“Frank, Frank, Frank,” Scorcher said, layering on the sympathy. “I know this isn’t easy on you, OK, mate? But do you remember what we talked about?”

“Vividly. What it boiled down to was that you wanted me out of your hair. So I’m offering you this one-time-only deal, Scorchie. Answer my tiny little question, and the next time you’ll hear from me will be when I take you out for a nice feed of pints to congratulate you on solving this case.”

Scorch let that lie for a second. “Frank,” he said, when he felt I had grasped just how deeply he disapproved, “this isn’t the Iveagh Market. I’m not about to make deals with you, or settle squad bets. This is a murder case, and my team and I need to work it without interference. I would have thought that would be enough to keep you out of my hair. Frankly, I’m a little disappointed in you.”

I had a sudden mental image of one evening, back in Templemore, when Scorch got smashed off his face and challenged me to see who could piss the highest up a wall on our way home. I wondered when he had turned into a pompous middle-aged twat, or whether he had always been one at heart and the adolescent testosterone rush had just masked it for a while. “You’re right,” I said, all penitent. “It just goes against the grain to have that big lump Yeates thinking he’s got one up on me, you know what I mean?”

“Mmm,” Scorcher said. “You know, Frank, the impulse to win is a valuable thing, right up until you let it make you into a loser.”

I was pretty sure this meant nothing at all, but his tone said he was sharing a profound insight. “A little over my head, mate,” I said, “but I’ll be sure and have a think about it. See you around.” I hung up.

I had another smoke and watched the Sunday-shopping brigade jostling up and down the quays. I love immigration; the range of babehood on display these days is several continents wider than it was twenty years ago, and while Irish women are busy turning themselves into scary orange lollipops, the lovely ladies from the rest of the world are busy making up for it. There were one or two who made me want to marry them on the spot and give Holly a dozen siblings who my mother would call half-castes.

The Bureau tech was no good to me: he wouldn’t give me the steam off his piss, after the way I’d ruined his lovely afternoon of cyberporn. Cooper, on the other hand, likes me, he works weekends, and unless he had a massive backlog he would have done the post-mortem by now. There was a good chance that those bones had told him at least some of what I needed to know.