‘She’s going to go through her old snaps, see if she has anything. Something may turn up from his old job yet – an ID picture on his file maybe, but this way will probably be quicker. Right, let’s make a run for it.’

The rain was falling solidly, the streets of Trim almost deserted as ill-prepared, under-dressed shoppers and tourists dashed into cafés and stores in search of shelter.

Tom had struck lucky; he’d found a parking spot a few doors up from the restaurant where Stephen McCabe, Fiona Holland’s boyfriend, worked.

A waitress met them at the door and informed them that the restaurant wouldn’t open for another hour.

‘That’s fine,’ Michael said. ‘We’re looking for Stephen McCabe. Is he working today?’

She eyed the two men suspiciously.

‘Why are you …?’

‘Gardaí,’ Michael cut her off.

Her features hardened.

‘He’s in the kitchen. Wait here, please.’

‘No, we’ll come with you,’ Tom said.

The busy kitchen was in full preparation mode. Steam rose from pots and pans and heat blasted from the ovens.

‘Stephen,’ the girl called. A man chopping vegetables at one of the counters turned. He took in the visitors standing on either side of the waitress, dropped the knife and barrelled towards the door at the back of the kitchen.

Michael was too quick for him. The detective had raced competitively in his teens and now played Gaelic football three times a week. As he grabbed the fleeing man, McCabe swung at him, a nasty left hook that caught the side of Michael’s head.

The inspector was upon him then, and with two against one, McCabe didn’t stand a chance. He dropped his arms in defeat. Tom pulled them behind his back and slapped the cuffs on.

Michael felt the side of his head, his fingers skimming the graze that had been inflicted.

‘You little dickhead,’ he said, looking at the blood on his hand. ‘We have you bang to rights now.’

Stephen turned his head and spat on the floor.

‘Fucking pigs. What do you want with me?’

Tom spun the man around until he faced him.

‘Where’s Fiona Holland, Stevie boy?’

‘How many fucking times? I never laid a finger on her. I can’t even remember the last time I saw Fiona. She was just some young one I was shagging. A bit of fun.’

The inspector drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. They’d brought Stephen McCabe back to headquarters to interview him. Linda McCarn sat beside Tom, studying McCabe intently. She peered at him over glasses on the tip of her nose, tutting every so often. So far, though, she hadn’t said a word and her silence was putting their suspect on edge.

They still had no photograph of Steve Moore to prove if the man in front of them was one and the same.