‘I wouldn’t have thought there was any need to do this today, surely,’ Hawthorne said. ‘This has been extremely difficult for my client and his family. He needs time to––’

I was out of what little patience I had left.

‘Time? More time? From what I understand, Jeremy Gill is leaving for LA, may even be gone already. I would have thought that your client has had quite enough time.’

‘I see. In the circumstances, perhaps you’re right. I’ll go and talk to him again.’

Hours later, after Dalton had been interviewed and made a statement, and I had done the same, in a different interview room, I sat in DI Lenihan’s office trying to force down a tepid cup of tea.

‘Hope the tea’s all right,’ Lenihan said.

‘It is, if you like bogwater.’

‘It’s not Barry’s, I’m afraid.’

‘No shit, Sherlock.’

‘You’re a bit of a comedian, Miss Fitzpatrick,’ Lenihan said.

He was trying to give the impression that we were settling in for a friendly chat that I knew would be no such thing. He would be watching my every move, and I knew it. Ostensibly welcoming of my input into the investigation, I sensed deep hostility from him. I had disliked him on sight. Clean-cut and handsome, with pale green eyes, freckles and a sulky mouth, Lenihan had the lithe strength and economy of movement that came from years spent on a hurling pitch. A Kilkenny man, he was young for a DI, which meant he had to be smart, but it was his ruthlessness and cunning that had won him early promotion, I reckoned. Lenihan needed the information about Jeremy Gill like a double yellow in an All-Ireland Final. Still, now that he had it, I knew he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, bury it and that whatever needed to be done would be, as clinically and efficiently as possible.

‘Actually, I was hoping to catch the last train home, if that’s all right.’

‘Might be,’ Lenihan said, but he could keep up the nice act for only so long. He sat up in his chair and ran his fingers through his short red curly hair.

‘Okay, let’s cut the crap. I don’t need to tell you that what you’ve brought here today isn’t going to win either of us any popularity contests.’

‘I know that.’

‘And so fucking what. I didn’t join the guards to be popular. I think it gives us enough to interview Gill again. But we’ve talked to him before about Rhona’s murder, on your say-so, remember. And there’s the teensy-weensy little problem of his cast-iron alibi. So I know you want us to throw everything including the kitchen sink at Gill, but he’s only one of a number of investigative strands we’ll be pursuing.’