There are two local detectives in the room, both African-American females, which is not as much of a long shot as it used to be. They’ve squeezed themselves behind Vic’s desk and swept some of his porn memorabilia into a drawer. The junior detective is the lady who gave Vic grief over his trainers. I want to take a liking to this girl, but she’s got her arms folded across her chest and is wearing a pretty clear I don’t make friends face. I duck from habit under the steel construction beam that spans the ceiling, even though it’s a couple of inches above head height, and sit opposite the detectives.

I point at a Pirelli calendar on the wall. ‘You might want to take that down too.’

I am not being a smartarse here; it is important to me that this investigation goes well. The first forty-eight hours, as they say.

The younger detective rips the calendar out of the wall, taking a chunk of Sheetrock with it.

‘Satisfied, Mister McEvoy?’ she asks, giving me the bad-cop eyeball. We are off on the wrong foot; she has me down as non-cooperative.

‘That was a genuine suggestion,’ I protest, calmly and sincerely. ‘Connie was my friend and I want her killer caught.’

The cops are not won over by my Irish brogue; if anything, a foreigner seems to make them more suspicious. They sit up, shuffle papers and stuff, bump shoulders in the tight space. They were going for authoritative, lining up behind the desk like that, but they look like two school kids squeezed behind a bench.

‘Cornelia DeLyne was your friend, Mister McEvoy?’ says the older of the two.

Cornelia? I don’t know why Connie’s full name surprises me, but it does.

‘Mister McEvoy?’

I focus on the lead detective. She is maybe forty, striking, a slash of rouge on both cheeks, strands of silver in her cropped hair. She wears a grey suit and a colourful Jamaican parrot shirt that kind of jumps out at you.

‘Yes, Detective . . . ?’

‘I’m Detective Goran, this is Detective Deacon.’

Deacon, the smart mouth, is early thirties. Severe grey suit, wearing anger on her face like latex. I know the type; very serious about her work.

‘Well, Detective Goran, Connie and I were good friends. More than that, briefly.’

I figure Brandi has already told her.

‘So she broke up with you, and you were pissed off.’

I don’t sigh dramatically; I was expecting this.

‘We never broke up, as such. We had a weekend together, and I think there was another one coming up. If you want to talk pissed off, we had quite a ruckus in here last night. Bunch of college kids.’

‘We know all about it,’ says Deacon, cutting across me. ‘Harmless hijinks, I’d say. We want to talk about you, Mister McEvoy. You’re saying you were this beautiful young lady’s booty call?’