The Trespasser

Chapter 9

Breslin gets in not long after, banging open the incident-room door and telling the world, ‘Jesus Christ, the suspect’s mates. Bloody history teachers everywhere. Anyone want to know about the curve of murder rates since the foundation of the Free State?’

It’s like being a teenager and seeing someone you fancy: that slam of electricity, straight through the breastbone and in. ‘Howya,’ I say.

The floaters give Breslin the laugh he’s looking for, but he doesn’t bother acknowledging it; his eyes are on me and Steve. ‘Any updates?’

‘Cooper rang,’ I say.

‘And?’

‘And two possibilities. Either a great big bodybuilder gave her a hell of a punch, she went over backwards and smashed her head on the fireplace. Or else someone – wouldn’t need to be a bodybuilder – gave her a push, she fell on the fireplace with no serious damage done, and he went after her and punched her while she was down.’

That stops Breslin moving, and for a second his face goes blank. Behind the blank, his mind is going ninety. Same as me and Steve, he has trouble picturing Rory getting that hardcore, and he’s not happy about it.

He covers it fast, though. ‘Bodybuilder,’ he says, with a wry snort. ‘No harm to Cooper, but what a typical lab-jockey thing to say. If he’d spent any time in the trenches, he’d know that even a wimp like Rory can come up with one good punch, if he’s pissed off enough.’

Which is what I thought, but coming out of him it sounds like something I shouldn’t fall for. ‘Maybe,’ I say.

Breslin threads his way between the desks to us, giving Stanton a clap on the shoulder along the way. ‘We’ll have to ask Rory, won’t we? We’ll have fun with that, next time we get him in.’

‘He won’t know what’s hit him,’ Steve says helpfully. The blue folder has vanished into the paper on his desk.

‘Any more than she did,’ Breslin says, inevitably, but his heart isn’t in it. ‘I hear you’ve been getting deliveries. Anything nice to share with the group?’

Me and Steve look at each other, all puzzled. Steve says, ‘The vic’s phone records, yeah?’

‘Not unless she made an awful lot of calls. McCann said you had a big box of something so special, the delivery boy wouldn’t let it out of his hot little hands.’ He nudges the corner of the box, sticking out from under our desk, with the toe of his shiny shoe. ‘Would this be it?’

His eyes are hooded and watching me, just on the edge of too casual. There’s no point trying to dodge, not unless I’m prepared to rugby-tackle him off the box; and anyway, all of a sudden I’ve had enough of tiptoeing around Big Bad Breslin, hiding my own investigation behind my back like a kid with a smoke when a teacher walks past. ‘That? Aislinn’s da went missing when she was a kid,’ I say, and watch his face. ‘Moran thought there might be a link. Like maybe a gang thing, or a reunion gone wrong.’

Breslin’s eyes pop. ‘A gang thing? Moran. Conway. Are you serious? You think gangs kidnapped Aislinn’s dad, and then came back for her twenty years later? I’m loving this. Tell me more.’

He’s just about managing to keep the laugh in. Steve ducks his head and goes red. ‘Ah, no, it wasn’t that we really… I mean, I just wondered.’ He’s back in gormless-newbie mode, but the redner is real.

Part of me is actually with Breslin on this, but I’ve got other stuff on my mind. His face, when I told him what was in the box: just for a tenth of a second, I saw his mouth go slack with relief. Whatever he’s trying to steer us away from, Aislinn’s da isn’t it.

‘So don’t keep me in suspense,’ Breslin says. He’s still grinning. ‘Whodunit? Drug lords? Arms smugglers? The Mafia?’

‘The da did,’ I say. ‘Turns out he did a runner to England to shack up with some young one. And no reunion gone wrong: there’s no unaccounted-for contact in Aislinn’s electronics.’

I think I see that tiny explosion of relief on Breslin’s face again, but before I can be sure, it’s gone under a blast of jaw-dropped fake amazement. ‘No!’ He recoils, one hand going up to his chest. ‘You’re kidding me. Who would’ve guessed?’

He’s overdoing it. Breslin is too old a hand for that. He wants, too badly, to embarrass us away from the gang idea.

‘I know,’ Steve says, doing a rueful nod-and-shrug thing. ‘I do, honest. I just didn’t want to miss anything, you know?’

‘Shaking trees,’ Breslin says dryly. The grin is gone. ‘Wasn’t that the phrase? I’m not convinced that’s how the taxpayers would want us using their money, but hey, I’m not the one running this show. You keep shaking. Let me know if anything ever falls out.’

‘Will do,’ Steve says. ‘I was hoping…’ He rumples up his hair and looks hangdog.

Breslin shrugs off his coat and throws it over the back of his chair – he picked a desk good and close to ours, which makes me feel all special. ‘There’s a fine line between hope and desperation. You have to know when to let it go, as the song says.’

‘It’s gone,’ I say. ‘Does McCann want a go of the file, yeah? Before we send it back to Missing Persons?’

That gets me a stare. ‘McCann was trying to help you out, Conway. It’s called being nice. You might want to learn to accept it without throwing a wobbler.’

Steve moves in his chair, trying to beam peaceful thought-waves into my head. ‘I’ll send him a thank-you card,’ I say. ‘How’d Gaffney do, yesterday evening?’

‘Fine. He’s not the brightest little pixie in the forest, but he’ll get there in the end.’

I say, ‘Then how come you ditched him today?’

Breslin is giving his coat a brush-down and a few twitches to make sure it won’t get creased – and to make sure we notice the Armani label – but that brings his head up to stare at me. ‘Say what?’

‘He was supposed to be shadowing you. He says you told him you didn’t need him for the KA interviews.’

‘I didn’t. I can write and listen at the same time. Multitasking, Conway: it’s not just for the ladies any more.’

‘Good to hear. Gaffney needed you, though. That’s why I told him to stick with you in the first place: I don’t want some rookie screwing up because no one’s shown him the ropes. Why’d you leave him behind?’

I’m expecting the same clamp-jawed fake matiness I got this morning. That’s half the reason I’m giving him hassle: I want Steve to have a look at this. Instead, Breslin leans in conspiratorially, with a grin lifting one corner of his mouth. ‘Conway. Come on. Cut a guy some slack. Every now and then a man’s got an appointment he needs to keep all by his lonesome. Know what I mean?’ And he shoots me an actual wink.

Meaning he stopped off along the way to stick his dick somewhere it shouldn’t be. Which would explain not just him ditching Gaffney, but the person who shouldn’t have been ringing his mobile this morning.

I don’t buy it. In a squad where cheating strategies count as coffee-break chat, Breslin and McCann get called The Monks. The grapevine says neither of them has ever even given the eye to a pretty uniform, or tried to chat up the Bureau babe who everyone tries to chat up. Breslin probably thinks me and Steve are too far out of the loop to know that. He’s forgotten that we haven’t always been Murder’s resident rejects, and forgotten how kids longing for Murder suck up every drop of gossip about the tall shining creatures they might someday become.

‘Say no more,’ Steve says quickly, lifting his hands. He has on a grin halfway between embarrassed and impressed, but I’m pretty sure he’s thinking the same thing as me. ‘A gentleman never tells.’

‘No he does not, Moran. Thank you very much.’

‘Fair enough,’ I say, matching Steve’s grin. ‘I guess it’s not like Gaffney could do a lot of damage playing with paper in here. How’d you get on with Rory’s KAs?’

