The little prick thinks he knows exactly what’s going on here, and he’s gonna wring every last drop out of it. ‘Well,’ he says, on a sigh, loving this. ‘I suppose . . . I’m in Grogan’s. I’ll be here for another half-hour. If you get here before I leave, I can give you a few minutes.’

‘Great,’ I say, letting the rush of gratitude slip through. ‘I— Great. I’ll be there.’ And I hang up.

‘Was that Crowley?’ Steve asks. His eyebrows are up.

‘I need to shut him down, remember? And I’ve got an idea.’ I shove the phone in my pocket, stand up and tug the creases out of my suit. ‘Come with me? I could do with backup.’

All of a sudden there’s a twitch tugging at the corner of Steve’s mouth. He says, ‘Would this idea count as a glitch in the Plan?’

‘I fucking well hope so. You coming or not?’

Steve shoves back his chair and stands up, grinning. ‘Wouldn’t miss it.’

No one is in the corridors; when we get our coats, no one’s in the locker room. The familiar run of sound comes through the squad-room door, keyboards, phone calls, bitching, the printer; in the middle of it all is that smooth power-voice of Breslin’s, raised in some punchline that gets a big laugh. Up in Incident Room C, the floaters are working away, busy little bees piling up paper that’ll go straight down to the basement. Even reception is empty; Bernadette’s on break or in the jacks. We walk out of the Murder building and no one even knows we’re gone.

Crowley’s on his own at a corner table in Grogan’s, sipping a pint of Smithwick’s and reading a bet-up paperback with SARTRE on the cover in massive letters, so everyone will get that he’s on a higher plane. He pretends he doesn’t notice us till we’re practically on top of his table. ‘Crowley,’ I say.

He does a bad fake startle and puts the book down. Steve is a surprise, but Crowley covers OK: ‘Ah,’ he says, holding out his hand and giving Steve a gracious smile, ignoring me, to put me in my place. ‘Detective Moran.’

‘Howya,’ Steve says, without taking Crowley up on the handshake. He thumps down on a stool, long legs sprawled everywhere, pulls out his phone and gives it his full attention.

I can see Crowley trying to figure this out. I sit down opposite him, prop my elbows on the table and my chin on my fingers, and smile at him. ‘Howya.’

‘Yes,’ he says, with a nice mix of distaste and wariness; he’s not getting the feed of desperation I promised him. ‘Hello.’

‘Nice articles you’ve been running. I’ve never been on the front page before. I feel like Kim Kardashian.’

‘Hardly,’ Crowley says, eyeballing me. ‘You liked the photo?’