Journalists have ways they don’t tell us about, obviously. Crowley probably has a scanner that he tunes to police frequencies when he’s on duty, and uses to look for couples having phone sex the rest of the time. But still: I have to wonder.

You don’t make the Murder squad without having a world-class gift for finding creative ways to get under someone’s skin and wriggle around in there till they’d rip themselves open to get rid of you; without being ready and happy to do it, even if the witness you’re working on is a devastated kid sobbing her heart out for her da. I’m not the exception – and neither is Steve, much as he’d love to think he is. It’s not like I was shocked, the first time I realised that not all the lads save that talent for interviews. It gets to feel right on you, like the gun at your hip that leaves you lopsided when it’s not there. Some of the lads can’t put it down. They use it to get anything they happen to want, or to get past anyone who happens to be in their way. Or to break anyone they want broken.

Steve is keeping his trap shut, which is a good call. Without noticing, I’ve got us deep into Phoenix Park, probably because it’s the only place around where I can drive without getting snarled up in traffic and idiots. The roads are straight, between wide gentle meadows and rows of huge old trees, and I’m going like the clappers. The Kadett is about ready to have a fit of the vapours.

I slow down. Pull over, nice and neat, signalling well in advance and keeping one eye on my rear-view mirror.

‘We need Lucy Riordan’s address,’ I say. ‘I’ve got her mobile number.’

We pull out our phones. Steve dials his contact at one of the mobile networks and hits speaker; we listen to the even buzz of the ring. Deer watch us from under bare spreading branches. I realise I’m still wearing my shoe covers – I’m lucky they didn’t slide on the pedals and crash the car. I take them off and toss them in the back seat. The sunlight is still thin and warmthless; it still feels like dawn.

Chapter 2

Steve’s contact gives us a home address for Lucy Riordan in Rathmines, a work address at the Torch Theatre in town, and a birth date that makes her twenty-six. ‘Just gone half-nine,’ Steve says, checking his watch. ‘She should be home.’

I’m dialling my voicemail; I’ve got a new message, and I just can’t wait to hear it. ‘She’ll be sleeping off last night. Like anyone with sense, this time on a Sunday morning.’ The park is making me edgy. Outside the car windows the sky is dead, not one bird, and the massive trees feel like they’re slowly tilting inwards over us. ‘You head up the interview.’ Seeing as I don’t have a legit reason to arrest Crowley or punch him in the mouth, or to tell the gaffer where to shove his domestics, I’m gonna take the head off the first person who gives me half an excuse, and I don’t want it to be our key witness.