‘Great chats all round.’ Breslin swings himself into his chair, switches on his computer and has a stretch while it boots up. ‘They’re a shower of dry shites, the type who correct your grammar and think three drinks is a wild night out, but I’d say they’re too terrified of us to do any major lying. They all say the same things about Rory: the guy’s a sweetheart, wouldn’t hurt a fly – one of his mates told me he won’t even watch boxing because it’s just too distressing. What a pussy.’

Sounds about right: Rory doesn’t like reality getting all up in his face. ‘Even pussies lose the head,’ I say.

Breslin throws me a finger-snap and a point. ‘Exactly, Conway. They do. I was about to point that out myself. And all the KAs agree that their pal Rory was head over heels about Aislinn: he hadn’t shut up about her since they first met. They say it like it’s a good thing: aww, look, he was so smitten he would never do anything bad to his sweetie! I don’t think it’s occurred to them that there’s a fine line between smitten and obsessed.’ He glances up from pulling his notebook out of his pocket. ‘Nice to hear one of you two admitting that the obsessed boyfriend on the scene might actually be a suspect. Detective Conway, do I get the sense you’re getting just a leetle bit tired of tree-shaking?’

‘Nah,’ I say. ‘It’s good exercise. But like you say, unless something big falls out, Rory’s what we’ve got. A bit more solid evidence, and we’ll be good to go. Did you run the voices past the guy at Stoneybatter who took the call?’

‘Yeah, about that. Just a word in your ear, Conway…’ Breslin glances at the floaters and lowers his voice. ‘You need to learn how to allocate resources appropriately. I know that sounds like boring manager-type crap, but you’re running investigations now; like it or not, you’re a manager. And it doesn’t take a Murder D with twenty years’ experience to hit Play half a dozen times.’

Someone’s ego wouldn’t fit through the door of Stoneybatter station. Steve moves again. ‘Got it,’ I say sheepishly. ‘Will we send Gaffney? Just so he knows he’s not in your bad books?’

‘Now you’re thinking like a lead D. Let’s do that. You tell him, so he knows who’s boss around here; how’s that?’ Breslin gives me his wise-teacher smile, which is kind and crinkly and would make me feel warm all over if I was dumber than a bag of hair.

‘Thanks,’ I say, all grateful. ‘That’d be great.’ I swivel my chair around – without looking at Steve, in case one of us gets the giggles – and call, ‘Gaffney. Over here. Job for you.’

Gaffney nearly falls over his own chair, he’s in such a hurry to get over to us. ‘Here you go,’ Breslin says, tossing him a voice recorder. ‘Those are voice samples: Rory Fallon, his brothers and all his male pals.’ He lifts an eyebrow at me and tilts his chin towards Gaffney, to make sure it’s obvious that he’s cueing me.

I say, ‘Take that down to Stoneybatter station and see if any of the voices ring a bell with your man. If he’s got any doubts, organise a voice lineup. Can you do that?’

Gaffney’s holding the recorder to his chest like it’s precious. ‘I can, yeah. No bother. I will. I’ll do that.’ He’s so busy head-flipping back and forth between me and Breslin, trying to work out who’s the boss here, he can barely make sentences.

‘Thanks,’ Breslin says, whipping out the smile. ‘Do me a favour: pick me up a sandwich on your way back. Ham, cheese and salad on brown, no onion. I didn’t get a chance to eat lunch, and I’m starving.’ He throws me and Steve another wink, as he pulls out cash to give Gaffney. ‘Sorry, no change.’

It’s a fifty. I’m close enough to see where he took it out of: a solid wad of them, in his shirt pocket, tucked inside a crumpled white envelope.

I was right about my voice message giving Gary a kick up the arse: five minutes later my phone lights up with his name. No way am I gonna take this call with Breslin sitting five feet away, and no way am I gonna make a big deal of taking it outside. I mutter, ‘Fuck’s sake, Ma, I’m at work,’ to myself, swipe Reject Call and shove the phone back into my pocket too hard. I glance across, doing embarrassed, to see if Breslin heard; his eyes are on the statement he’s typing up, but he’s got a twitch of a grin on his face.

I wait fifteen minutes – I’d love to leave it longer, but it’s five o’clock, and we’ve got the case meeting at half past – before I head out of the incident room, leaving my coat and my bag behind. With a bit of luck Breslin will assume I’m ringing my mammy back. I don’t look at Steve. I’m hoping I don’t need to.

Outside it’s dark; the whitish floodlights and the thick cold, and the odd civil servant scurrying home with his collar turned up, give the huge courtyard a queasy, ominous feel, some looming futurescape I’ve stumbled into by mistake and can’t find the way out of. I find a shadow, wrap my suit jacket tight and watch the clock on my phone.

Four minutes later the door opens and Steve nips out, trying to keep a massive armful of paper under control and close the door behind him without letting it bang. ‘About time,’ I say, catching a page that’s escaping.

‘Let’s get out of here. I’m supposed to be photocopying this shite. If Breslin goes looking for me-’

‘That’s the best you could come up with? Come on, quick-’ We dodge around the corner of the building, laughing at our bold selves like schoolkids mitching, which I suppose is better than thinking too hard about the fact that Incident Room C is supposedly all mine and yet here I am freezing my hole off.

You can see the gardens from our windows, and in the courtyard we might meet Gaffney coming back from Stoneybatter. We head up to the square outside the main Castle buildings, where only tourists go – not that there are any tourists in this weather – and find a corner out of the wind. The buildings feel a hundred feet tall around us; the floodlights strip out colour and texture till they could be made of anything, beaten metal or slick plastic or thin air.

Steve dumps his paper on the ground, with a foot on the pile to stop it blowing away. He’s in his shirtsleeves; he’s gonna freeze. I hold the phone between us, dial and hit speaker.

‘Hey,’ Gary says. ‘You got the stuff, yeah?’

Gary is ten years older than me and perfect for his job. A big chunk of Missing Persons is getting people who stay far from cops to talk to you – street hookers to tell you about the new girl who matches that teenager on the news, homeless addicts to drop by and mention the guy who tried to sleep on their patch last night and looked a lot like that poster and do they get a reward? Everyone talks to Gary, and he’ll talk to anyone, which is one reason I pointed Aislinn his way. Another big chunk of the job is wrangling the friends and families, and Gary can calm down a room just by walking into it; I once saw him trace an idiot teenage runaway in ten minutes flat, by getting her hysterical idiot best friend to chill out enough to remember the internet boyfriend’s name. He’s a big guy, he looks like he could build a shed if you needed one, and he has the kind of voice – quiet, deep, a touch of countryside – that makes you want to close your eyes and fall asleep to the sound of it. Just hearing that voice winds me down a notch.

‘Hey,’ I say. Gary’s in the Missing Persons squad room: I can hear the weave of chat, someone giving out, someone else laughing, a mobile ringing. ‘Yeah, I got it. You’re a gem. Just a couple of quick questions, OK? And do me a favour: can you go somewhere private?’

‘No problem. Hang on a mo-’ The creak of his chair, some comment with a grin built in from one of the other lads, ‘Yeah yeah yeah,’ from Gary. ‘Smart-arsed little bollix wants to know if my prostate’s giving me hassle,’ he tells me. ‘Young people nowadays; no respect.’

‘Awww, Gar. It’s OK. I respect you.’

‘At least you don’t mock my prostate. Never mock a man’s prostate. That’s dirty.’

‘Below the belt, yeah?’

