Lucy opens her mouth to say something else, but she can’t make it work. Tears fall onto her combats and spread into dark stains.

The decent thing to do is leave, give her privacy while the first wave of grief smashes her down and pounds her black and blue. Neither of us moves. She holds out for almost a minute before she starts sobbing.

We give her tissues and refill her water glass, ask if she’s got someone who could come stay with her, nod sympathetically and stay put when she manages to say she just wants to be by herself. When she can talk again, we get her to make us a list of Aislinn’s exes – all three of them, including a two-week summer fling called Jorge when she was seventeen; the girl was a real player – and of everyone she remembers being at the book launch. We ask – just a formality, ticking the boxes, have to ask everyone – where Lucy was yesterday evening. She was at the Torch: arrived at the theatre at half-six, did various stuff within sight of other people till the show came down just after ten, went for a few in the pub, then came home around one in the morning with the lighting operator and two of the cast, who hung out doing the obvious until around four. We – meaning the floaters – will check her story, but we won’t find holes in it.

I’m about to bring up the formal ID when Steve says, ‘Here are our cards,’ and shoots a glance at me. I find a card and shut up. ‘Whenever you feel like you’re ready to make your official statement, you give one of us a ring.’

Lucy takes the cards without knowing they’re there. I say, ‘Meanwhile, please don’t talk to any journalists. Seriously. Even if you don’t think you’re saying anything important, it could do real damage to the investigation. OK?’ Creepy Crowley is still nagging at the back of my mind. If someone’s siccing him on me, it’s someone who’s gonna have access to Lucy’s details.

Lucy nods, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand – she used up the tissues a while back. It makes no difference; the tears are still coming.

She says – her voice has gone thick from crying – ‘Whoever did this . . . it’s like he killed a little kid: someone who never even had a chance to get her life started. He took away her whole entire life. Could you remember that? When you’re investigating?’

I say, ‘Don’t worry. We’re going to do everything we can to put this guy away.’

Lucy gives up and leaves the tears to drip off her chin. She looks like shite, eyes puffed half-shut, a smear of purple paint down one cheek. ‘Yeah, I know. Just . . . Could you just keep that in mind?’

‘OK,’ I say. ‘We’ll do that. In exchange, though, I want you to keep thinking about whether there’s anything else you can tell us. Anything at all. Yeah?’