He looks like he’s forgotten us; I can’t tell whether we’ve been dismissed. ‘We could use another floater,’ I say. ‘I sent Reilly back to the floater pool.’

That gets the gaffer’s attention. ‘Why?’

‘He found evidence. Instead of bringing it to me, or to Moran, he took it to Breslin.’

‘Can’t have that,’ O’Kelly says. He doesn’t try to hide the long glance at Steve. ‘OK: I’ll get you another one. Keep me updated.’

He turns his shoulder to us and works his fingers delicately into the plant, pushing the leaves apart to slide the cloth right down to the base.

Steve says, in the corridor, ‘Zero reason to think anyone but Rory was involved.’

His voice still has that remote sound. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Exactly zero reason.’

‘What about Lucy’s mystery guy? The folder on Aislinn’s computer?’

‘I’m seeing Lucy tomorrow. I’ll ring Sophie about the folder first thing. If either of them gives us anything solid, then we’ll review.’ I can hear the danger signs rising in my voice. ‘But right now: zero reason. Zero.’

‘The DNA on Aislinn’s mattress.’

‘That didn’t get there on Saturday night, or it would’ve been on the sheets as well. It’s got nothing to do with our case.’

Steve has stopped moving. He’s looking off down the corridor at the window – dark sky, layered in a thick yellowish vapour of light pollution – not at me.

I say, ‘You saw Rory in there. You heard him. Don’t you fucking tell me you still have doubts.’

It takes him too long to answer. I leave him there.

I’m pulling my coat on when it hits me: Breslin made it through the entire afternoon without once trying to hint that he’s on the take.

That should be a relief, but instead it jabs like a needle under a fingernail. As far as I can see, there’s no reason why Breslin should have suddenly, in the couple of hours I was away talking to Aislinn’s exes, decided to ditch his whole ornate cunning plan. He was doing a lovely job of setting me up – a few more nudges and, if it hadn’t been for Fleas, I would have been right in position for the kill shot – and out of nowhere he dropped the whole project and wandered away. I flick back mentally through the day, my chat with McCann, the floaters’ reports, checking for anything that could have made him change course: anything that might have tipped him off that I’d sussed him, or anything that could have made him decide I wasn’t worth owning after all. There’s nothing.