He badly wants to believe that. A surprisingly big part of me does, too. ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Probably. Only something goes wrong. Maybe Aislinn goes to scream and McCann panics, something like that.’

‘And he hits her. Or pushes her down and then hits her.’ Steve’s hand is tight around his glass. This shit is hard to say, physically hard. It goes against the grain. Our throats want to close over it.

‘When he realises what’s after happening,’ I say, ‘he wipes the place down, legs it out of there and gets hold of Breslin. Once Breslin’s finished throwing a wobbler and had a chance to think, he calls it in to Stoneybatter. He times it so Aislinn will be found when he’s on shift, and he’ll be there to keep an eye on the investigation. And that’s where we came in.’

For a long time it feels like there’s nothing else to say. It feels like there might never be anything to say; like the one and only thing we can do is sit here on my sofa, drinking whiskey, while a man shouts far away outside and that small nagging wind flutters in the chimney.

The house is getting cold enough that in the end I have to move, to turn on the heat. ‘You take Rory,’ I say, when I come back. ‘You were getting on great guns with him there, on Sunday. I’ll take Lucy.’

Steve scrapes at his glass with a thumbnail, thinking. ‘Rory first. First thing in the morning.’

‘Yeah. Then anything he gives us, we might be able to use it to crack Lucy.’

‘Breslin,’ Steve says. He looks up at me. ‘What do we do with him?’

I can’t even think of what I actually want to do with Breslin. I say, ‘You’ve got a date with him to check out Rory’s rep with the locals, remember? Once that’s done, someone needs to chase up the rest of the people who were in evening classes with Aislinn. No harm letting Breslin do that now.’

‘If Lucy or Rory IDs him or McCann . . .’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘That’s when it gets interesting.’

‘Shit,’ Steve says. It’s sinking in: this is real, and we’re stuck with it. ‘Ah, shit.’

I start to laugh. The face on him is beautiful: like a good citizen coming home and finding a dead hooker and a K of coke in his bed.

‘Jesus, Antoinette. What’s funny? This is fucked up. We’re talking about one of our own squad. Killing someone; murdering her, maybe.’ I’m laughing harder. ‘No. Have you even— If this is true, what the hell are we going to—’

‘You should see yourself. The state of you. Don’t you dare have a heart attack in my gaff. The rumours—’

‘Antoinette. What are we going to do?’