Detective Sergeant Michael Geoghegan was writing down names called out by Laura Brennan. She was making her way through a stack of files on the desk beside her, pausing every so often to fan herself with a redundant folder. Laura was dressed in a light cotton blouse and pleated skirt, stylishly cool but still too hot. Michael, casual at the best of times, was wearing a pair of Nike shorts and a blue polo shirt, a sweat patch visible under his raised arm.

Tom made his way across the room, nicking a bottle of chilled water from Ray Lennon’s desk en route. He’d walked from Moya’s lab to headquarters, but by the time he left the Mater the late-morning sun was already belting out higher than average temperatures. He too was sticky with perspiration.

‘Boss, we need air-conditioning in here,’ Michael griped. ‘The ink is nearly sliding off the board.’

‘I’ll get some fans sent up,’ Tom said. ‘They’re not going to shell out for a state-of-the-art air-conditioning system because of a once-in-a-century heatwave, Michael. This is Ireland. We’ll probably be building snowmen next week. Right, are we ready to start?’ He’d spotted Ray ushering the last of the squad into the room.

The inspector’s usual team was all present. Twenty rank-and-file gardaí had also been assigned.

Natasha McCarthy, the head of the Sexual Assault unit, had turned up to listen in. They’d no idea yet if the killer was also a rapist, but the inspector welcomed her presence nonetheless. Natasha was an impressive operator, dogged in her approach to her work. She’d overseen a large increase in the number of sexual assault cases brought to trial. Unfortunately, the justice and legislative systems had yet to catch up with her progressive drive. Most of those she caught either walked free or were handed down sentences that were an insult to their victims. Still, she persisted.

Her determination and ambition were necessary, from a personal perspective as much as anything. Natasha’s father was from Mali and she was one of the few mixed-race members of the force, and one of the only senior gardaí of colour.

Linda McCarn was there too. Tom had become quite adept at not overtly reacting to the psychologist’s unconventional attire. In fact, at this stage, he’d be more surprised if she arrived wearing an outfit that could be considered normal. Today she’d donned a white toga-like dress, tied at the waist with a rope-belt, and Grecian sandals. Her brown corkscrew curls were swept up in a patterned gold headscarf. She looked like she’d popped in en route to the Colosseum.

In fairness, of all of them, she was the best dressed for the weather.

‘Settle down,’ Tom yelled over the noise.

He gave the room a moment or two to come to order.