I go looking for Breslin. Bernadette says he’s in the building, but there’s no sign of him in the squad room – the chat deflates to flat stares when I open the door, rises up again under a layer of sniggers when I close it behind me – and he’s not in the canteen. I head upstairs to check the incident room.

I’m on the landing when I hear that smooth voiceover drawl coming down the stairwell. Breslin, somewhere up above me, talking low.

I stop dead. Then I move carefully – the stairs are wide white marble, part of the old castle, every sound echoes – till I can see through the banisters. Breslin and McCann, at the top of the stairs, close together.

I’m meant to be grabbing any chance for chats with these two, but McCann doesn’t look like he’s in a chatty mood. He’s slumped into his suit, hands stuffed in his pockets. Breslin is lounging against the banister rail with his back to me. From the line of his shoulders I can tell the casual slouch is taking effort.

McCann is muttering something that includes the words ‘that bitch’. He sounds like he means it.

‘I’m on it,’ Breslin says. ‘You sit tight and leave it to me. OK?’

McCann moves like his suit is clammy. ‘She doesn’t like being pushed around. If you try to—’

‘I’m not going to push her around. It’s not about that. It’s about making her see that she’s really only got one option here.’

McCann swipes his fingers along his eyebags, head falling back.

Breslin says, ‘I’ll sort her out. Everything’s going to be back to normal in no time.’

As McCann brings his head up to say something, he catches my black suit against the white of the stairs, and goes still. ‘Bres,’ he says.

Breslin turns around, and a blank look slams down across his gob. ‘Detective Conway,’ he says. ‘Nice of you to call in.’

‘I had some leftovers from Saturday night to take care of,’ I say. ‘This isn’t the JFK assassination; I’m not gonna clear my whole schedule for it. I need a word with you.’

‘Let’s do that. Walk with me. Mac: later, yeah?’ McCann nods without looking up. Breslin gives him a clap on the shoulder and heads past me, down the stairs.

I follow him. When I look back, McCann is still on the landing, staring at nothing.

‘McCann and his missus have been going through a bit of a rough patch,’ Breslin says confidentially, under the clatter of our footsteps. ‘You’ve probably heard the phone calls, right?’

I make a noise that could mean anything. We’ve all heard the phone calls: McCann muttering through a clenched jaw about being home earlier tonight, while his head sinks lower and lower over his desk and the lads snicker just loud enough.