‘She doesn’t like the job. Doesn’t like the hours, doesn’t like him coming home with his head full of dead little kids, all the usual – hard to blame her, right? McCann thinks she’s winding up to an ultimatum: he transfers out, or she kicks him out.’

I nod along. It’s bollix. This squad gossips like a bingo hall, but no one ever bothers filling me in. The two of them were talking about me: either how to make me close this case, or how to get me off the squad. The only question is why. ‘Huh,’ I say. ‘What’s he gonna do?’

‘Well, he’s not crazy about either of those options, obviously. I said I’ll have a chat with his missus, settle her down. We’ve all been friends a long time; she knows I’ve got their best interests at heart.’ Breslin does the benevolent smile of a guy who’s got everyone’s best interests at heart. ‘I’m going to need your word on something, Conway. This doesn’t go any further. McCann doesn’t want his private life splashed all over the squad. You shouldn’t have heard any of that’ – the reproachful finger-wag is a nice touch – ‘but since you did, you need to treat it with respect.’

‘I don’t do gossip,’ I say. ‘I leave that to the lads.’ I’m itching to punch Breslin in both his faces, but I wanted a chat with him, and here it is. ‘You think you’re gonna get it sorted out?’

‘Oh, yeah. They’re mad about each other, underneath it all; they just need a little reminder of that. It’ll be fine in no time. McCann’s just worried.’

‘Yeah. The pair of yous looked a bit stressed, all right.’

Breslin stops and gives me a stare. ‘Me? What’s that supposed to mean?’

I lift my hands. ‘I’m only saying.’

‘This is what stressed looks like to you?’ He’s pointing at his gob, which is halfway between disbelieving and disgusted. ‘Your radar might need some recalibrating, Conway. What would I be stressed about?’

I shrug. ‘How would I know?’

Breslin’s not moving. ‘No. You can’t throw out something like that and then backpedal when I call you on it. What would I be stressed about?’

Stressed and defensive as hell, too, which is interesting. I decide not to point out that part. ‘Whatever. The usual. Work. Money. Life.’

‘My life is great, thanks very much. I love my work, unlike some – and if you think a few days with you and Ginger Boy is enough to change that, you’re flattering yourself. Financially, I’m fine – better than fine; not a care in the world. I’m a happy man. OK?’

‘Man,’ I say. ‘I’m only making small talk.’

Breslin stares me out of it for a long moment. Then: ‘All right.’