‘Holy Jaysus. Is that what passes for humour over there?’ A door shuts, and the voices vanish: he’s out in the corridor. ‘Right. What did you want to know?’

Steve has his head up, keeping an eye on the entrances to the square, but he’s listening. ‘First thing,’ I say. ‘You guys went all out on the Desmond Murray case. Everything looked like he’d skipped voluntarily, it turned out he had skipped voluntarily, but yous worked it like a murder. How come?’

Gary snorts. ‘There’s an easy one. Because of the wife, basically. Did you see the photo?’

‘Yeah. She was good-looking.’

‘The photo doesn’t do her justice. She was a stunner. Not the kind you want to get in kinky underwear and shag senseless; the kind you want to look after. Open doors for her. Hold her umbrella.’ Gary’s voice getting fainter, water running, clink of cups; he’s rinsing a mug in the kitchen, phone tucked under his jaw. ‘And she knew how to work it, too. Looking at us like we were superheroes, going on about how she knew we’d find her husband and she felt so lucky to have us, she didn’t know what she’d have done if her whole world had been in the hands of people she couldn’t trust the way she trusted us – loads of that. Crying at all the right moments, and making sure she looked good while she was doing it – her husband’s just gone missing, but she’s still bothered to do her hair and her makeup and put on a pretty dress? She knew what she was at, all right.’

Sounds like Aislinn took after Mammy. ‘You think it was all an act? She didn’t give a damn about the hubby, just wanted attention?’

Gary clicks his tongue. ‘Nah, not that. The opposite of that. I think she was genuinely desperate to get her husband back – she wasn’t the social type, didn’t have friends, didn’t have a job, didn’t have anything apart from him and the kid; without him, her life was bollixed. And she knew the best way to make fellas go out of their way for her was by being pretty and making them want to take care of her.’

‘Cute,’ I say. I can hear the coffee machine whirring – instead of bitching nonstop about the crap coffee, the way we do in Murder, Missing Persons threw in a few quid each and bought a decent machine. ‘And it worked.’

‘Yeah. That type doesn’t do a lot for me, but a couple of the lads would’ve brought out the army to comb the country for her husband, if they could’ve. Tracking down a few mobiles, interviewing a few extra witnesses… that was nothing.’

He remembers a lot about this woman, for someone who wasn’t into her. I keep my mouth shut – Gary brings out my nice side. ‘So it wasn’t because anyone suspected Murray might’ve been involved with gangs?’

Gary laughs. ‘Jesus, no. Nothing like that. Pure as the driven snow, Murray was. When it came to the law, at least.’

I throw Steve a look. He grimaces: still unconvinced. He’s got his hands tucked into his armpits to keep them warm.

I roll my eyes and say, into the phone, ‘You sure you would’ve heard?’

‘Thanks a bunch, Antoinette.’

‘Come on, Gar, you know I’m not being a bitch here. But you had to be, what, twenty-six, twenty-seven? Out of uniform for like three weeks? The lead Ds weren’t necessarily telling you everything that went through their heads.’

The faint clinking of Gary stirring his coffee. He says, ‘Is that what it was like when you were here? You figure I held stuff back from you, just to keep the rookie in her place?’

I say, ‘No. You would’ve told me.’

Missing Persons isn’t like Murder. In Missing Persons, you don’t work your case aiming to take down a bad guy; you work it aiming to get a happy ending. If it even looks like there might be a bad guy to take down, mostly it’s not your problem any more – say a body shows up looking dodgy, you hand it straight over to Murder. You can go your entire career without ever using your handcuffs. That attracts a whole different type from Murder or Sex Crime, the squads where your mind is focused on the kill shot and happy endings aren’t on the menu, and it makes for a whole different atmosphere. Missing Persons was never my kind of place, but just for a second I’m swamped by how badly I want to be back there. I can smell the good coffee, hear Gar hamming up ‘Bring Him Home’ after a happy ending while everyone shouts at him to shut up and take it to X Factor; I’m coming up with new places to hide that rubber hamster. Like a little kid, wanting to run home to Mammy as soon as the going gets tough. I make myself sick.

‘Yeah, I would’ve,’ Gary says. ‘It was the same back then: if the lead Ds were thinking gangs, they would’ve told me. Where’d this gang idea come from?’

I keep my head angled away from Steve, in case that burst of wimp shows on my face. ‘Murray’s daughter, the one I sent to you when she came asking about him? She’s after turning up murdered.’

‘Huh,’ Gary says, surprised but not shocked. ‘God rest. She seemed like a sweet kid, way back when; sweet girl, when she came in to me. You think she got involved with a gang?’

‘Not really. It looks like the boyfriend threw a tantrum, but there’s some loose ends we want to clear up, just in case. We were wondering if she went looking for Daddy and trod on someone’s toes.’

‘No reason she would’ve. There’s nothing that would’ve pointed her anywhere dodgy.’

I really wanted Gary to tell me that something, anything, was dodgy here. I can feel it soaking through me along with the cold, just how badly I wanted it. I can’t tell whether I knew all along that he wasn’t going to.

Steve whispers, ‘The Ds. Why’d they keep their mouths shut?’

‘Second thing,’ I say. ‘Any reason why yous didn’t just tell them at the time where Daddy had gone?’

Gary makes an exasperated noise, through a mouthful of coffee. ‘Antoinette. I wasn’t joking you about the back-seat driving. It wasn’t your case; how they worked it isn’t your problem. You start shooting your mouth off about how you would’ve done it differently, all you’ll do is piss people off. You think you can afford that?’

Meaning word is getting around. Missing Persons have been informed that I’m poison. Even if I wanted to transfer back there, the gaffer probably wouldn’t take me. He knows I’m good, but no one wants a D who brings hassle with her. Whether it’s her own hassle or other people’s is beside the point.

I say, ‘So don’t make me go shooting my mouth off. Quit the hush-hush crap and tell me what was going on, and I won’t have to talk to the other Ds.’

‘There isn’t any hush-hush crap. By the time they tracked Murray down, I wasn’t working the case any more – I was only on board for the initial push – so I don’t know all the details. All I heard is, they found him in England, tucked up in his love nest with the bit on the side. One of our lads gave him a bell: he was happy as a pig in shite, no intention of coming home, and he didn’t want anyone telling his wife and kid anything. So they didn’t.’

Gary takes the silence for disapproval – which it isn’t: I wouldn’t have got involved in that mess, either. It’s some thicko part of me still hoping this isn’t the whole story. He says, ‘We’re not family therapists here. You know that. It’s not our job to sort out some fella’s love triangle; it’s our job to find the fella, and they did. They marked the case closed and moved on.’

Steve makes a wry face, up at the flat dark windows staring back: that’s still getting to him. I ask, ‘Without even telling the wife that Desmond was alive? You said she had all the Ds wrapped around her finger, jumping through hoops to bring her answers; but when they actually find some, they don’t let her anywhere near them?’

‘I’m just telling you what I heard. And I’m telling you not to go giving anyone shite about it. What’s it got to do with your case, either way?’

‘Nothing, probably. Like I said: just tying up loose ends. Shaking trees.’ I flick an eyebrow at Steve, who narrows his eyes at me: Very funny. ‘One last thing. I know it’s been a couple of years, but can you tell me what you said to Aislinn when she came in to you?’

