I told Fleas I’d get my locks and my alarm system looked at. I meant it at the time, but somewhere since then I’ve changed my mind. The guy casing my gaff is the only thing left in my week that has potential. If he sees locksmiths and alarm techs swarming over my house, he’ll know he’s been burned; he’ll find someone else to stalk, or get himself another hobby, or back off and wait a few weeks or months before he comes looking for me again. I need him now.

I take my shower, throw some cereal into me and head out for work. There’s still no one outside.

I make it to work without getting pulled over – even wankers take a while to gear up in the morning. Outside our building, in the strange unfocused mix of early light and thick halogens, McCann is leaning against the wall and having a smoke.

‘Howya,’ I say, without stopping. McCann lifts his chin, but he doesn’t bother talking, not that I expected him to.

He looks like shite. McCann isn’t slick to start with, not like Breslin; he’s one of those guys who always look like they’re fighting back their natural state of scruffiness – five o’clock shadow by noon, greying dark curls that won’t lie flat. Normally he wins the battle, because he obviously used to be good-looking not too long ago, before the jowls and the belly started loosening, and because everything he wears is always immaculate and ironed so smooth you could skate on it. This morning, though, he’s losing. The five o’clock shadow has turned into full-on stubble; his shirt is creased, there’s something brown and sticky on his jacket sleeve, and his eyebags are moving towards black eyes.

While me and Steve were sculpting our fancy twirly conspiracy theories, like a pair of mouth-breathers in an internet sinkhole, Breslin was telling the truth all along: McCann is in the missus’s bad books. He’s sleeping on the sofa and doing his own ironing. I could laugh, if the great big joke wasn’t on me.

I have my hand on the door when he says, ‘Conway.’

I stop in spite of myself. I want to hear, just for confirmation, what I already know he’s going to say. McCann is gonna drop me a nice juicy hint that him and Breslin are on the take.

‘Yeah,’ I say.

McCann has his head back against the wall, looking out at the winter-scrawny gardens, not at me. He says, ‘How’re you getting on with Breslin?’

‘Fine.’

‘He says good things about you.’

He does in his arse. ‘Nice to hear,’ I say.

‘He’s a good D, Breslin is. The best. Good to work with, too: he’ll look after you, whatever it takes. As long as you don’t fuck him about.’