‘It’s OK, Michael.’ Sarah returned the hug as she spoke. ‘Stop apologising. I shouldn’t have woken you like that. Not after you’d been drinking.’

She pulled her head back so that she could look in his eyes.

‘And certainly not after Johnny Cash.’

Michael did not take the reassurance being offered. He looked ashamed as he stepped back, his hands placed gently on Sarah’s upper arms.

‘I should be more careful,’ he said. ‘I could have hurt you.’

‘Forget it. It was nothing.’

Sarah stepped away and turned down the music. Michael’s gaze followed her. His eyes were still unfocused, she noticed. As good as his alcohol tolerance usually was, tonight’s intake had hit him.

‘So am I gonna hear what’s brought this on?’ Sarah asked, placing his empty glass in the sink. She noticed her own Boston accent strengthen as the question came out. It was her default ‘serious’ voice.

‘Just a . . . just a bad day,’ Michael replied, his voice unsteady. ‘Brought back some bad memories.’

‘I saw that,’ Sarah replied. ‘I saw the photos in the living room.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘I . . . I don’t really know.’

‘Sit back down,’ she said, gesturing to his original seat.

At first he didn’t move.

‘It’s not a request, Michael Devlin.’

Michael meekly retook his chair, while Sarah filled their kettle and began to prepare him a strong black coffee. For good measure, she placed a pint glass of water in front of him.

‘Drink that.’

‘But . . .’

‘Drink it. You’ll thank me in the morning.’

Again, Michael did as he was told.

‘So what happened?’ she asked. ‘What started this?’

‘Just . . . just work.’

‘Work? You’ve been on the Mansour case. Same as me. What’s that got to do with all of this?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Tough. We’re talking. What the hell happened? What’s got you drinking this early?’

Michael looked up and met Sarah’s gaze. At first he seemed ready to refuse. But then his eyes softened. He looked like a man lost.

‘I think . . . I think . . .’ Michael was struggling. His usual fluency robbed by a mixture of whisky and worry. ‘I think that this case . . . it might be dangerous.’

‘What? Why?’

‘I think there’s more to it than there . . . than there seems. It . . . it reminds me of Eamon McGale.’

It was the last name Sarah had expected to hear.

‘McGale? In what way?’

‘I think Mansour was set up. And I think the people behind it will do whatever they must to keep it quiet.’

Sarah did not know what to say. Or even what to think. Could Michael be right? Was there more to the Mansour case than met the eye? Or was it the drink talking? There was no way that Sarah could know, but if he was right then that was another problem. Because if he was, then Sarah shouldn’t be hearing this at all. Michael did not discuss his cases. Not the confidential details, anyway. And what he was now saying was dangerously close to crossing that line.