Gary slurps coffee and thinks back. ‘She had a fair idea we knew more than we’d told her and her mam. She said her mam had died and she was desperate to find her dad. According to her, him vanishing had messed up her entire life. She wanted to track him down, look him in the eye and make him tell her why he did it. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen after that – she said something about once he saw her he’d remember how close they’d been, maybe they could have each other back… But even if it didn’t work out that way, according to her, once she knew the story she could move on. Make a life of her own.’

Sweet jumping Jesus on a pogo stick. I’m on Des Murray’s side here. He probably split because the alternative was braining his whole sappy family with a poker. ‘What’d you give her?’

‘I told her I couldn’t disclose any information from the investigation. But… sure, you saw her. She was in bits. She was trying not to cry, but she was right on the edge of it. She was begging me; for a second there I was scared she was going to go down on her knees on the floor of the interview room. In the end I put in a call, had a mate run Desmond Murray through the UK system, just to see was he dead or alive. No point in her chasing him all over the world if he was six feet under.’

Aislinn was Mammy’s daughter, all right; she might have looked helpless, but she knew how to make people do what she wanted. Even I ended up handing over Gary’s name and shift schedule. I’m liking her less all the time.

Gary says, ‘And I thought, if he was still alive, I might drop her a hint that she’d do better hiring a private detective in England. Sure, what harm?’

Missing Persons: happy-ending junkies, the lot of them. ‘And?’

‘And he was dead. A few years back. Nothing suspicious, he just died – heart attack, I think.’

And that’s Daddy out of the picture. I almost laugh out loud with relief. Instead I elbow Steve and mouth See? He shrugs: It was worth a shot. I roll my eyes.

Gary says, ‘Left a missus – well, give or take: he never married your one he ran off with, seeing as he wasn’t divorced from Aislinn’s mam, but they were still together – and three kids.’

‘How much did you tell Aislinn?’

He blows out air. ‘Yeah, that wasn’t an easy one. I figured it’d be a bit of a shock to the missus and the half-sibs, Daddy’s past life turning up on their doorstep – and since the dad wasn’t around for Aislinn to talk to, it’s not like knowing the whole story would’ve got her what she wanted anyway. But I wasn’t going to just throw the poor girl back onto the street – “Off you go and keep looking for your dad, good luck with that!” She had a right to know her father was dead.’

Steve turns up his palms with a flourish: Exactly. I mime wanking. ‘So you told her.’

‘Yeah. Just that much: that the system showed him as deceased. And that I didn’t have any other info.’

‘How’d she take it?’

‘Not great.’ I can hear the grimace in Gary’s voice. ‘To be honest, she went bloody mental – which was fair enough, I suppose. She was hyperventilating, for a minute there I thought I was going to have to call an ambulance, but I had her hold her breath and she got it together again.’

‘No better man for it,’ I say.

‘Yeah, well. Sort of. She was still frantic – shaking, whimpery noises, all that. She wanted to know why no one had told her – had the lads been lying to her ma or were they really that useless, how had they missed something that I’d found in ten minutes flat… I told her the lads were good Ds, but sometimes an investigation hits a wall no matter how good you are, and info from other sources can take a while to make it onto the system…’

It’s instinct, as automatic as blinking when sand flies in your eye: a civilian accuses another cop of fucking up, you deny it. Whether she’s right is beside the point. You open your mouth and a lovely reassuring cover story comes out, smooth as butter. It’s never bothered me before – it’s not like a grovelling apology would have done Aislinn any good, or done anything at all except waste everyone’s time – but today everything feels dodgy, ready to blow up in my face at the wrong touch; nothing feels like it’s on my side.

I say, ‘Did she believe you?’

Gary makes a noncommittal noise. ‘Not sure. I just kept talking, trying to talk her down. I gave it loads about how at least now she had closure so she could move on, how she had every right to make a wonderful life for herself; and I went on about how her dad sounded like a lovely man and he’d obviously loved her a lot, and whatever had happened I was sure it had broken his heart to leave her… That kind of stuff. She didn’t look convinced – to be honest, I’m not sure she heard most of it – but I got her calmed down in the end.’ That voice, doing its job; he could’ve read her the duty roster and it would have done the same. ‘Once she was fit to drive, I sent her home. That’s it. See? There was nothing in there that could’ve made her think gangs.’

‘Doesn’t sound like it,’ I say, at Steve, who shrugs again. His eyes are on a guy hurrying towards the main gate, too far away to recognise in this light, but the guy is fighting the wind for his scarf and doesn’t even glance our way. ‘Thanks, Gar. I appreciate it.’

‘So can you go ahead and leave the other Ds alone? If you won’t do it for your own sake, do it because you owe me one. I don’t need them jumping down my throat about passing you their case files.’

Meaning Gary doesn’t need me getting my cooties all over him. Part of me understands completely: no one wants to catch the plague. The rest of me wants to go over there, deck the fucker and tell him to grow a pair.

‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘Can you send that young fella back to pick up your file?’

‘No problem. He’ll be over to you now.’

‘Nice one. Thanks again. Catch you next week for those pints, yeah?’

‘Next week’s a bit mental. I’ll give you a ring when things settle down, OK? Good luck with the case. Sorry I wasn’t more use to you.’ And Gary’s gone, back to the squad room with his mug of real coffee, to take slaggings about his prostate and sing musicals and go after happy endings.

He won’t be ringing me, and it sticks in deeper and sharper than I was ready for. I pretend putting my phone back in my pocket needs my full concentration. Steve bends to mess around with his pile of alibi paper. I can’t tell whether he’s actually being tactful, in which case I might have to kill him.

‘So,’ I say briskly, ‘the gang theory’s out, at least as far as Des Murray’s concerned. If the Ds had had suspicions they didn’t want to put in the file, Gary would’ve known. Des Murray went off with his bit on the side. End of story.’

‘Sure,’ Steve says, straightening up. ‘But Aislinn didn’t know that.’

‘So? Gary’s right: there’s no reason she would have been thinking gangs. None. Zero.’

‘Not if she was thinking straight, no. But she wasn’t thinking- No, Antoinette, listen.’ He’s leaning in close, talking fast. ‘Aislinn was a fantasist. Remember what Lucy said, about when they were kids? When things were bad, Ash came up with mad stories to make them better. She had to, didn’t she? In real life, all she did was get pushed around by other people’s decisions. The one place where she had any power, the one place where she got to make the calls, was her imagination.’

He’s forgotten all about being cold. ‘So she built up this whole fantasy: she was going to go on a quest and find her daddy, and she’d throw herself into his arms and her life would be OK again. That fantasy was what kept her going. And then your mate Gary blew it right out of the water.’

I say, ‘You make it sound like he torched a poor helpless kiddie’s favourite dolly. Aislinn was a grown adult – and by that time, her ma was dead. She could do whatever she wanted with her life. She didn’t need the Daddy fantasy any more; it was only holding her back. Gary did her a favour.’

Steve’s shaking his head. ‘Aislinn hadn’t a clue how to do what she wanted with real life. She’d had no practice. You heard Lucy: she was only starting to play with that in the last year or two – and even then it was fantasy stuff, doing herself up like something out of a magazine and going to fancy clubs… So when Gary killed off her reunion fantasy, she would’ve needed a new one, ASAP. And a gang story would’ve been perfect.’

His face is lit up with it; he can see the whole thing. You have to love the guy. Where I’m seeing a dead end, he’s seeing a brilliant new twist to his amazing story. I wish I could take my holidays inside Steve’s head.

