“Probably,” I agreed, whipping open more drawers, “but I’m still going to show them that case, and I don’t want it getting rained on. Where the fuck—” All I could find was industrial quantities of furniture polish.

“Language! Thinking you’re too good for a fry-up—”

Da said, “Hang on till I get my shoes and I’ll come with you. I’d love to see Matt Daly’s face.”

And Olivia wanted me to introduce Holly to this. “No, thanks,” I said.

“What d’you have for your breakfast at home? Caviar?”

“Frank,” Kevin said, hitting his limit. “Under the sink.”

I pulled open the cupboard and, thank Christ, there was the Holy Grail: a roll of bin liners. I ripped one off and headed for the front room. On the way I asked Kevin, “Want to come along for the ride?” Da was right, the Dalys weren’t likely to be fans of mine, but unless things had changed, nobody hated Kevin.

Kevin shoved back his chair. “Thank fuck,” he said.

In the front room I worked the bin liner around the suitcase, as delicately as I could. “Jesus,” I said. Ma was still going (“Kevin Vincent Mackey! You get your arse back in here right now and . . .”). “It’s even more of a nuthouse than I remembered.”

Kevin shrugged and pulled on his jacket. “They’ll settle once we’re gone.”

“Did I say you could leave the table? Francis! Kevin! Are yous listening to me?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Da told Ma. “I’m trying to eat here.”

He wasn’t raising his voice, not yet anyway, but the sound of it still made my jaw clench, and I saw Kevin’s eyes snap shut for a second. “Let’s get out of here,” I said. “I want to catch Nora before she heads.”

I carried the case downstairs balanced flat on my forearms, lightly, trying to go easy on the evidence. Kevin held doors for me. The street was empty; the Dalys had disappeared into Number 3. The wind came barreling down the road and shoved me in the chest, like a huge hand daring me to keep on coming.