There’s people who like rough. They think it’s cool, it’s street, it’ll rub off and they’ll be able to pull off all the good slang. Rough doesn’t look so sexy when you grew up on the banks of it, your whole family doggy-paddling like mad to keep their heads above the flood tide. I like smooth, smooth as velvet.

I reminded myself: no need to be Conway’s best bud. Just be useful enough to get on her gaffer’s radar, and keep moving.

‘Sophie. It’s Antoinette.’ Her mouth loosened when she talked to someone she liked; got a ready-for-anything curl to the corner, like a dare. It made her younger, made her into someone you’d try and chat up in the pub, if you were feeling gutsy. ‘Yeah, good. You? . . . I got a photo coming your way . . . Nah, the Harper case. I need fingerprints, but can you have a look at the actual pic for me, too? Check out what it was taken on, when it was taken, where, what it was printed out on. Anything you can give me.’ She tilted the envelope closer. ‘And I got words stuck on it. Cut-out words, like ransom-note shite. See can you figure out where they got cut out of, yeah? . . . Yeah, I know. Make me a miracle. See you ’round.’

She hung up. Pulled a smartphone out of her pocket and took shots of the card: front, back, up close, far off, details. Headed over to a printer in the corner to print them off. Turned back to her desk and saw me.

Stared me out of it. I looked back.

‘You still here?’

I said, ‘I want to work with you on this one.’

A slice of a laugh. ‘I bet you do.’ She dropped back into her chair, found an envelope in a desk drawer.

‘You said yourself you got nowhere with Holly Mackey and her mates. But she likes me enough, or trusts me enough, that she brought me this. And if she’ll talk to me, she’ll get her mates talking to me.’

Conway thought about that. Swung her chair from side to side.

I asked, ‘What’ve you got to lose?’

Maybe the accent did it. Most cops come up from farms, from small towns; no love for the smart-arse Dubs who think they’re the centre of the universe, when everyone knows that’s Ballybumfuck. Or maybe she liked whatever it was she’d heard about me. Either way:

She scrawled a name on the envelope, slid the card inside. Said, ‘I’m going down the school, take a look at this noticeboard, have a few chats. You can come if you want. If you’re any use to me, we can talk about what happens next. If you’re not, you can fuck off back to Cold Cases.’

I knew better than to let the Yes! show. ‘Sounds good.’

‘Do you need to ring your mammy and say you’re not coming home?’

‘My gaffer knows the story. It’s not a problem.’