‘Maybe she decided her dad had been a witness to a gang hit, so he needed to get out of town fast, before the gang tracked him down – something like that. Plenty of drama, plenty of thrills, a great reason why her dad left and why he never came back to find her-’

‘Doesn’t explain why he couldn’t Facebook her, somewhere along the way,’ I point out. ‘“Hiya, sweetums, Daddy’s alive, love you, bye.” ’

‘He was scared to, in case the gang was watching her Facebook account and they went after her. Yeah, I know it’s bollix’ – when I snort – ‘but Aislinn might not have. There’s a million ways she could’ve explained that away to herself. And you know the next chapter of the fantasy? The next chapter’s going to star Aislinn as the brave daughter who goes into the heart of gangland to learn her da’s secret. Guaranteed.’

‘Learn it how? By walking into some radge pub and asking if anyone here knows anything about Desmond Murray?’

Steve’s nodding fast. Another civil servant trudges past, but he doesn’t even notice; too hypnotised by his sparkly story. ‘Probably not far off. Anyone who reads the news would be able to figure out a few names of gang pubs. Aislinn goes into one for a drink-’

‘You think she had balls that size? I wouldn’t be happy doing that, and I can handle myself a lot better than she could.’ This idea is annoying me: us, two grown-ass professional Ds, chasing some idiot’s Nancy Drew fantasy all around town. My job is dealing with stories that actually happen, getting them by the scruff of the neck and hauling them clawing and biting to the right ending. Stories that only happened inside someone’s pretty little head, floating bits of white fluff that I’ve got no way to grab hold of: those aren’t supposed to be my problem.

‘It’s not about having big balls. It’s about how deep she was in the fantasy. If that’s her place, where she’s in control, then she’s not going to believe it could go wrong. Like a little kid – that’s what Lucy said, remember? In Aislinn’s head, she’s the heroine. The heroine might get into hassle, but she always gets herself out again.’

‘And then what? She just sits in the pub hoping the right guy comes up to her?’

‘The way she looks, someone’s going to come up to her. No question. She flirts away, comes back another night, gets to know his pals; once she finds a guy who looks promising, she targets him. Actually-’ Steve’s hand whips up, fingers snapping. ‘You know something? Maybe that’s why she looked like that. We’ve been thinking she lost the weight and got the new clothes just because she wanted a fresh start, but what if it was part of a bigger plan?’

‘Huh,’ I say, considering that. It actually gives me my first fleck of respect for Aislinn. Anyone who turns herself into Barbie because that’s the only way she feels worthwhile needs a kick up the hole, but someone who does it for a revenge mission deserves a few points for determination.

‘The timeline would fit,’ Steve says. ‘According to Lucy, Aislinn started the makeover stuff two years ago, give or take. That’d put it not long after she talked to Gary and had to change her plan-’ That finger-snap again. He’s practically bouncing up and down. ‘Jesus: her gaff. You know how she had no family photos? This could be why. She didn’t want her boyfriend recognising a photo of her dad.’ Steve’s eyes are shining. I’m actually starting to hope we never pull a really good case; the excitement would make him widdle on my leg. ‘And that’s why she ditched the scumbag for Rory: she finally figured out there was nothing he could tell her. It all fits, Antoinette. It does.’

‘Or else,’ I say, ‘the whole gang thing is bollix straight through. Once she talked to Gary and found out that her hugs and hot cocoa with Daddy weren’t gonna happen, Aislinn took down the family photos because they wrecked her buzz, and she decided she just wanted a nice happy-ever-after fantasy. The kind where the ugly duckling gets a makeover, turns into a beautiful swan and finds herself a handsome prince. Except the handsome prince turned out to be a big bad ogre. That fits, too.’

But nothing’s gonna wet-blanket Steve now. Way before I finish, he’s shaking his head. ‘Then what about Lucy? You think she made up the whole secret-boyfriend thing out of nothing? All the twitchiness, she was just putting that on?’

‘Maybe,’ I say. That spark of respect for Aislinn is fading; this whole theory is pissing me off worse and worse. I press my heel down to stop one knee jittering. ‘I’ve got feelers out; if Aislinn was hanging with gangsters, I’ll hear about it. And when Lucy gets up the guts to come in, we’ll squeeze her harder, see what comes out. She won’t be as happy about withholding information when it’s all official and on the record. Until then-’

Steve is woodpecker-tapping two fingers off the wall; he’s frustrated too, with me for not getting it. ‘Until when? What if she doesn’t come in?’

‘We give her a couple more days to get good and stressed, and then we go get her. Until then, we stick to what we’ve got. Not what you think might just maybe be out there somewhere.’

He doesn’t look happy. I say, ‘What else do you want to do? Take a pub crawl around the gang holes yourself, ask all the boys if they were banging our vic?’

‘I want to pull mug shots of Cueball Lanigan’s lot, run them past the barman in Ganly’s. He might remember more than he thinks.’

I shrug. ‘Knock yourself out. Me, I’m gonna concentrate on how Aislinn’s bullshit could actually come in useful.’ I already have my phone out, swiping for Sophie’s number.

‘What? Who?’

Sophie’s phone goes to voicemail. ‘Hey, it’s Antoinette. If your computer guy hasn’t cracked the password on that folder yet, I might have a couple of ideas for him. Try variations on “Desmond Murray” or “Des Murray”, and stuff to do with “dad” or “daddy” – finding Dad, looking for Dad, missing Dad. Our vic’s father did a runner when she was a kid, and our info says she might have been looking for him. It’s worth a shot, anyway. Thanks.’

I hang up. ‘Nice one,’ Steve says. He’s looking a lot happier with me. ‘If that folder’s full of pics of dodgy geezers, then will you-’

‘OhmyGod,’ I say, wide-eyed. ‘What if Aislinn thought her da had actually become a gangster? What if she thought he’d, like, dumped some poor schlub’s body with his ID on it, and he was alive and well under a whole new evil identity?’ And when Steve opens his mouth and leaves it that way, trying to figure out if I’m serious: ‘You spa, you. Come on and get this case meeting done.’

We need to go back into the incident room separately, and let the cold and the outdoors smell wear off us first. I head for the jacks and slather on the hand soap till I reek of fake herbal goodness; Steve goes to the canteen for a cup of coffee. When we wander back to our desks, nice and casual, Breslin is pouring smarm down the phone at one of Rory’s exes and barely glances up at either of us.

Only: my stuff is wrong. I’m positive I had Rory’s bank statement on top, but now my notebook is overlapping it; and the notebook is open to my notes on Cooper’s phone call, when I think I remember closing it. I look over at Breslin, but he’s schmoozing away, convincing Rory’s ex to let him come for a chat this evening, and doesn’t even look my way. The more I try to remember what was where, the less sure I am.

Gaffney comes rushing in just in time for the case meeting, mottled and watery-eyed from the cold, to tell us how he got on at Stoneybatter station: he played the recordings of Rory, both his brothers, and all his best guy friends, and the uniform is ninety-nine per cent sure the call didn’t come from any of them. ‘Ah well,’ Breslin says. ‘Thanks anyway. I appreciate that. And this.’ He starts unwrapping his sandwich. ‘Beautiful.’

