“Yes, sir.” I would text him. I had no desire to talk to Richie, ever again.

O’Kelly said, “If your sister hadn’t nicked the evidence, would Curran have handed it over, in the end? Or would he have flushed it down the jacks, kept his mouth shut for good? You knew him better than I did. What do you figure?”

He’d have handed it in today, sir, I’d bet my month’s salary on it … All those partners I had envied would have done it without a second thought, but Richie wasn’t my partner any more, if he ever had been. “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t have a clue.”

O’Kelly grunted. “Not like it matters either way. Curran’s through. I’d boot him back to whatever council flat he came from, if I could do it without IA and the brass and the media crawling up my arse; since I can’t, he’ll be reverted to uniform, and I’ll find him some lovely shitehole full of addicts and handguns where he can wait for his pension. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll keep his mouth shut and take it.”

He left a space in case I wanted to put up a fight. His eye told me it would be pointless, but I wouldn’t have done it anyway. I said, “I think that’s the right outcome.”

“Hold your horses there. IA and the brass aren’t going to be happy with you, either. Curran’s still on probation; you’re the man in charge. If this investigation’s gone down the jacks, that’s all yours.”

“I accept that, sir. But I don’t think it’s down the jacks just yet. While I was at the hospital with Jennifer Spain, I ran into Fiona Rafferty—that’s the sister. She picked this up in the Spains’ hallway, the morning we were called to the scene. She’d forgotten about it until today.”

I found the envelope with the bracelet in it and put it on the desk, next to the other one. A tiny detached part of me was able to be pleased at how steady my hand was. “She’s identified the bracelet as Jennifer Spain’s. Going by color and length, the hair caught in it could belong to either Jennifer or Emma, but the techs should have no trouble telling us which one: Jennifer’s hair is lightened. If this is Emma’s—and I’d bet it is—then we’ve still got our case.”

O’Kelly watched me for a long time, clicking the top of his pen, those sharp little eyes steady on mine. He said, “That’s very bloody convenient.”

It was a question. I said, “Just very lucky, sir.”

After another long moment, he nodded. “Better play the Lotto tonight. You’re the luckiest man in Ireland. Do you need me to tell you how much shit you’d have been in if this yoke hadn’t shown up?”

Scorcher Kennedy, the straightest straight arrow, twenty years’ service and never put a toe over the line: after that one wisp of suspicion, O’Kelly believed I was as pure as the driven snow. So would everyone else. Even the defense wouldn’t waste their time trying to impeach the evidence. Quigley would bitch and hint, but nobody listens to Quigley. “No, sir,” I said.