“Even sweeter.”

“And then, of course,” Larry said demurely, “there’s the blood.”

By that stage I wasn’t even surprised. Every once in a while this job gives you a day like that, a day when all the dice roll your way, when you just have to stretch out your hand and a plump juicy piece of evidence drops into it. “How much?”

“Smears everywhere. Only a couple of smudges on the door handle and the steering wheel, he’d taken his gloves off by the time he got back to the car, but the driver’s seat is covered—we’ll send it all off for DNA, but I’m going to go out on a limb and guess it might just match up to your vics. Tell me I make you happy.”

“Happiest man in the world,” I said. “And in exchange, I’ve got another pressie for you. Richie and I are at the suspect’s flat, having a quick look around. Whenever you’ve got a moment, we’d love you to come down here and give it a proper going-over. No blood as far as we can see—sorry about that—but we’ve got another computer and another phone, to keep young Kieran busy, and I’m sure you’ll find something to interest you too.”

“My cup runneth over. I’ll be down as fast as I can skip. Will you and your new friend still be around?”

“Probably not. We’re heading back to the crime scene. Is your badger-tracking guy out there?”

“He is indeed. I’ll tell him to hang on for you. And I’ll save your great big hug for later. Ciao ciao.” Larry hung up.

The case was coming together. I could feel it, an actual physical sensation, as if it were my own vertebrae slipping into alignment with small confident clicks, letting me straighten and take a belly-deep breath for the first time in days. Killester is near the sea, and for a second I thought I caught a whiff of salt air, vivid and wild, slicing straight through all the city smells to find me. As I pocketed my phone and started down the stairs, I caught myself smiling, up at the gray sky and the turning birds.

Richie was piling crap back onto the sofa. I said, “Larry’s having a blast with Conor’s car. Hairs, fibers, a footprint, and—get this—a key to the Spains’ back door. Richie, my friend, this is our lucky day.”

“Great. That’s great, yeah.” Richie didn’t look up.

I said, “What is it?”

He turned around like he was dragging himself up from a sucking dream. “Nothing. I’m grand.”

His face was pinched and focused, turned inwards on itself. Something had happened.

I said, “Richie.”

“I just need that sandwich. Felt a bit crap all of a sudden, you know that way? Low blood sugar, probably. And the air in here, and all—”

“Richie. If something’s up, you need to tell me.”

Richie’s eyes came up to meet mine. He looked young and wildly lost, and when his lips parted I knew it was to ask for help. Then something in his face clicked shut and he said, “Nothing’s up. Seriously. Will we go, yeah?”