Yet what had become abundantly clear was that I was looking at two unconnected crimes: Joey had to be the one responsible for Deirdre’s rape and Gill, though he had raped Rhona, hadn’t killed her.

I checked my clock again. 6 a.m. My head was exploding. And there was something I needed to do but I couldn’t remember what.

Jesus.

The bins.

I stepped barefoot into my Birkenstocks, pulled a hoodie on over my pyjamas, ran down the stairs and opened the front door. I grabbed an umbrella, left it on the floor between the door and the jamb so that I wouldn’t be locked out, and ran out the door to the yard. First, I opened the yard door wide and hooked it back on the stone wall, then went to the bins. Recycling or rubbish this week? I couldn’t remember. But the recycling bin felt heavy, it had to be that one. I pulled up my hood and started down the lane towards Barrack Street, dragging the bin after me.

When I got out as far as the street, I realised I’d picked the wrong bin.

‘Fuck,’ I said aloud, and turned back down the lane, the blue bin even heavier than on the way out, it seemed. I shoved it back into place and dragged out the other two bins, the brown and the green ones, and wheeled them in front of me, the lane just wide enough for both if I staggered them, kept one arm long. At the end of the lane, I parked the two bins and walked across the road, opened the brown compost bin opposite. It stank like there was a dead body inside, but it was full, so they hadn’t been around with the lorry yet. Retching, I headed home. I unhooked the gate, closed it quietly, went into the house, kicked the umbrella out of the way, and let the door shut behind me.

In my en-suite bathroom, I washed my hands, had a quick pee, then washed my hands again and went back out to the bedroom, and checked the clock. It was 6.15. I picked up a pair of tracksuit bottoms and socks off the floor, put them on, and went upstairs to the living room, flicking on the heating as I went but keeping the lights off, relying on the street yellow of the city, not wanting to admit that morning had come, hoping that yoga and a cup of camomile tea might warm and relax me enough to win me a couple of hours’ rest. Upstairs, I walked to the kitchen island and started to fill the kettle.