He went to speak and then swallowed, his reply failing to form properly. After a couple of seconds, he nodded and said, ‘Yeah.’ Sniffing, he wiped some of the water from his face, and then his body relaxed. He couldn’t be bothered with the act either.

I looked past him.

The wall of paper was still intact. The Black Gale file was on a table at the window, empty coffee cups and fast-food wrapping dotted around it. He’d kept going after I’d left, evidently returning to the start, the file open at a point about a fifth of the way in. Beside the file was a series of photos that didn’t belong in the investigation, or on the wall, and had nothing to do with Black Gale.

They were pictures of his family.

He watched my gaze, saw that I’d zeroed in on the portraits, and then stepped back from the door, letting it swing open fully. Wandering across to the table, he slumped into the chair next to it and drew the pictures closer to him.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I asked him gently.

He shrugged. ‘What difference does it make now?’

I perched myself on the edge of the bed.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Maybe it might make some.’

He didn’t say anything for a moment.

‘Healy?’