‘I’d say I did more harm than good, like,’ Gaffney says worriedly. He hands over Breslin’s change, a great big handful of notes and coins. ‘By the end, after he’d listened to all those different voices, he was actually having a harder time remembering what the original one had sounded like. D’ye know what I mean? Now, if we get more voices for him to listen to, he won’t be able to—’

‘Lineups’ll do that,’ Breslin says, honouring Gaffney with a smile. ‘Not your fault, my son; it goes with the territory. You did fine.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’ It comes out an ungracious grunt – not that it matters: Gaffney is too busy giving Breslin the hero-worship goo-goo eyes to notice I exist. All I can think is that of course the lineup wrecked our chances of getting an ID. Even when we have something, touching it crumbles it into nothing. More nothing, sifting down like fine dust, piling up in sticky drifts on the glossy desks, gumming up the swanky computers.

Before we head home, me and Steve give the gaffer his update. O’Kelly stands at the tall sash window, with his back to us and his hands in the pockets of his tweed suit, rocking back and forth on his heels. He looks like he’s gazing out at the dark gardens, only half listening, but I can see his eyes in the glass, zipping fast between my reflection and Steve’s.

When we finish talking, he leaves a silence that says he wants more. Steve’s reflection glances at mine. I don’t look back.

O’Kelly says, without turning round, ‘I looked in on your incident room, around noon. Ye weren’t there. Where were ye?’

It’s been a long time since any gaffer made me account for my whereabouts like a fucking kid. Before I can open my mouth, Steve says easily, ‘We did the search on Aislinn’s gaff. Then we brought a photo of her round Stoneybatter, asked pubs and local places if they recognised her. See if anyone had spotted her doing anything interesting.’

‘And?’

Steve lifts one shoulder. ‘Not really.’

O’Kelly lets that lie for a few seconds. Then he says, ‘This afternoon you got a delivery from some lad who wouldn’t let it out of his hands. What was it?’

Bernadette’s had a thing for the gaffer as long as anyone can remember; everyone knows she’ll grab any chance to drop a word in his ear. She could’ve grassed us up; or not. ‘Aislinn’s father went missing when she was a kid,’ Steve says. ‘It seemed like a bit of a coincidence, so we took a look at the file.’

‘Any joy?’

‘Nothing. He ran off with a young one. Died a few years back.’