“Maybe, maybe not. I’ve got people on that. Has someone brought in a building inspector to look at the gaff, check for subsidence and whatever?”

“Report’s in the pile. Graham got it done.” Whoever that was. “Short version, the house is in bits: damp going up half the walls, subsidence—the cracks—and something’s wrong with the plumbing, I couldn’t work out what, but the gist is the whole place would’ve needed re-plumbing within a year or two. Sinéad Gogan wasn’t wrong about the builders: load of bloody chancers. Slap the houses up, sell them and get out before anyone could suss their game. But your man says none of the problems would account for the holes in the walls. The one in the eaves, that could’ve been the subsidence; the ones in the walls, nah.” Richie’s eyes came up to meet mine. “If Pat made those holes himself, chasing after a squirrel …”

I said, “It wasn’t a squirrel. And we don’t know that he did. Who’s jumping the gun now?”

“I’m only saying if. Knocking holes in your own walls …”

“It’s drastic, all right. But you tell me: there’s a mysterious animal running around your gaff, you want it gone, you don’t have the dosh for an exterminator. What do you do?”

“Board up the hole under the eaves. If you’ve trapped the yoke inside by mistake, you give it a couple of days to get hungry, take off the boards so it can do a legger, then try again. If it still won’t leave, you put down poison. If it dies in the walls and stinks the place out, then you bring out the hammer. Not before.” Richie shoved himself off my desk so that his chair rolled back towards his own. “If Pat made those holes, man, then Conor’s not the only one whose mind wasn’t OK.”

“Like I said. We’ll find out. Until then—”

“I know. Keep my gob shut about it.”

Richie swung his jacket on and started poking at the knot in his tie, trying to check it without ruining it. I said, “Looking good. Let’s go find the Super.”

He had forgotten all about Quigley. I hadn’t. The part I hadn’t told Richie: Quigley doesn’t go near a fair fight. His personal talent is a hyena’s nose for anything weak or bleeding, and he doesn’t take people on unless he’s positive he can take them down. It was obvious why he was targeting Richie. The newbie, the working-class boy who needed to prove himself half a dozen different ways, the smart-arsed kid who couldn’t keep a leash on his tongue: it was easy and safe, to goad him along while he talked himself into trouble. What I couldn’t work out, what might have worried me if I hadn’t been floating on such a good mood, was why Quigley was targeting me.

*

O’Kelly was a happy camper. “The very men I’ve been waiting for,” he said, swiveling his chair to face us, when we knocked on his office door. He pointed at chairs—we had to clear away stacks of e-mail printouts and holiday applications before we could sit down; O’Kelly’s office always looks like the paperwork is on the verge of winning—and held up his copy of our report. “Go on. Tell me I’m not dreaming.”