‘Christ,’ McCann says, barely above a whisper. ‘Ah, Christ, gaffer. I’m sorry.’

‘No. Don’t be getting maudlin on me. It’s done now.’ O’Kelly’s face across the desk, all unmovable grooves and crevices, like something carved a long time ago to send a message I can’t read. ‘You’ve got a choice. You can go out like a scumbag. Or you can be a D one more time.’

The silence goes on for so long. The office has changed, shifted, the same way the cosy interview room did. Crayon drawings, tiny flakes stirring in the snow globe. Thin skin stretched over clean bones and clacking teeth.

McCann says, quietly, ‘Saturday evening, after dinner, I told my wife I was going for a pint and I headed over to Aislinn’s house. I went in through the kitchen; saw the dinner cooking, but I didn’t think anything of it. There was music playing, dancy stuff, Aislinn didn’t hear me come in. I went out into the sitting room calling her – quiet, like always, so the neighbours wouldn’t hear – and I saw the table, set for two. Wineglasses. Candle. I thought it was for us. Should’ve known. I’m never over to her on Saturdays – mostly my wife wants to go out to a restaurant, only that evening she had a headache; no way Aislinn would’ve guessed I was coming. But all I could think about was seeing her.’

I risk a flash of sideways glance at Steve and meet him risking one at me, wide-eyed. We’re the only ones gobsmacked here. McCann’s voice doesn’t even hold a flicker of surprise at what he’s doing. The moment he walked into this room, he knew what O’Kelly would want from him. Breslin knew, too; that’s why they didn’t come to the gaffer with a version that had McCann in it, beg him to thin-blue-line it all away. Me and Steve were the only fools who didn’t get it.

‘And then she came out of the bedroom,’ McCann says. ‘Bright blue dress, beautiful; winter evening like that, nothing but grey and damp, and then this blue that’d light up your whole head . . . Her hair down, she knew I loved it like that. Putting an earring in one ear. I went to go to her, I . . .’ His hands come up, sketching the offer of an embrace.

‘Aislinn . . . she jumped a mile. Then she saw it was me. I expected her to laugh and kiss me, but the face on her; horrified. Like I was an intruder. That was when I started to cop: it wasn’t me she was waiting for. She put up her hands to stop me touching her, and she said, “You need to go.” ’