He says, ‘But Breslin was worried. He said his mate hadn’t checked to see was the girl breathing. Too shaken up, too afraid of being snared; he’d just legged it out of there and rung Breslin. They had no way of knowing how long she’d been lying there. If she was dead, then his mate was fucked. He’d be dragged in, dragged through the muck, lose everything. All because he’d stuck his mickey in the wrong hole.’

The prickle of alert lifts Steve’s head at the same moment as mine. Breslin told us McCann checked and Aislinn was dead, meaning he would have done no good by calling it in, so he wasn’t a bad guy for leaving her bleeding on the floor. Both versions are bullshit anyway, but I’d love to know why he served O’Kelly a different flavour from us.

O’Kelly either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t want to. ‘I said, “You want something. What is it?” Breslin said, “If she’s dead, I need to be on the case. I’m not asking to be in charge. I just want to be around, so I can see what’s going on, make sure my mate doesn’t get dragged in if there’s no need. If it’s all cut and dried, there’s no reason to ruin his life. If he’s needed, I’ll make sure he comes forward. I swear.” He said, “I’ve got thirteen years of credit, gaffer. I’m calling it in now.” ’

The corner of O’Kelly’s mouth twists as he remembers. ‘Breslin’s not the genius he thinks he is, but he’s a good man. He’s never let me down. Never asked me for a favour bigger than a plum slot for his holidays. If he wanted to cash in his chips on this one . . .’ His shoulders lift, fall again heavily. ‘In the end I said all right. I told him to watch himself, and watch his mate: I was going to be all over this one, and if I got any hints that anything was off, then he was gone and his pal was coming in for the chats. He said no problem. No problem at all. He told me how much he appreciated it, and how much he owed me, and a bit more arse-licking that I didn’t take much notice of. And then he went off to call it in.’

Another story. None of the rest were true straight through, not one. Victims, witnesses, killers, Ds, all frantically spinning stories to keep the world the way they want it, dragging them over our heads, stuffing them down our throats; and now our gaffer.

I say – I haven’t talked in so long that my voice comes out rough and patchy, dried out by the heating – ‘You knew who the mate was.’