‘I’d say I did more harm than good, like,’ Gaffney says worriedly. He hands over Breslin’s change, a great big handful of notes and coins. ‘By the end, after he’d listened to all those different voices, he was actually having a harder time remembering what the original one had sounded like. D’ye know what I mean? Now, if we get more voices for him to listen to, he won’t be able to-’

‘Lineups’ll do that,’ Breslin says, honouring Gaffney with a smile. ‘Not your fault, my son; it goes with the territory. You did fine.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’ It comes out an ungracious grunt – not that it matters: Gaffney is too busy giving Breslin the hero-worship goo-goo eyes to notice I exist. All I can think is that of course the lineup wrecked our chances of getting an ID. Even when we have something, touching it crumbles it into nothing. More nothing, sifting down like fine dust, piling up in sticky drifts on the glossy desks, gumming up the swanky computers.

Before we head home, me and Steve give the gaffer his update. O’Kelly stands at the tall sash window, with his back to us and his hands in the pockets of his tweed suit, rocking back and forth on his heels. He looks like he’s gazing out at the dark gardens, only half listening, but I can see his eyes in the glass, zipping fast between my reflection and Steve’s.

When we finish talking, he leaves a silence that says he wants more. Steve’s reflection glances at mine. I don’t look back.

O’Kelly says, without turning round, ‘I looked in on your incident room, around noon. Ye weren’t there. Where were ye?’

It’s been a long time since any gaffer made me account for my whereabouts like a fucking kid. Before I can open my mouth, Steve says easily, ‘We did the search on Aislinn’s gaff. Then we brought a photo of her round Stoneybatter, asked pubs and local places if they recognised her. See if anyone had spotted her doing anything interesting.’

‘And?’

Steve lifts one shoulder. ‘Not really.’

O’Kelly lets that lie for a few seconds. Then he says, ‘This afternoon you got a delivery from some lad who wouldn’t let it out of his hands. What was it?’

Bernadette’s had a thing for the gaffer as long as anyone can remember; everyone knows she’ll grab any chance to drop a word in his ear. She could’ve grassed us up; or not. ‘Aislinn’s father went missing when she was a kid,’ Steve says. ‘It seemed like a bit of a coincidence, so we took a look at the file.’

‘Any joy?’

‘Nothing. He ran off with a young one. Died a few years back.’

O’Kelly turns around. He leans back against the window and examines us. His shave went wrong this morning; his face is raw and flaky, like he’s slowly eroding away. ‘D’you know what ye’re acting like?’ he asks.

We wait.

‘Ye’re acting like you don’t have a suspect. Flailing about, haring off in every direction after anything you see. That’s how Ds act who’ve got nothing.’ His eyes move from Steve to me. ‘But you’ve got a perfectly good suspect right in front of you. So what am I missing? What’s wrong with Rory Fallon?’

I say, ‘Everything we’ve got on Fallon is circumstantial. We’ve got nothing solid tying him to the actual killing: no blood on his gear, none of his blood or hair on the victim, no injuries to his knuckles. We can’t even put him inside her house. We’ve got no motive. We’re still working on all of that, and if the Bureau comes back to me saying they found fibres from Aislinn’s carpet all over Rory’s trousers, then yeah, I’ll be paying a lot less attention to other possibilities. But as long as it’s all circumstantial, I’m gonna keep chasing down other scenarios and ruling them out. I don’t want to get Fallon into court and have the defence whip out a witness who saw Aislinn having a massive fight with some guy who looks nothing like him.’

O’Kelly’s pulled a handful of stuff out of his pocket – paper clip, twisted tissue, a pebble – and he’s turning through it slowly, not looking at me. He asks, ‘Why didn’t you have him back in today?’

And it’s been a long time since any gaffer made me explain my decisions, in a case that wasn’t going off the rails or anywhere near it. If I was positive this was just O’Kelly giving me shite to try and nudge me out the door, I’d be raging; but I’m nothing like positive. I think of Breslin’s roll of fifties, and of O’Kelly at the roster saying Breslin’s due in. Have him. The air of the building feels like it’s changing into something different, something gathering speed and ready to switchback any second; something I know I should have more cop-on than to love.

I say, just bolshie enough, ‘Because I didn’t want to. When we get everything back from the Bureau, then we’ll haul him in and hit him hard. He’s the nervy type; letting him stew for a couple of days won’t do any harm.’

O’Kelly’s eyes hit my face for a second, needle-sharp, and then flick away again. He pulls a battered throat lozenge out of the pile in his hand and examines it with faint disgust. ‘I don’t know what you’re so happy about, Conway.’

Like I said: O’Kelly is a lot sharper than he likes pretending. I smash the expression off my face. ‘Gaffer?’

‘Never mind.’ He stretches out his hand over the bin and opens it. The rubbish falls in with a dry rattle. ‘Go on. I’ll see ye tomorrow. Try and get somewhere.’

Driving chills me out better than almost anything, but this evening it’s not working. The wind is pulling nasty tricks, dying down just long enough to let me relax, then slamming into the car like a shoulder-tackle, throwing gritty rain at the windows. It turns the traffic jumpy, everyone hitting their horns too fast and taking off from red lights too early, and throws off the pedestrians’ timing so they’re skittering between cars at all the wrong moments.

I get pulled over before I even get across the river. I’ve just gunned it through a yellow and at first I figure the uniform is having a twitchy day too, but the spit-take he does when I pull out my ID tells me there’s more going on. He spills straightaway: someone called in my car for dangerous driving, probably DUI. Some driver could have misread a reg number, in the rain and the traffic, except they described the car as well: black ’08 Audi TT. No one misread that.

The uniform wants to run for his life, but I make him breathalyse me and put the whole thing down in writing, before someone rings Creepy Crowley and tells him I used my badge to duck a DUI. I could try tracking down the number that rang the station, but I already know it’ll be unregistered – plenty of cops have burner phones, for one thing and another. I spend the rest of my nice relaxing drive looking over my shoulder for the next blue light. It doesn’t come, which means I get to look forward to meeting it in the morning instead.

At least there’s no one hanging around the top of my road this time, which is something. I unlock my door, switch on the light, drop my satchel, slam the door behind me, and as I turn back into the sitting room the three things hit me one after the other and all faster than a blink. Smell of coffee. Silence where my alarm system should be beeping. Movement, just a brush, in the dark kitchen.

I get my gun out – it feels zero-gravity slow, even though I know I’m going at top speed – and aim it at the kitchen door. I say, ‘Armed Garda. Drop any weapons, keep your hands where I can see them and come out slowly.’

For the first second all I see is a scrawny little bollix in the kitchen doorway, shiny blue tracksuit, hands up above his head, I think some dumbfuck junkie has picked the wrong house to rob and the trigger is a cool perfect fit to my finger and I can’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t pull it. Then he says, ‘You need a better alarm system.’

‘Fleas,’ I say. I laugh out loud; if I was the hugging type, I’d hug him. ‘You little fuck. You almost gave me a heart attack. You couldn’t have just e-mailed me back, no?’

‘This is safer. And anyway, too long no see.’ Fleas has a grin the size of a dinner plate on his face. I can feel the matching one on me.

‘How is this safer? I nearly shot you, you know that?’ I holster up. I’m light-headed with the adrenaline spike. ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘I wasn’t worried. I’ve got faith in you.’ Fleas heads back into the kitchen. ‘Will I make you a cup of coffee?’

‘Yeah. Go on.’ I follow him and give him a smack across the back of the head, not too hard. ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again. If I’m gonna kill someone, I don’t want it to be you.’

‘Ahh!’ Fleas rubs his head, looking injured. ‘I wasn’t trying to freak you out. I would’ve waited in the sitting room, only I thought you might bring some fella home with you.’

‘Yeah, right. Chance would be a fine thing.’ I still have that grin on; I can’t get rid of it. ‘You hungry?’

