Her voice was belligerent, but there was real fear in her eyes. “We’ll bring our own Ghostbusters,” I said. “Monday night, did you hear anything on the monitors? Anything at all?”

“Nah. Like I said, it only happened every few weeks.”

“You’d better be sure.”

“I am. Positive.”

“What about your husband?”

“Him neither. He’d have said.”

I said, “Is that the lot? Nothing else we might want to hear about?”

Sinéad shook her head. “That’s it.”

“How do I know that?”

“’Cause. I don’t want yous coming back here again, calling me names in front of my son. I’ve told you everything. So you can eff off and leave us alone. OK?”

“My pleasure,” I said, getting up. “Believe me.” The arm of the chair left something sticky on my hand; I didn’t bother hiding the look of distaste.

As we left, Sinéad planted herself in the doorway behind us, doing something that was meant to be an imposing stare but came off looking like an electrocuted pug dog. When we were a safe distance down the drive, she shouted after us, “You can’t talk to me like that! I’ll be putting in a complaint!”

I pulled my card out of my pocket without breaking stride, waved it above my head and dropped it on the drive for her to pick up. “See you then,” I called back over my shoulder. “I can’t wait.”

I was expecting Richie to say something about my new interview technique—calling a witness a scumbag moron isn’t anywhere in the rule book—but he had sunk back somewhere in his mind; he trudged back to the car with his hands deep in his pockets, head bent into the wind. My mobile had three missed calls and a text, all from Geri—the text started, Sorry mick but any news abt … I deleted them all.

When we got onto the motorway, Richie resurfaced far enough to say—carefully, to the windscreen—“If Pat was hitting Jenny …”

“If my aunt had balls, she’d be my uncle. The Gogan cow doesn’t know everything about the Spains, no matter what she’d like to think. Luckily for us, there’s one guy who does, and we know exactly where to find him.”

Richie didn’t answer. I took one hand off the wheel to give him a clap on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, my friend. We’ll get the goods out of Conor. Who knows, it might even be fun.”

I caught his sideways glance: I shouldn’t have been this upbeat, not after what Sinéad Gogan had given us. I didn’t know how to tell him that it wasn’t good humor, not the way he thought; it was that wild rush still careening around my veins, it was the fear on Sinéad’s face and Conor waiting for me at the end of this drive. I got my foot on the pedal and kept it there, watching the needle creep up. The Beemer handled better than ever, flew straight and hard as a hawk diving on prey, like this speed was what it had been aching for all along.