‘Their gaffer isn’t an idiot; when the atmosphere in his squad room turned to poison, he noticed. He pulls people in, asks them what’s the story; they all clam up, tell him everything’s just dandy and everyone’s the best of friends. Murder’s like that: bunch of schoolkids, no one wants to be the telltale. The gaffer doesn’t believe them, but he knows he’s never getting the real story. And he knows the day things went south is the day Conway walked in. So as far as he’s concerned, she’s the problem.’

‘So he’s going to drop her,’ I said. ‘First excuse he gets.’

‘Nah. They won’t boot her out of Murder, because she’s the type to sue for discrimination and they don’t want the publicity. But they can make damn sure she quits. She’ll never get a partner. She’ll never get a promotion. She’ll never get invited to join the lads for a pint after work. She’ll never get another good case; once she gives up on this, there’ll be nothing on her desk but D-list drug dealers till the day she hands in her papers.’ Smoke curling up between us from his hand, a warning taint on the sweet air. ‘That’ll wear you down, after a while. Conway’s got spine, she’ll last longer than most would, but she’ll crack in the end.’

I said, ‘Conway’s career is her problem. I’m here for mine. This is my shot at showing Murder what I can do.’

Mackey was shaking his head. ‘No it isn’t. It’s a six-bullet round of Russian roulette. If you don’t get on with Conway, you’re back to Cold Cases: bye-bye, see you ’round, everyone remembers that Moran couldn’t hack it in the big leagues even for one day. If you do get on with her, then you’re her bitch-boy. No one else on Murder, and that includes the gaffer, is ever going to touch you with a ten-foot pole. Shit rubs off, kid. If you honestly haven’t got a strategy, I suggest you get one. Fast.’

I said, ‘You’re trying to stir shite. You get me and Conway looking over our shoulders at each other, means we take our eyes off the ball. Next thing we know, our case’s got away from us.’

‘I might well be. It sounds like something I’d do. Ask yourself this, though: does that mean I’m wrong?’

The nettle edges to the air in the Murder squad room, fine and poisonous, when Conway walked in. Tiny barbs, sticky, working deep.

I said, ‘What’ve you been saying to Conway about me?’

Mackey grinned. ‘Same as I’ve been saying to you, sunshine: just the truth. And nothing but the truth. So help you God.’