He catches up with me outside the bookshop. The window is dim, just a faint glow coming from somewhere in the back. The display’s laid out with a perfection that stinks of desperation: bestsellers temptingly overlapping bright-coloured kids’ books, all those wacky cartoons and enigmatic heroines staring dementedly into the darkness. I shift away from Steve and lean on the bell.

Rory hasn’t slit his wrists, anyway. He opens the door fast, and we watch his heart rate skyrocket when he sees us. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday, jeans and the depressed beige jumper, and he’s getting wimpy stubble. Being a suspect has hit the pause button on his life; the poor bastard is paralysed.

He says, breathless, ‘I’m not ready. I wasn’t expecting—’ He gestures helplessly at his ratty grey slippers. ‘I haven’t eaten breakfast, or even . . .’

‘You’re all right,’ Steve says gently. ‘We don’t need you to come with us. We just have a couple of leftover questions to ask. Can we come in, yeah? It’ll only take a few minutes.’

Rory’s panic solidifies into fear. ‘I don’t think I should talk to you without a solicitor. Not now that I’m a . . .’

‘We’re not going to ask about Aislinn,’ Steve says, lifting his hands. ‘Nothing like that. OK? Just, I didn’t get a chance to talk to you yesterday, and you said something in the interview that got me interested.’

Rory blinks hard, trying to focus. Fatigue and fear are using up most of his bandwidth; his mind’s slowed down to a crawl.

Steve says – lower, leaning in like someone might be listening – ‘And I think we need to talk about it without Detective Breslin around.’

That gets Rory’s attention; anything that Breslin wouldn’t like has to be good. And there’s Steve, all rumpled and earnest, looking like your most harmless pal. ‘I suppose . . .’ he says, in the end, moving back and opening the door properly. ‘All right. Come in.’

The bookshop is two connecting rooms, not big ones. The front one is crammed with shelves – Rory’s not gonna be getting any fat customers. Hand-lettered signs say thriller and romance into the darkness; posters of old covers and illustrations hang from the ceiling, swaying restlessly in the sweep of cold air we’ve brought with us. The light is coming from the back room; through the doorway it looks jammed even tighter than the front, books piled on shelves instead of lined up, wavering stacks on the floor, covers curling.

‘That’s the second-hand section,’ Rory says, waving a hand towards the back. ‘I was organising it. I couldn’t sleep, and I couldn’t stand staring at my sitting room any longer, so I thought I might as well do something useful.’

‘Lovely shop,’ Steve says, looking around. ‘This is where you and Aislinn met, yeah?’