‘I gave her fuck-all. She was whinging at me, could I not look up the file and tell her what was in there, pretty please . . .’ I feel it all over again, the rush of anger rising up from my gut and flaring under my ribs. I shove myself away from the lamppost and start walking. ‘I gave her the name of one of the older guys who would’ve been on the squad back then, told her to come back on his shift, pointed her at the door.’

Steve has to lengthen his stride to keep up with me. ‘Did she? Come back?’

‘I didn’t ask. Didn’t give a shite.’

‘Did you have a look at her da’s file?’

‘No, I didn’t. What part of “didn’t give a shite” isn’t getting through to you?’

Steve ignores the bite in my voice. He dodges a yapping clump of Uggs and buggies and says, ‘I’d love to see that file.’

That gets my attention. ‘You think there’s a link? Her da going missing, her getting killed?’

‘I think that’s a lot of bad shite to happen to one family just by coincidence.’

‘I’ve seen worse.’ I’m not sure I want this case to turn out interesting, not any more.

‘If we’re thinking about the gangster-boyfriend thing—’

It feels like the whole of Stoneybatter is yammering at me: WE WON’T PAY spray-painted on a patched garage door, woman laughing hysterically about butter from a bus-shelter ad, an old one from my street waving at me across the road – I wave back and speed up, before she heads over for a chat. ‘We’ve got no evidence the gangster boyfriend ever existed. Remember? You made him up.’

‘Yeah, but if. Go with it for a second. I’ll owe you the quid.’

I don’t laugh. ‘Whatever.’

‘Say Aislinn thought some gang was involved in disappearing her da. And say she didn’t get any satisfaction out of Missing Persons.’ Steve’s being tactful. He means, say some bitch gave her the brush-off.

‘Why the hell would she think that? She didn’t say anything about gangs to me. She was all about how perfect Daddy was; she’d have lost the plot if I’d suggested he ever had a parking ticket. And the gang boys don’t waste their time disappearing normal decent citizens.’

‘Maybe she didn’t know that. We know she was naïve; maybe she thought gangs were like the villains in stories, going around looking to grab people just out of badness. Or maybe she found out the da wasn’t as much of a saint as she thought. There are normal decent citizens who get mixed up with gangs.’

I say, reluctantly, ‘I think he was a taxi driver.’