Steve says, ‘Why did you assume we were here about Aislinn?’

Lucy’s head comes up. She’s not crying, which is a relief, but her face is a nasty white; her eyes look like she’s having trouble seeing, or trouble not getting sick. She says, ‘What?’

‘When you came to the door, you said, “Is it Aislinn?” Why would you think that?’

The cigarette’s shaking. Lucy stares at it, curls her fingers tighter to keep it still. ‘I don’t know. I just did.’

‘Think back. There has to have been a reason.’

‘I don’t remember. That’s just what came into my head.’

We wait. In the walls, pipes hoot and groan; upstairs a guy yells something about hot water and someone gallops across the floor, making the postcard curtains tremble. Next to Lucy on the sofa is a Homer Simpson stuffed toy with a Rizla that says princess buttercup stuck to its forehead. Last night was a good one. Next time Lucy sees that toy, she’s gonna shove it to the bottom of her bin.

After a long minute, the line of Lucy’s spine resets. She’s not gonna cry or puke, not now anyway; she’s got other things to do. I’m pretty sure she’s just decided to lie to us.

She taps ash without even clocking the spliff butts in the ashtray. She says – carefully, feeling her way – ‘Aislinn just started seeing this guy Rory. Last night she was cooking him dinner. It was his first time in her house; they’d only met in public places before. So when you said you were Guards, that’s the only thing I could think of: something went wrong there. I mean, I couldn’t think of any other reason you’d want to talk to me.’

Bullshit. Just off the top of my head I can think of half a dozen reasons – the hash, noise complaint from the neighbours, street fight outside and we need witnesses, domestic in another flat ditto, I could keep going – and Lucy’s well able to do the same. Here it is: the lie.

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘About that. Yesterday evening, you and Aislinn were texting about her dinner date.’ The wariness goes up a notch, as Lucy tries to remember what she said. ‘You told Aislinn to’ – I pretend to check my notebook – ‘“be careful, OK?” Why was that?’

‘Like I said. She hadn’t known him that long, and she was going to be on her own in the house with him.’

Steve is doing puzzled. ‘Is that not a bit paranoid, no?’

Lucy’s eyebrows shoot up and she stares at Steve like he’s the enemy. ‘You think? I wasn’t telling her to have a loaded gun in her bra. Just to mind herself with a strange guy in her house. That’s paranoid?’

‘Sounds like basic good sense to me,’ I say. Lucy turns to me gratefully, relaxing back off the attack. ‘I’d tell my mate the same thing. Had you met Rory?’

‘Yeah. I was actually there when the two of them met. This guy I know from work, Lar, he published a book about the history of Dublin theatres, and the launch was at the bookshop Rory runs – the Wayward Bookshop, in Ranelagh? A bunch of us went from the Torch, and I talked Aislinn into coming along. I thought she needed a night out.’