I kept my face wooden. “And he wondered if maybe the stoat, or whatever, might come down into the walls and we could catch it that way. That’s all.”

“And that didn’t bother you? The delay in mending the walls, the possibility of vermin in the house?”

“Not really. To be honest, I didn’t believe for a second it was actually a stoat or anything big, or I wouldn’t have let it near the kids. I thought maybe a bird, or a squirrel-the kids would’ve loved to see a squirrel. I mean, obviously it would’ve been nice if Pat had decided to build a garden shed or something, instead of messing about in the walls”-that laugh again, such hard work that it hurt to hear-“but he needed something to keep him occupied, didn’t he? So I thought, OK, whatever, there are worse hobbies.”

It could have been true, could have been just a refracted version of the same story Pat had poured out onto the internet; I couldn’t read her, through all the things getting in the way. Richie moved in his chair. He said, picking the words, “We’ve got information that says Pat was pretty upset about the squirrel, or the fox, or whatever it was. Could you tell us about that?”

That zap of some vivid emotion shot across Jenny’s face again, too quick to catch. “What information? From who?”

“We can’t go into details,” I said smoothly.

“Well, sorry, but your information is wrong. If this is Fiona again, then this time she’s not just being a drama queen, she’s making the whole thing up. Pat wasn’t even sure there was anything getting in-or it could’ve been just mice. A grown man doesn’t get upset about mice. I mean, come on, would you?”

“Nah,” Richie admitted, with a touch of a smile. “Just checking. Another thing I was meaning to ask: you said Pat needed something to keep him occupied. What did he do all day, after he was made redundant? Apart from the DIY?”

Jenny shrugged. “Looked for a new job. Played with the kids. He went running a lot-not so much since the weather turned, but this summer; there’s some lovely scenery out at Ocean View. He’d been working like mad ever since we left college; it was nice for him to have a little time off.”

It came out just a touch too smoothly, like she had recited it before. “You said earlier he was stressed about it,” Richie said. “How stressed?”

“He didn’t like being out of work-obviously; I mean, I know there are people who do, but Pat’s not like that. He would’ve been happier if he’d known when he’d get a new job, but he made the best of it. We believe in positive mental attitude. PMA all the way.”

“Yeah? There’s a lot of fellas these days that are out of work and having a tough time adjusting; no shame in that. Some of them get depressed, or get irritable; maybe they drink that bit too much, or lose their tempers that bit easier. It’s natural enough, sure. Doesn’t make them weak, or mental. Did Pat have any of that stuff, yeah?”

He was struggling for the easy intimacy that had got him under Conor’s guard and the Gogans’, but it wasn’t working: his rhythm was off and his voice had a forced note, and instead of relaxing Jenny had managed to haul herself upright, her eyes blazing a furious blue. “Oh my God, no. He wasn’t, like, having a nervous breakdown or whatever. Whoever’s been saying-”

Richie raised his hands. “It’d be fair enough if he was, is all I’m saying. It could happen to the best of us.”

“Pat was fine. He needed a new job. He wasn’t crazy. OK, Detective? Is that OK with you?”

“I’m not saying he was crazy. I’m only asking: were you ever worried about him? That he’d hurt himself, like? Maybe even hurt you? With the stress-”

“No! Pat would never. Not in a million years. He-Pat was… What are you doing? Are you trying to…” Jenny had fallen back onto the pillows, breathing in shallow gasps. She said, “Could we just… leave this till some other time? Please?”

Her face was gray and fallen-in, all of a sudden, and her hands had gone limp on the blanket: she wasn’t putting it on this time. I glanced at Richie, but he had his head down over his notebook and didn’t look up.

“Absolutely,” I said. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Spain. Please accept our sympathies, again. I hope you’re not in too much pain.”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes had dulled; she was nowhere near us any more. We eased out of the chairs and out of the room as quietly as we could. As I closed the door behind us, I heard Jenny starting to cry.

* * *

Outside, the sky was patchy, just enough sunshine to trick you into thinking you were warm; the hills were dappled with moving splotches of light and shade. I said, “What happened there?”

Richie was tucking his notebook back into his pocket. He said, “I made a bollix of it.”

“Why?”

“Her. The state of her. Put me off my game.”

“You were fine with her on Wednesday.”

He twitched a shoulder. “Yeah. Maybe. It was one thing when we thought this was some stranger, you know? But if we’re gonna have to tell her that her own husband did that to her, to their kids… I guess I was hoping she already knew.”

“If he did it. Let’s worry about one step at a time.”

“I know. I just… I fucked up. Sorry.”

He was still messing with his notebook. He looked pale and shrunken, like he was expecting a bollocking. A day earlier he would probably have got one, but that morning I couldn’t remember why I should put in the energy. “No real harm done,” I said. “Anything she says now won’t hold up anyway; she’s on enough painkillers that any statement would get thrown out in a heartbeat. That was a good moment to leave.”

I thought that would reassure him, but his face stayed tight. “When do we give her another go?”

“When the doctors take down her dosage. From what Fiona said, it shouldn’t be long. We’ll check in tomorrow.”

“Could be a good while before she’s in decent enough shape to talk. You saw her: she was practically unconscious there.”

I said, “She’s in better shape than she’s trying to make out. At the end, yeah, she faded fast, but up until then… She’s foggy and in pain, all right, but she’s come a long way since the other day.”

Richie said, “She looked like shite to me.”

He was heading for the car. “Hang on,” I said. He needed a few breaths of fresh air, and so did I; I was much too tired to have this conversation and drive safely at the same time. “Let’s take five.”

I headed for the wall where we had sat the morning of the post-mortems-that felt like a decade ago. The illusion of summer didn’t hold up: the sunlight was thin and tremulous, and the air had an edge that cut through my