Breslin says, in a voice meant to tell me his patience isn’t going to last forever, ‘He didn’t make anything of it, Conway. To the extent that he even thought about it, what with his girlfriend’s body lying there on the floor in front of him, he took it for granted the dinner was meant for him, just in case he decided to turn up, which he sometimes did. He thought someone had gained entry to the house, maybe a perv, more likely a junkie – let’s be honest, it’s not the nicest area, is it? – and Aislinn had come off worst. Later, it occurred to him that Aislinn might have been seeing someone on the side and it could have gone wrong; but at the time, that didn’t even come into his head. As Moran just pointed out, he was in shock.’

Steve asks, ‘Was Aislinn alive?’

Breslin shakes his head. ‘Mac checked her pulse and her breathing straightaway – so yeah, he probably did get blood on his gloves, and he may even have got rid of them because of that. She was gone.’

Minutes or hours, Cooper said; probably progressed rapidly. It all plays, so far. It’s bollix, but a jury might go for it.

I say, ‘So he rang it straight in and got a team of Ds on the scene.’

He stares at me, those pale pop-eyes frozen too hard to blink. ‘Don’t be cute, Conway. Just don’t. This isn’t the moment. Maybe you genuinely believe that’s what you would have done in his place, but it’s bullshit. If Mac had called it in, he would have been at the centre of a murder investigation, meaning he would have been working a desk till this was sorted, however long that took. If the case didn’t get cleared, he would have been finished as a Murder D: there’s no way you can be an effective investigator when you’re under suspicion yourself. He would have lost his wife and kids. Quite possibly he would have ended up going on trial; there was a chance he could’ve ended up going to prison. For life. And for what? He hadn’t done anything; he didn’t have any info that could help the investigation. He would have been throwing himself on his sword, personally and professionally, for nothing. If you genuinely think you’re that much of a saint, I’m delighted for you. But I’m not convinced.’

The thing I’m not about to tell Breslin: I don’t have a clue what I would have done. I can picture it, clear as nightmare: standing there in the middle of someone else’s bloody wreckage, feeling it silt up fast and faster around my ankles, my calves, my knees, and thinking No.

I stare right back at him. ‘What I would do doesn’t matter. What did McCann do?’