They were all a few years older than me, all dressed that bit snappier. I grinned and kept my mouth shut, give or take.

‘Never would’ve guessed she went for the redsers.’

‘At least I’ve got hair, man. No one likes a baldy bollix.’

‘I’ve got a gorgeous babe at home who does.’

‘That’s not what she said last night.’

Give or take.

Antoinette Conway came in with a handful of paper, slammed the door with her elbow. Headed for her desk.

Still that stride, keep up or fuck off. Tall as me – six foot – and it was on purpose: two inches of that was square heels, crush your toe right off. Black trouser suit, not cheap, cut sharp and narrow; no effort to hide the shape on those long legs, the tight arse. Just crossing that squad room, she said You want to make something of it? half a dozen ways.

‘He confess, Conway?’

‘No.’

‘Tsk. Losing your touch.’

‘He’s not a suspect, fuckhead.’

‘You let that stop you? Good kick in the nads and Bob’s your uncle: confession.’

Not just the normal back-and-forth. A prickle in the air, a slicing edge. I couldn’t tell if it was about her, or just the day that was in it, or if it was the squad. Murder is different. The beat goes faster and harder; the tightrope is higher and narrower. One foot wrong, and you’re gone.

Conway dropped into her chair, started pulling up something on her computer.

‘Your boyfriend’s here, Conway.’

She ignored that.

‘Does he not get a snog, no?’

‘What’re you shiteing on about?’

The joker jerked a thumb at me. ‘All yours.’

Conway gave me a stare. Cold dark eyes, full mouth that didn’t give a millimetre. No makeup.

‘Yeah?’

‘Stephen Moran. Cold Cases.’ I held out the evidence envelope, across her desk. Thanked God I wasn’t one of the ones who’d sleazed her up in training. ‘This came in to me today.’

Her face didn’t change when she saw the card. She took her time looking it over, both sides, reading the statement. ‘Her,’ she said, when she got to Holly’s name.

‘You know her?’

‘Interviewed her, last year. Couple of times. Got fuck-all out of her; snotty little bitch. All of them are, in that school, but she was one of the worst. Like pulling teeth.’

I said, ‘You figure she knew something?’

Sharp glance, lift of the statement sheet. ‘How’d you end up with this?’

‘Holly Mackey was a witness in a case I worked, back in ’07. We got on. Even better than I thought, looks like.’

Conway’s eyebrow went up. She’d heard about the case. Which meant she’d heard about me. ‘OK,’ she said. Nothing in her tone, either way. ‘Thanks.’

She swung her chair away from me and punched at her phone. Clamped the receiver under her jaw and leaned back in her chair, rereading.

Rough, my mam would have called Conway. That Antoinette one, and a sideways look with her chin tucked down: a bit rough. Not meaning her personality, or not just; meaning where she came from, and what. The accent told you, and the stare. Dublin, inner city; just a quick walk from where I grew up, maybe, but miles away all the same. Tower blocks. IRA-wannabe graffiti and puddles of piss. Junkies. People who’d never passed an exam in their lives but had every twist and turn of dole maths down pat. People who wouldn’t have approved of Conway’s career choice.