‘You’re out of everything. I looked.’

‘Cheeky bastard. There’s fish fingers in the freezer; you want a fish-finger sandwich?’

‘Deadly,’ Fleas says happily, and starts pushing buttons on the coffee machine. ‘Loving this yoke. I might get one of my own.’

‘If mine goes missing, I’m coming after you.’ I turn on the cooker and pull open the freezer. Fleas leans his elbows on the counter and watches the machine spew coffee like he’s fascinated by it.

Fleas is a little runt who looks like his ma didn’t drink enough milk when she was having him, which given the block of flats he’s from is probably true. He got the nickname in training college – he was in my year – because he can’t stand still; even waiting for the coffee machine, he’s bouncing from foot to foot like he’s itchy. The two of us got on, back in training. I wasn’t there to make bosom buddies, and I didn’t need morons saying I was shagging a guy into looking after me; but if it hadn’t been for all that, we would have been friends.

Halfway through our second year, Fleas disappeared. The story we got was that he had been kicked out for being caught with hash on him – cue jokes about how you can put the skanger in a uniform, but you can’t put the uniform into the skanger – but I didn’t fall for it: Fleas was way too sharp for that. A few years later, when I got pulled off a desk to spend a few weeks being Fleas’s cousin Rachel who would be only delighted to take a suitcase full of drug money to his boss’s friend in Marbella, it turned out I’d been right all along. The sting went like clockwork, a few bad guys went down, and me and Fleas had a blast. Before I went back to my desk, we made Rachel an e-mail address so we could get in touch, if we ever needed to. We’ve never needed to before.

We take the coffee and sandwiches into the sitting room and stretch out at opposite ends of my sofa, with our feet up and our plates balanced on our laps. I’ve lit the fire; the wind is still going, but the thick walls turn it faint and almost cosy. ‘Ahhh,’ Fleas says, wriggling his shoulders comfortable against the cushions. ‘This is lovely, so it is. I’m gonna get myself a nice place like this, one of these days. You can teach me how to do it up.’

Which reminds me. ‘How’d you know where to find me?’

‘Ah, now. Where would you be if I hadn’t?’ He gives me his crinkly grin. ‘Murder now, yeah? The big time. How’s that going?’

Meaning he’s been asking after me, when he gets a chance. ‘Grand. Beats giving out penalty points.’

‘How’re the lads? Any crack?’

I can’t tell what that means. His face, full of food, gives away nothing. ‘All right, yeah,’ I say. ‘What’re you at these days?’

‘You know yourself. Bit of this, bit of that. Remember your man Goggles? The little fat fella with no neck?’

‘Jaysus, him.’ That makes me laugh. ‘You know he kept trying to chat me up, right? Every time you left me on my own, there he was, edging over and telling me he loved tall birds and the littlest jockeys have the biggest whips. He was always so bickied he kept forgetting he’d already tried and got nowhere.’

Fleas is grinning. ‘That’s the boyo. We finally landed him – we didn’t even want to, he was still useful, but the thick eejit… Himself and his pal Fonzie were in a B &B in Cork, right? Parcelling up a load of Es that had just come off a boat?’ He’s got the giggles; it’s catching, even before I know what we’re laughing at. ‘And Goggles was sampling the merchandise, only he went too far. Three in the morning, he’s out in the front garden in his jocks, singing – I heard it was “I Kissed a Girl”.’

By now I’m lying back on the sofa, laughing properly. It feels good.

‘When the landlord goes out to see what’s the story, Goggles gives him a hug, tells him he’s only gorgeous, then legs it back inside, hops in bed with the landlady and starts playing peekaboo under the covers. The uniforms arrive, take him back to his room to sleep it off, and there’s Fonzie crashed out in a chair and a hundred grand of Es spread out on the bed.’

‘Ah, Jaysus,’ I say, wiping my eyes. ‘That’s beautiful, that is. You couldn’t just seize the haul and let the lads go, no?’

‘We tried. The gaffer had half the squad looking for some way the uniforms had fucked up, illegal search or something, yeah? But they were watertight. Poor old Goggles is going down. Here’ – Fleas points his sandwich at me – ‘you should visit him, inside. Cheer him up a bit.’

He’s messing, but it sounds like there’s a corner of serious in there. ‘I’ll get him to do his Katy Perry for me,’ I say. ‘Cheer us both up.’

‘Not from what I heard, it wouldn’t.’

‘Come here,’ I say. ‘Speaking of the lads. The Courier’s after running my photo. Is that gonna fuck you up?’

Fleas is the reason I don’t let my photo out there. They did me up for the gig – curls, big hoop earrings, shitload of makeup, pink crop tops with cheeky and your boyfriend wants me across the front – but still: better safe. He shrugs. ‘No hassle so far. See what happens.’ It takes a lot more than this to panic an undercover. ‘I wouldn’t say anyone recognised you. You’re all fancy these days’ – a nod at my suit, half impressed, half amused – ‘and in fairness, it’s been a few years.’

‘Rub it in, why don’t you.’

Fleas examines me critically, chewing. ‘You’re looking all right. Not great, now; you look like you could do with a holiday. Or a tonic.’

‘I’m grand. I could use a bit of sunshine, just. What are the chances?’

‘Or a change of scene.’

I look up fast from my food, but he’s leaning to get his mug off the coffee table; I can’t see his eyes. Undercovers are like that – they can’t go at anything straight – but I’m pretty sure I get the message. Fleas knows Murder isn’t working out. He thinks I e-mailed him because I need him to put in a good word for me on Undercover.

For a flash I think about straightening my leg and putting my foot in his guts. Instead I say, ‘I’m happy enough with the scenery I’ve got. I’d love your opinion on one bit of it, though.’

‘Yeah?’ Fleas’s tone hasn’t changed, but something streaks across his face, something that almost looks like regret. ‘What’s that?’

‘Look at this.’ I sit up and stretch for my satchel, find a photo of Aislinn Version 2.0 and pass it to him. ‘Her name’s Aislinn Murray. Twenty-six, five foot seven, probably a middle-class Greystones accent. Seen her around?’

Fleas chews, bounces one knee and takes his time looking. ‘Hard to say for sure; a lot of ones look like her. I don’t think so, but. Who is she?’

‘Murder victim.’

That stops his knee bouncing. ‘Her? The one off the front pages?’

‘Yeah. Her best mate says she had a secret boyfriend, the last six months or so. We’re thinking it could’ve been a gangster. One of Cueball Lanigan’s lot, maybe.’

He looks longer. Shakes his head. ‘Nah. She wasn’t with any of Lanigan’s lads, anyway.’

‘You’re sure,’ I say. I already know from his voice: he’s sure. The warm cosy feeling is sinking fast. I could kick myself for dragging him out here for this.

‘Hundred per cent. I’d’ve met her. Probably if she was with anyone from Crumlin or Drimnagh, too.’

‘Maybe not. If she was keeping the relationship on the downlow, he might’ve been too.’

Fleas laughs. ‘Nah nah nah. A bird who looks like that, anyone who’s shagging her is gonna want the world to know. He’d be showing her off in the pub, at parties, every time he got a chance.’

‘Even if he’s married?’

‘No problemo. No one expects these lads to be monks, know what I mean? Not even their wives. If someone’s married to another of the lads’ sister, then OK, he’s not gonna shove his bit on the side in the brother-in-law’s face, but he’ll still be bragging about her to the rest of us. And the lads gossip like aul’ ones. Everyone knows who’s got a little side action going on.’ He’s still scanning the photo, but his knee is jiggling again: he’s losing interest. ‘She have any bling that’s not accounted for? Rolex, jewellery, designer gear?’

