‘McCann,’ I say. ‘I’m just doing my job. I’m not planning on fucking your pal about. OK?’

That gets one humourless twitch of his mouth. ‘You’d better not. He’s got enough on his mind already.’

And there it is. Took him all of twenty seconds. ‘Yeah? Like what?’

McCann shakes his head, one brief jerk. ‘Forget it. You don’t want to know.’

Yesterday I’d have been drooling down my suit. Now all I can feel is a small, bitter flare of anger, too exhausted to last. Whatever Breslin’s playing at, he’s decided his approach isn’t doing the job; so, just like he would with some slack-jawed suspect, he’s sent McCann in to try a different angle. The scatter of cigarette butts at McCann’s feet says he’s been waiting out here for God knows how long, just to feed me a few lines out of a B-movie. ‘Whatever,’ I say. ‘I’ll have him back to you in one piece, fast as I can. Believe me.’

I’m turning away when McCann says, through his cigarette, ‘Hang on.’

I say, ‘What.’

He watches ash scud away across the cobblestones. He says, ‘Roche nicked your statement sheet.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Your street fight from Saturday night. The last page of a witness statement went missing on you.’

I say, ‘I don’t remember telling you about that.’

‘You didn’t. Roche was having a laugh about it in the squad room, yesterday.’ McCann reaches a hand into his jacket pocket, pulls out a folded sheet of paper and passes it to me. I unfold it: my statement page. ‘With Roche’s apologies. More or less.’

I hold out the sheet. ‘I got the witness to redo it.’

McCann doesn’t take it. ‘I know you did. This’ – he flicks the paper – ‘isn’t the point. Shred it, stuff it up Roche’s hole, I don’t care.’

‘Then what is the point?’

‘The point is, not everyone on the squad is Roche. Me and Bres, we’ve got nothing against you. You’re not a waste of space like some of that lot; you’ve got the makings of a good D. We’d be happy to see you do well for yourself.’

‘Great,’ I say. It sounds so much like truth, matter-of-fact with just the faintest fleck of warmth, the gruff old dog who isn’t about to get sappy but wants the best for the young learner who’s earned his respect. If I hadn’t seen McCann do his shtick in a dozen interrogations, and if I didn’t know a million times better, I might even fall for it. ‘Thanks.’

‘So if Breslin tells you to do something, it’s for your own good. Even if you can’t see how; even if you think he’s wrong. If you’ve got sense, you’ll listen to him. D’you get me?’