“Half the people here won’t say a word to me, they won’t even look me in the eye, but they’ve got plenty to say when they think I’m not looking. What’s the story?”

Jackie managed to look innocent and shifty at the same time, like a kid neck-deep in denials and chocolate. “You’ve been away, sure. They haven’t seen you in twenty years. They’re only feeling a bit awkward.”

“Bollix. Is this because I’m a cop now?”

“Ah, no. Maybe a little bit, like, but . . . Would you not just leave it, Francis? Do you not think maybe you’re only being paranoid?”

I said, “I need to know what’s going on, Jackie. I’m serious. Do not fuck with me on this.”

“Jaysus, relax the kacks; I’m not one of your bleeding suspects.” She shook the cider can in her hand. “Do you know are there any more of these left, are there?”

I shoved my Guinness at her—I had barely touched it. “Now,” I said.

Jackie sighed, turning the can between her hands. She said, “You know the Place, sure. Any chance of a scandal . . .”

“And they’re on it like vultures. How did I turn into today’s Happy Meal?”

She shrugged uncomfortably. “Rosie got killed the night you left. Kevin died two nights after you came back. And you were on at the Dalys not to go to the cops. Some people . . .”

She let it trail off. I said, “Tell me you’re shitting me, Jackie. Tell me the Place is not saying I killed Rosie and Kevin.”

“Not the whole Place. Some people, only. I don’t think—Francis, listen to me—I don’t think they even believe it themselves. They’re saying it because it makes a better story—what with you having been away, and being a cop, and all. Don’t mind them. They’re only looking for more drama, so they are.”

I realized that I still had Jackie’s empty in my hand, and that I had crushed it into a mangled mess. I had expected this from Scorcher, from the rest of the Murder stud-muffins, maybe even from a few guys in Undercover. I had not expected it from my own street.

Jackie was gazing at me anxiously. “D’you know what I mean? And, as well, everyone else who could’ve hurt Rosie is from round here. People don’t want to be thinking—”

I said, “I’m from round here.”

There was a silence. Jackie reached out a hand, tentatively, and tried to touch my arm; I whipped it away. The room felt underlit and threatening, shadows piled up too thick in the corners. Outside in the sitting room people were joining in, raggedly, with Holy Tommy: “The years have made me bitter, the gargle dims my brain, and Dublin keeps on changing; nothing seems the same . . .”