McCann’s eyes are on me now, bloodshot from wind and fatigue. His voice has condensed, concentrated. This is the important part; this is what kept him waiting in the cold for me to walk out of the blurry, layered light, to the place where he wants me.

‘I get you just fine,’ I say. ‘I’m missing nothing.’ I crumple the statement sheet in my fist and shove it into my coat pocket. ‘See you ’round.’

‘Yeah,’ McCann says. ‘See you.’ He turns away again, dark sagging profile against the growing light. The dirty reek of his cigarette follows me into the building.

Me and McCann are both early. The cleaner is still hoovering the corridor; when I pass the squad-room door, the only sounds inside are patchy two-man chat and the perky squawking of drivetime radio. Incident Room C is empty except for Steve, sprawled at our desk, looking rumpled and hugging a cup of coffee.

‘You’re in early,’ I say.

‘Couldn’t sleep.’

‘Me neither. Any sign of Breslin?’

‘Nope.’

‘Good.’ I’m not in the humour for Breslin. There’s a stack of little plastic photo albums on Steve’s desk: mug books. I nod at them. ‘What’re those for?’

‘Gang lads,’ Steve says, through a yawn. ‘Lanigan’s lot, mostly. I want to run them past the barman in Ganly’s. Then I’ll show them to Aislinn’s neighbours, see if anyone recognises—’

I say, ‘The gang theory’s dead.’ It feels like punching a bruise.

Steve’s face looks slapped blank. He says, ‘Wait. What?’

‘Gone. Out the window. I never want to hear about it again. Is that clear enough?’

‘Hang on,’ Steve says. He’s lifted his hands and forgotten them in mid-air, trying to get his head together. ‘Hang on. No. Then what was Breslin playing at yesterday, ditching Gaffney? Don’t tell me you actually believe he stopped off for a shag.’

I toss my satchel on the floor and throw myself into my chair. It feels good, watching this hit Steve. ‘Maybe he was getting his nails done. Maybe he didn’t go anywhere special; he just wanted to show us he wasn’t going to take orders from the likes of us. I don’t care either way.’

‘And you saw him give Gaffney the cash for his sandwich, yeah? The roll of fifties? What was he doing with those?’

‘Did you not hear me? I don’t care. I don’t care if he wants to carry around his entire savings fund in his pocket so the Illuminati can’t get their hands on it. His problem. Not ours.’

‘OK,’ Steve says carefully. He’s looking at me like I might have rabies. ‘OK. What the hell happened last night?’