I got into the car. Checking my phone, I found a message from Tina. She had been googling. It turned out that Joey O’Connor had form. She had emailed me a link to an Evening Echo article and photo: ‘Rugby star in Roid Rage Rampage.’ Eight years ago, Joey had been convicted of dealing in anabolic steroids and of seriously assaulting two of the guards who had come to arrest him. The photo showed an expensively suited, baby-faced athletic-looking Joey, in his early twenties by then. The article recited the plea given by his barrister (injury, temptation, bad mistake, inexcusable, deep regret, out of character, new leaf, working in the family business, promising rugby career derailed, charity work) which had resulted in a suspended sentence. It was a middle-class tragedy that might have ended a lot differently if he had been from somewhere less leafy. Well done, Tina, I thought but texted back only ‘Ta’, focused already on what I’d say to Joey.

He was outside the door smoking a cigarette as I pulled into the front of the gleaming glass and steel showroom. He wasn’t on steroids any more, that was clear. Somewhere along the way, Joey’s life had taken a wrong turn and instead he’d gained a permanent frown, an air of bitterness, and about sixty pounds. He didn’t look like he sold many cars, but then nobody had sold many cars in Ireland in the last five years and, as the boss’s son, he would have been insulated from the risk of redundancy.

Joey greeted me with a nasal, ‘How’s it going?’

I introduced myself and gave him my card but, before I could say why I was there, he was in with the patter.

‘What had you in mind, Finn? We’ve a great range here, both new and quality used. You look like you’re ready for a change anyway,’ he said.

He gave my battered ten-year-old Golf a pitying glance, turned back to me, and smiled. The smile stopped at his mouth.

‘Keep her outside, do you?’

‘Yeah, but I––’

‘I suppose the rust is a bit of a giveaway. On the street?’

‘Yes.’

‘No danger of anyone stealing her, anyway. What area of the city do you live in?’

‘Off Barrack Street. But actually I’m not here about a car, Joey.’

I handed him my card.

‘I’m here about a case, nothing to do with you, specifically. I represent Deirdre Carney’s parents. They’ve asked me to look into her death. They think something happened to her when she was in Transition Year’

‘What the fuck?’ Joey said. ‘What’s this about?’

He backed away, shaking his head. I didn’t know if he was mad or sad. Maybe both. But at least he was backing away. He was huge.

‘I’m sorry, Joey,’ I said. ‘This must be upsetting. I know you and Deirdre––’