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chair and Max sat down. Synnott pulled a second chair into the centre of the room and sat down facing Max, a bare two feet away. Tell the subject what to do – doesn’t matter what – for Synnott it was a way of emphasising the relationship between himself and the subject.
    For a long time he had followed the standard practice of sitting across a table from the subject, but a few years back – the Swanson Avenue killing – he’d decided that there was a benefit in doing away with the table barrier. Subjects had nowhere to rest their arms, nothing stable to hold on to. It made them uneasy and they didn’t know why. Getting closer, getting into the subject’s personal space, unsettled them further. When Ned Callaghan, the man who had murdered his wife at their home on Swanson Avenue, moved his chair back a few inches, he wasn’t even aware that he was displaying anxiety.
    Synnott waited a minute or two before he moved his own chair forward towards Max. Trapped in his own unease, the subject makes mistakes.
    Away from his parents, Max Hapgood Junior was so easy to open up that he might as well have had a dotted line marked across his forehead.
    The dirty beige walls and the worn-out linoleum on the floor, the lack of pictures, calendars or anything else on the walls, the single naked bulb dangling from the centre of the ceiling, all were purposeful elements in creating distraction-free surroundings, to allow suspects to marinate in their own guilt.
    Synnott sat silently for over two minutes, reading the notes he’d made at the Hapgood house. Max folded his arms. Synnott found a blank page and clicked his biro.
    ‘Well, Max, you know what happened, and you now know that I know what happened. And we both know you’re not a bad person – so what we have to do, we have to work out why this happened.’
    Max stared.
    Synnott said, ‘I’d better do this formally– you have a right to remain—’
    ‘You told me all that, I understand all that.’
    ‘It’s in your own interest, son. It might be you want to sit there with your mouth shut, leave it up to others to decide what happened. You have a right to do that. I just want to be sure you know.’
    ‘I did nothing to be ashamed of. Whatever that silly bitch is saying – look, bottom line, this is a squabble between me anda bird I shagged. I don’t know what it has to do with the police.’
    Every few seconds as he spoke, Max’s right hand flicked open in a throwaway gesture. Watching it, Synnott could see how a hand that size, backed up by the power of a shoulder to match, could hold down a slender, frightened woman.
    ‘Teresa Hunt has a different view.’
    Max made a dismissive noise.
    Synnott leaned forward. Rose Cheney could still hear every word, but Synnott’s voice was lower and his closeness to Max Junior suggested an intimacy that excluded the female. ‘A lad like you, solid background – you don’t do what you did unless you’ve got some kind of justification. I’m finding it hard, Max, to see you as some kind of mindless brute.’
    ‘There was nothing wrong with what I did.’ Max’s voice, too, was quieter, though loud enough for Cheney to continue taking notes.
    ‘I’m still not clear exactly what you did – from your point of view.’
    ‘I did nothing.’
    ‘When it comes to trial, she’ll say different.’
    Mention of a trial got Max animated. He cocked an index finger and poked it at Synnott, just like his dad had done. ‘Explain this, then. Afterwards, how come she didn’t make a fuss? How come she didn’t think up an accusation until next morning? How come we chatted, we said goodbye, it was – how come ?’
    Synnott took a moment to nod.
    She was scared shitless of you, you thick fuck.
    Synnott said, ‘That’s a fair point, maybe. How do you explain it?’
    ‘She wanted it. She got it, but maybe she was expecting more.’ Max paused, his voice lowered again, like he was considering letting Synnott in on a secret. ‘You know