‘Yeah. The sheets were clean, but we found stains on the mattress. Could be just her own sweat – you were there; she kept the place tropical – but if we’re lucky, some of it’ll be semen, or at least someone else’s sweat.’ Energetic rustling: Sophie is wrapping another layer around her vase. ‘Even if we get DNA, though, there’s no way to tell when it was deposited. If you can find out when she bought the mattress, you can get an outside limit, but beyond that . . .’

‘Keep me up to speed on the DNA,’ I say. I’m not getting my hopes up; that condom packet says we’ll be lucky if anyone’s semen ever made it onto the mattress. ‘Thanks, Soph. What about Aislinn’s electronics? Anything there?’

‘Most of it’s your basic bullshit. Nothing good on her mobile – searches on clothes shops and nightclubs, cutesy game apps full of fluttery fairies. No one who looks interesting in any of her photos, but I’ll send you copies so you can see for yourself. Her Facebook is all selfies and which-Hunger-Games-character-are-you quizzes and “Repost this if you hate cancer” – what the fuck is that supposed to do? If enough people like the post, cancer’ll just take the hint and become extinct?’

‘Get us the login details, yeah? We need to check out her Facebook friends.’

‘No problem,’ Sophie says. ‘It doesn’t look like she had any best buddies on there – no private messages or anything; it all looks like colleagues and old classmates, the type where you post on their timeline once a year telling them they look amazing in their birthday pic – but knock yourselves out.’

If the gangster boyfriend is out there, he’s doing a nice job of being invisible; but then, he might. ‘What about her e-mail? Any love notes, sex talk, setting up appointments, anything like that? From Rory Fallon or anyone else?’

‘Nothing like that. The Gmail account linked to her phone is full of order confirmations and special offers from fashion sites, mainly. The lovey-doviest it gets is some cousin in Australia who sticks x’s at the end of her e-mails. You still looking at exes?’

‘Keeping an open mind,’ I say. A clot of tourists wander past with their heads tipped back and their jaws hanging, staring up at the Castle buildings. One of them points a camera in my direction, but I throw him a stare that almost melts his lens, and he backs off.

‘We’re only seeing what she left on there,’ Sophie reminds me. ‘She could have deleted anything that reminded her of the ex. E-mails, texts, photos.’