The weight of his voice – my own squad – falls on me like the swaying weight of deep water. Twenty-eight years, O’Kelly’s been on Murder; since me and Steve were sticky-faced kids pointing finger-guns at our pals. When he says my own squad, it means things I used to dream I’d understand someday.

I say, ‘No.’

‘And when you should’ve known. Did you think it then?’

‘No.’

‘No.’ His head turns back to the window. ‘Nor did I. But I wondered. I didn’t like that; I thought less of myself for it, still do. But there it was. That’s why I gave you the case: I needed to know. And ye were the only ones who wouldn’t drop it like a hot potato if Breslin wanted you to.’

And we waded right in and did his dirty work for him. Maybe he expects us to be grateful for the vote of confidence. I say, ‘Now you know.’

‘You’re positive. You’d bet your lives on it.’

Steve says, ‘He did it.’

O’Kelly nods a few times. ‘Right,’ he says quietly, to himself, not to us. ‘Right.’

I wait for it. Just for kicks, I try to guess which he’ll whip out first: the fatherly wisdom, the squad loyalty, the man-to-man chat, the guilt trip, the bribes, the threats. I hope Steve’s got no plans for this evening, because it could take a while before it sinks into the gaffer’s head that he’s getting nowhere. While I’m at it, I try to decide whether we should tell him it’s already too late, so we can enjoy the look on the bollix’s face, or whether we should play it safe and let him find out in the morning, along with everyone else, when the Courier comes out.

He swivels his chair to his desk and picks up the phone. His finger on the buttons is clumsier than it should be; his knuckles are swollen stiff. When someone answers, he says, ‘McCann. I need you in my office.’ And hangs up.

His eyes fall on us for a moment, in passing. ‘Ye can stay,’ he says. ‘As long as you act like adults. You get bitchy, you’re out.’ Then he goes back to looking out the window, at whatever it is he sees out there.

Me and Steve glance at each other just once. Steve’s face is quick and wary, all the angles sharpened. He doesn’t have a handle on where this is going either, and he doesn’t like that any more than I do. We swap a tiny nod: Stay steady. Then we sit still, listening to the faint singing hiss of the radiators and the slow rasp of O’Kelly’s breathing, and we wait for McCann to come.

The knock at the door snaps the silence. ‘Come,’ O’Kelly says, turning his chair, and there’s McCann in the doorway, jacket sagging, eyes sunk deep.

Two beats – one look at the gaffer, one at us – and he understands. His shoulders shift and roll forward as he gets ready for the fight.