I keep my mouth a few inches from the phone, just in case. ‘Um, hi. My name’s . . . um, I don’t really want to . . . But I’m a friend of Simon Fallon – I heard you were asking him about his brother Rory? And – I mean, I used to hang out with Rory as well, and he did some things that probably you should . . . I never reported it, but . . . Simon said you were really nice. I’m in the Top House bar, in Howth? In beside the fireplace? If maybe you could come here? I can probably stay till like four. Otherwise, I guess I can try you some other time, or . . . Well. Thanks. Bye.’

I put my phone away and floor it for Stoneybatter. That should do it. Breslin’ll get in, check his messages, cream his Armani suit, turn right around and zoom off to find out what terrible things Rory did to this poor girl. He’ll leave Steve behind, in case she can’t bring herself to spill her story to two big bad Ds at once. Forty minutes to Howth, at this time of day and in this weather. Say half an hour of waiting for Mystery Chick, or till four o’clock if we’re really in luck. Then forty minutes back. For at least two hours, me and Steve will have McCann all to ourselves.

Ganly’s is empty apart from the baldy barman, who’s stacking glasses and humming along to Perry Como singing ‘Magic Moments’ on the radio. ‘Ah,’ he says, giving me a nod. ‘It’s yourself. Did I win?’

‘You got into the next round,’ I say. ‘The woman you identified for me the other day: remember the guy who was in with her?’

‘More or less. I told yous before, he wasn’t the main thing on my mind.’

‘Would you have a look at a few photos for me, see if you can spot him?’

‘Your pal was already in yesterday, asking me the same thing. I was no use to him.’

‘He said that, yeah. These are different photos.’

The barman shrugs. ‘I’ll have a go, sure. Anything to help the forces of law and order.’

I pull out a fresh copy of the McCann photo array. ‘If you see the man here, tell me. If he’s not there, tell me. If you’re not sure, tell me. OK?’

‘I can manage that.’ The barman takes the card and gives it a long thoughtful gaze. ‘Would you look at that,’ he says. ‘I’d say you’ve got him this time. This lad here.’ He taps McCann’s face.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I wouldn’t stake my life on it, but I’d put fifty quid on it down the bookies. Will that do you any good?’