‘What makes you so confident, superintendent?’ asked Owen Dineen. ‘Is there something you’re not telling us?’

‘This is an ongoing investigation, Owen,’ said Katie. ‘I’m telling you as much as I reasonably can. I’m sure you can understand that I have to hold some information back because it might compromise our ability to identify the murderer of Tadhg Kimmons and bring him to justice.’

‘And you still won’t confirm that the clubbers at the Zombie Lounge were dancing all over his tripes?’

‘I have respect for a young man whose life has been violently cut short, and for his family. Murder isn’t an entertainment, Owen. That’s all for now.’

*

After the media briefing, Brendan left immediately and went back to his office, closing his door just as Katie walked past. She had nothing to say to him, but she had the feeling that he was making a point. Let’s keep away from each other.

It was 10:05 a.m., and she had arranged with the governor of Rathmore Road Prison to interview Donal Hagerty at 10:30 a.m. Rathmore Road was the committal prison for Cork, Kerry and Waterford, a two-tone grey block that stood on the hill by Collins Barracks, overlooking the city to the north. Donal Hagerty was being held there while he waited for his sentencing.

Katie was driven up there by Robert, with Detective Caffrey sitting in the back eating an oat bar, because he hadn’t had time for breakfast. Robert said, in the flattest of voices, ‘I’m not looking forward to tomorrow’s Sun, ma’am. I definitely have the feeling that Dineen fellow has it in for you, and I don’t think he’s finished with you yet, not by a long chalk.’

‘I can’t be bothering about him, Robert. He’ll get tired of slagging me off sooner or later. Any news story has only so much life in it.’

‘Well, I know that, but I’m pure bemused why he’s being so hostile towards you. It’s almost like it’s something personal.’

The prison gates were opened up for them and they parked inside, next to a van delivering Clonakilty sausages. The governor came down to greet them in person. He was bald and plump and cheerful in a navy-blue suit, more like a friendly hotelier than a prison governor. The prison itself had been renovated not too long ago, at a cost of millions, so that its grey and yellow paint still smelled fresh; but no amount of renovation could change the familiar sounds of a prison – the clanging of metal doors and the weird howling echoes from the upper landings.

‘I’m not so sure that you’ll be able to get Hagerty to say anything,’ said the governor. ‘He hardly utters a word… even to tell us what he wants for his dinner.’