‘Not that I spotted,’ I say. ‘Her stuff was mid-range, things she could’ve afforded herself; nothing that said someone else was buying for her. But maybe she just wasn’t into the sugar-daddy thing.’

Fleas snorts. ‘Any extra cash?’

‘Not that we’ve found. Her financials look clean.’

‘Any trips away? A lily-white like that, the boyfriend wouldn’t be able to resist using her to carry something. And if she’s the type who’d go for a gangster, she’s not the type who’d say no.’

I shake my head. ‘Her best friend said she’d never been out of Ireland. We found a passport application form – first-time, not renewal. No passport.’

‘There you go,’ Fleas says. He passes the photo back to me. ‘I’m not swearing on my life or anything, but if I was a betting man, I’d bet plenty that she had nothing to do with the scene.’

And there it is. The cosy feeling burns out to dirty ash.

I say, ‘You can’t swear to it, but. She still could have had connections.’

He shrugs. ‘She could’ve, yeah. So could my ma.’

Fleas isn’t like Steve; he doesn’t make up ifs and maybes for kicks. If Fleas says something, it’s solid.

There goes our beautiful gang theory, spiralling down the jacks with a long sucking sound. I thought I was ready for that.

Me spending the last day and a half thinking I was a big badass sniper deep in enemy jungle, swinging my scope from Breslin to McCann, my blood clarifying to pure adrenaline while I waited to see which one I should pick off. Idiot, five-star fucking cretin. No different from Goggles getting off his tits on his own shipment and turning himself into a lifetime punchline. The only thing I’ve done right, since the moment I got this case, was hold on to just enough sense to keep my gob shut. Every other thought I’ve had was a joke.

I stuff the photo back into my satchel – I don’t want to see the thing any more. ‘Can you keep an eye out anyway? See if anyone’s a little off his stride this week, maybe, or anyone’s spending more time in the pub, getting drunker than usual?’ The begging under my voice is pathetic. ‘She only got killed on Saturday evening, so whoever did it should be feeling it.’

Fleas has gone back to his sandwich. ‘Might be, might not. Plenty of them are total psychopaths; could blow their own grannies’ brains out and never break a sweat.’

‘Someone knows about this who isn’t a total psycho, but. A guy called it in to the local station, looking for an ambulance. If that wasn’t our boy, it was a mate who he talked to.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll keep an eye out for anyone who’s off form.’

He’s humouring me, but he’ll do it. ‘If you spot anything,’ I say, ‘you e-mail me before you show up here. I swear to God, if I find you under my bed tomorrow night, I’m gonna shoot your bony arse.’

‘Come here, but,’ Fleas says, wiping mayo off his cheek with the back of his hand. ‘I wasn’t joking about you needing better security. I had that alarm disabled in twenty seconds, tops; took me maybe another minute to get past the locks. And probably you already know this, but there’s some fella casing your road.’

The air in the room hardens, scraping at me like sandpaper. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I was wondering about that. Where’d you spot him?’

‘I took a stroll past the top of the road earlier on, just getting the feel of the place before I headed in. He was hanging about. Like he was waiting for someone, only I got the vibe – you know the vibe.’

‘Yeah.’ We all know the vibe. ‘Did you get a decent look?’

‘Tried. I went to bum a smoke off him’ – Fleas slumps forward, lets his face go junkie-vacant and whines through his nose, ‘“Here, bud, gis a fag?” ’ Back to normal: ‘Only he saw me coming and legged it. Could’ve been he just didn’t fancy the likes of me getting a hold of him, in fairness; but…’ Fleas shrugs. ‘Middle-aged fella, tall, medium build, pricey overcoat, big schnozz. That’s all I could see; he was well wrapped up, trilby and a scarf over half his face. Again, that’s fair enough, in this weather. But.’

‘Right. But.’ That rules out Creepy Crowley and his short arse and his slimy mac, anyway, which is a shame; I would’ve only loved a good excuse to mistake him for a stalker. ‘I think it’s this gaff he’s watching.’

Fleas nods, unsurprised. ‘I’d say so, all right. Got any clue who he’d be?’

I shake my head. ‘I was wondering about some gangster looking to warn me off. With that Courier photo, anyone could’ve waited outside work and followed me home. But if you figure the gang thing’s a dead end…’ Every time I say the word ‘gang’, it sounds stupider. I stretch out my legs farther along the sofa and try to get back some of that relaxed feel. It’s well gone. I can feel the sitting-room window behind my shoulder, the dark wind shoving up against it.

‘They’re a shower of bollixes, the Courier,’ Fleas says. ‘And just ’cause it’s not a gangster, that doesn’t mean it’s not the fella who killed your girl.’

‘I already thought of that. Do I look thick to you?’

‘I’m only saying. You’d want to get that alarm sorted rapid. Get PhoneWatch or something.’

‘No, thanks.’ If PhoneWatch doesn’t get an answer off you when there’s a breach, they ring the Guards. I’d rather have a serial killer use me for parts than have the squad find out I went squealing for uniform help like some civilian. ‘I’m grand. I got you good and proper, didn’t I?’

‘I wasn’t here to kill you,’ Fleas points out. ‘Not the same thing. I know you’re well able for anyone, and I pity the poor little bollix that takes you on, but you have to sleep sometime, yeah?’

‘I’ll get the locks looked at in the morning.’

‘And the alarm.’

‘And the alarm. Mammy.’

Fleas watches me, over the rim of his mug. For once he isn’t moving. He says, ‘Will I stay the night?’

There are a few different ways he could mean that. Tonight, all of them sound good. If it wasn’t for the guy at the top of the road, wasn’t for the shite I’m taking at work, I would say yes, one way or another.

I can’t handle either of us thinking I need him there. ‘You’re all right,’ I say. ‘Thanks, but.’

‘No one’ll miss me.’

‘Ahhh. Poor baby.’

‘You sure, yeah?’

‘Positive. Just: if you see this fella again on your way out, give us a text, yeah?’

‘No probs,’ Fleas says. He slides off the sofa, hitches up his tracksuit bottoms and picks up his plate and mug. ‘I’ll get out of your hair, so.’

‘Leave that. I’ll do it.’ I was going to make another round of coffee, but it’s too late to say it now.

‘Ah, no. My mammy taught me to tidy up after meself.’ He heads into the kitchen. ‘Thanks for feeding me. You make a gorgeous fish-finger sambo, so you do.’

I follow him. He’s bent over the dishwasher, slotting his plate into place. ‘Here,’ he says, holding out his hand. ‘Give us that.’

I hand over my plate. ‘I’m glad you came,’ I say. ‘It’s good to see you.’

‘Same here. Yeah.’ Fleas slams the dishwasher and straightens up. ‘If I spot any of the lads acting a bit stressed, I’ll let you know – swear to God I’ll e-mail first, this time. Otherwise…’

I say, ‘Otherwise I’ll see you when I see you.’

Fleas gives me a grin and a quick, one-armed hug. His tough skinny arm and the smell of him – cheapo body spray, straight out of when I was fifteen – hit me with a blast of weakness that makes me glad he’s leaving. Then he switches off the motion-sensor light, unlocks the back door and is gone, over the wall, neat and silent as a fox. I lock the door behind him and wait, but he doesn’t text me.