‘I told them the truth.’ A pause, that smile again. Then he laughs and the skin beneath his jaw wobbles. ‘It was just insane. I was at home when this fire supposedly happened. With my family. My wife told them, too. I know they’re probably just doing their jobs, but it was like they knew something.’

I need to keep the conversation away from the fire. ‘So the police visit upset you?’

‘I wasn’t angry at the police, no. I was angry at the person that must have called them. I’d love to know who it was.’

I shuffle in my seat. I try a new tack. ‘Why do you think someone called the police, Joe?’

‘You tell me,’ he says. I can see anger in his eyes, as they scan the carpet. The air is getting hot between us.

‘Someone thinks you’re involved, I assume.’

His eyes shoot up to mine. His jaw moves like he is chewing something. He doesn’t answer, so I try to direct his attention away, keep him calm.

‘Have you been drinking much?’

‘The same as usual.’

‘And how much is that?’

‘A dram of whisky every other night, sometimes more.’

‘Do you ever do anything you later regret when you’ve been drinking?’

‘Don’t we all?’ Now he is watching my face with such intensity I have to pause. For a second I think about last night, the drink I had with Cormac. I reach for my water and my hand is trembling. He sees it. Keep it together, Margot. That’s what makes me good at this, I tell myself, calmness, distance, control.

‘What’s wrong?’ he says, a light, mildly teasing note in his voice. ‘You seem a little off.’

‘Nothing,’ I say. Could he have dissociative identity disorder? Could he be one man during the day and another at night? Viewing the sort of material Joe sees every day could cause someone to dissociate, to partition off part of their psychological landscape to protect themselves from the trauma of the images. ‘It’s nothing,’ I repeat. ‘Let’s continue with the drinking. When you have been drinking do you ever feel like hurting anyone?’

‘Not really, just arguments with my wife.’ Again that light breezy note in his voice, as though this is fun for him.

Push on, I think. ‘Joe, why do you always gloss over your childhood when I ask?’

His eyebrows rise. ‘I guess I had a normal childhood. There’s nothing there.’

‘And in your twenties?’

‘Again, it was normal.’