‘Great chats all round.’ Breslin swings himself into his chair, switches on his computer and has a stretch while it boots up. ‘They’re a shower of dry shites, the type who correct your grammar and think three drinks is a wild night out, but I’d say they’re too terrified of us to do any major lying. They all say the same things about Rory: the guy’s a sweetheart, wouldn’t hurt a fly – one of his mates told me he won’t even watch boxing because it’s just too distressing. What a pussy.’

Sounds about right: Rory doesn’t like reality getting all up in his face. ‘Even pussies lose the head,’ I say.

Breslin throws me a finger-snap and a point. ‘Exactly, Conway. They do. I was about to point that out myself. And all the KAs agree that their pal Rory was head over heels about Aislinn: he hadn’t shut up about her since they first met. They say it like it’s a good thing: aww, look, he was so smitten he would never do anything bad to his sweetie! I don’t think it’s occurred to them that there’s a fine line between smitten and obsessed.’ He glances up from pulling his notebook out of his pocket. ‘Nice to hear one of you two admitting that the obsessed boyfriend on the scene might actually be a suspect. Detective Conway, do I get the sense you’re getting just a leetle bit tired of tree-shaking?’

‘Nah,’ I say. ‘It’s good exercise. But like you say, unless something big falls out, Rory’s what we’ve got. A bit more solid evidence, and we’ll be good to go. Did you run the voices past the guy at Stoneybatter who took the call?’

‘Yeah, about that. Just a word in your ear, Conway . . .’ Breslin glances at the floaters and lowers his voice. ‘You need to learn how to allocate resources appropriately. I know that sounds like boring manager-type crap, but you’re running investigations now; like it or not, you’re a manager. And it doesn’t take a Murder D with twenty years’ experience to hit Play half a dozen times.’

Someone’s ego wouldn’t fit through the door of Stoneybatter station. Steve moves again. ‘Got it,’ I say sheepishly. ‘Will we send Gaffney? Just so he knows he’s not in your bad books?’

‘Now you’re thinking like a lead D. Let’s do that. You tell him, so he knows who’s boss around here; how’s that?’ Breslin gives me his wise-teacher smile, which is kind and crinkly and would make me feel warm all over if I was dumber than a bag of hair.

‘Thanks,’ I say, all grateful. ‘That’d be great.’ I swivel my chair around – without looking at Steve, in case one of us gets the giggles – and call, ‘Gaffney. Over here. Job for you.’