“We’ll see the disorder for ourselves in a minute. Carry on.” Never let anyone describe the details before you get on the scene, or you’ll see what they saw.

“Right.” The uniform blinked, pulled himself back on track. “Anyhow. We attempted to go around to the back of the house, but you can see for yourselves, sure—a child couldn’t get through there.” He was right: the gap between the houses was just wide enough for the side wall. “We felt that the disorder and the sister’s concerns warranted forcing entry through the front door. We found …”

He was shifting on his feet, trying to angle the conversation so that he could see the house, like it was a coiled animal that might pounce at any second. “We entered the sitting room, found nothing to speak of—the disorder, but … We then proceeded to the kitchen, where we found a male and a female on the floor. Both stabbed, by the looks of it. One wound, on the female’s face, was clearly visible to myself and Garda Mallon. It appeared to be a knife wound. It—”

“The doctors’ll decide that. What did you do next?”

“We thought they were both dead. We were certain. There’s a load of blood. Loads of …” He gestured vaguely towards his own body, a shapeless pecking movement. There’s a reason why some guys stay in uniform. “Garda Mallon checked their pulses all the same, just in case. The female, she was right up against the male, like curled up against him—she had her head, her head was on his arm, like she was asleep … When Garda Mallon checked, she had a pulse. He got the shock of his life. We never expected … He couldn’t believe it, not till he put down his head and heard her breathing. Then we called for the ambulance.”

“And while you waited?”

“Garda Mallon stayed with the woman. Talked to her. She was unconscious, but … just telling her it was all right, we were the Guards, there was an ambulance coming and for her to hang on … I went upstairs. In the back bedrooms … There’s two little children there, Detective. A young boy and a young girl, in their beds. I tried CPR. They’re—they were cold, stiff, but I tried anyway. After what had happened with the mother, I thought, you never know, maybe they could still …” He rubbed his hands down the front of his jacket, unconsciously, like he was trying to wipe away the feel. I didn’t give him a bollocking for wrecking evidence: he had only done what came naturally. “No joy. Once I knew for definite, I rejoined Garda Mallon in the kitchen and we called for ye and the rest.”

I asked, “Did the woman come to? Say anything?”

He shook his head. “She didn’t move. We kept thinking she was after dying on us, had to keep checking to make sure she was still …” He wiped his hands again.