I look up fast from my food, but he’s leaning to get his mug off the coffee table; I can’t see his eyes. Undercovers are like that – they can’t go at anything straight – but I’m pretty sure I get the message. Fleas knows Murder isn’t working out. He thinks I e-mailed him because I need him to put in a good word for me on Undercover.

For a flash I think about straightening my leg and putting my foot in his guts. Instead I say, ‘I’m happy enough with the scenery I’ve got. I’d love your opinion on one bit of it, though.’

‘Yeah?’ Fleas’s tone hasn’t changed, but something streaks across his face, something that almost looks like regret. ‘What’s that?’

‘Look at this.’ I sit up and stretch for my satchel, find a photo of Aislinn Version 2.0 and pass it to him. ‘Her name’s Aislinn Murray. Twenty-six, five foot seven, probably a middle-class Greystones accent. Seen her around?’

Fleas chews, bounces one knee and takes his time looking. ‘Hard to say for sure; a lot of ones look like her. I don’t think so, but. Who is she?’

‘Murder victim.’

That stops his knee bouncing. ‘Her? The one off the front pages?’

‘Yeah. Her best mate says she had a secret boyfriend, the last six months or so. We’re thinking it could’ve been a gangster. One of Cueball Lanigan’s lot, maybe.’

He looks longer. Shakes his head. ‘Nah. She wasn’t with any of Lanigan’s lads, anyway.’

‘You’re sure,’ I say. I already know from his voice: he’s sure. The warm cosy feeling is sinking fast. I could kick myself for dragging him out here for this.

‘Hundred per cent. I’d’ve met her. Probably if she was with anyone from Crumlin or Drimnagh, too.’

‘Maybe not. If she was keeping the relationship on the downlow, he might’ve been too.’

Fleas laughs. ‘Nah nah nah. A bird who looks like that, anyone who’s shagging her is gonna want the world to know. He’d be showing her off in the pub, at parties, every time he got a chance.’

‘Even if he’s married?’

‘No problemo. No one expects these lads to be monks, know what I mean? Not even their wives. If someone’s married to another of the lads’ sister, then OK, he’s not gonna shove his bit on the side in the brother-in-law’s face, but he’ll still be bragging about her to the rest of us. And the lads gossip like aul’ ones. Everyone knows who’s got a little side action going on.’ He’s still scanning the photo, but his knee is jiggling again: he’s losing interest. ‘She have any bling that’s not accounted for? Rolex, jewellery, designer gear?’