Steve is early, quarter to seven, but I’m ready: caffeinated, fed, showered and dressed. I doubt anyone’s watching my gaff, but when Steve knocks I practically reef him inside all the same, just in case.

‘How’re you doing?’ I ask.

He nods. He’s even paler than usual, but there’s a going-over-the-top set to his jaw. ‘You?’

‘Yeah. You need anything? Coffee, food?’

‘Nah, I’m sorted. Thanks. How do you want to do this?’

I say, ‘Deasy’s meant to have organised surveillance on Rory’s gaff. I’d say he’ll be doing it himself; he’d be lucky to get authorisation for uniforms, plus he’ll want the pat on the head if anything good happens. And I don’t want Deasy knowing you and me are working Rory together. He could be Breslin’s bitch.’

Steve nods. ‘We’ll go in separately.’

‘Yeah. And we’re not in a good mood with each other.’

‘I made up a photo array,’ Steve says. He pulls a handful of thin card out of his bag. Eight clean-shaven middle-aged guys with greying dark hair, all caught full-face or almost, in stills pulled from video, against neutral backgrounds. Steve must have been up half the night finding the right shot of McCann and then combing the internet for good matches, making sure no one can say the array was skewed. McCann is third down on the left, wearing what looks like his court suit, staring darkly over my shoulder against thick cloudy sky. ‘Printed off a bunch of copies, just in case.’

‘Good,’ I say. It fries wires in my brain, seeing one of our own squad where a scumbag belongs; it looks like a joke birthday card. ‘You do one with Breslin? I might need it for Lucy.’

‘Yeah.’ He flips to another sheet, this one full of good-looking fair-haired middle-aged guys. Breslin’s smirk is in the top right corner.

If I start thinking about how fucked-up this is, I’m gone. We can’t look down.

I can see Steve thinking the same thing. ‘Nice one,’ I say. ‘Let’s do this.’ And I open the door to let him out.

There’s a black Mitsubishi Pajero with heavy tint parked opposite the Wayward Bookshop, in the dim stretch between streetlamps. Dawn is only starting and all I can see through the windscreen is a wide shape in the driver’s seat, but when I knock on the window – keeping my head low, and the car between me and the bookshop – sure enough, Deasy sits up and cracks it.

‘Howya,’ I say. ‘Any news?’