‘Not that I spotted,’ I say. ‘Her stuff was mid-range, things she could’ve afforded herself; nothing that said someone else was buying for her. But maybe she just wasn’t into the sugar-daddy thing.’

Fleas snorts. ‘Any extra cash?’

‘Not that we’ve found. Her financials look clean.’

‘Any trips away? A lily-white like that, the boyfriend wouldn’t be able to resist using her to carry something. And if she’s the type who’d go for a gangster, she’s not the type who’d say no.’

I shake my head. ‘Her best friend said she’d never been out of Ireland. We found a passport application form – first-time, not renewal. No passport.’

‘There you go,’ Fleas says. He passes the photo back to me. ‘I’m not swearing on my life or anything, but if I was a betting man, I’d bet plenty that she had nothing to do with the scene.’

And there it is. The cosy feeling burns out to dirty ash.

I say, ‘You can’t swear to it, but. She still could have had connections.’

He shrugs. ‘She could’ve, yeah. So could my ma.’

Fleas isn’t like Steve; he doesn’t make up ifs and maybes for kicks. If Fleas says something, it’s solid.

There goes our beautiful gang theory, spiralling down the jacks with a long sucking sound. I thought I was ready for that.

Me spending the last day and a half thinking I was a big badass sniper deep in enemy jungle, swinging my scope from Breslin to McCann, my blood clarifying to pure adrenaline while I waited to see which one I should pick off. Idiot, five-star fucking cretin. No different from Goggles getting off his tits on his own shipment and turning himself into a lifetime punchline. The only thing I’ve done right, since the moment I got this case, was hold on to just enough sense to keep my gob shut. Every other thought I’ve had was a joke.

I stuff the photo back into my satchel – I don’t want to see the thing any more. ‘Can you keep an eye out anyway? See if anyone’s a little off his stride this week, maybe, or anyone’s spending more time in the pub, getting drunker than usual?’ The begging under my voice is pathetic. ‘She only got killed on Saturday evening, so whoever did it should be feeling it.’

Fleas has gone back to his sandwich. ‘Might be, might not. Plenty of them are total psychopaths; could blow their own grannies’ brains out and never break a sweat.’

‘Someone knows about this who isn’t a total psycho, but. A guy called it in to the local station, looking for an ambulance. If that wasn’t our boy, it was a mate who he talked to.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll keep an eye out for anyone who’s off form.’