Not that it matters. The point, and they know this as well as I do, isn’t who exactly is pulling this shit – it’ll be a different guy every time. The point is that, whoever it is, there’s fuck-all I can do about it.

‘Hang on,’ Steve says, low. ‘Here’s something else.’

This time I remember to answer. ‘Yeah? What?’

‘I figured we should find out if Aislinn’s shown up on Organised Crime’s radar, right? So I checked if anyone else has run her through the system.’ I start to stand up, heading over to have a look at Steve’s monitor, but he shoots me a fast head-shake and a warning stare. ‘Stay put. And yeah, sure enough: seventeenth of September last year, someone ran a check on her.’

We look at each other.

I say, ‘There’s got to be a couple of dozen Aislinn Murrays out there. Minimum.’

‘Aislinn Gwendolyn Murrays? Born the sixth of March ’88?’

My mind is speeding. ‘I don’t want to bring Organised Crime in on this. Not yet. I’ve got a pal—’

Steve says, so quietly that even I barely hear it, ‘The login was “Murder”.’

We look at each other some more. I can feel the same expression on my face that’s on Steve’s: wary; trying to work out just how wary to be.

‘If it was Murder business,’ I say, ‘then whoever it was shouldn’t have a problem sharing.’

Steve’s face shuts down into a warning. He’s opening his mouth to tell me why this is a bad idea, and he’s right – the smart thing is to keep this to ourselves, go at it through back channels – but that missing statement page is still digging at me, and I’ve had it up to here with keeping my mouth shut and tiptoeing around my own squad. I swivel my chair around to face the room and snap my fingers over my head. ‘Hey! Over here.’ I make it good and loud: faces turn, conversations fall away. ‘Aislinn Gwendolyn Murray, DOB sixth of March ’88. Anyone remember running her through the computer last September?’

Blank looks. A couple of the guys shake their heads. The rest don’t even bother, just go back to whatever they were doing.

I swivel my chair back around to face Steve.

He says, ‘Maybe whoever ran the search isn’t on shift. Or . . .’ He does some noncommittal thing with his head.

‘Or maybe he wouldn’t give me the steam off his piss if I was dying of thirst. I know.’ I hate when Steve gets tactful. ‘Or else it was a personal one, on the QT.’

It happens, a lot. You don’t like the cut of the young fella your daughter brought home, or the couple who viewed your rental flat: you run them through the computer, see if anything pops up. We’ve all done it – my ma wasn’t happy about her new neighbour, who did turn out to be a smackhead but at least not a dealer, and he moved out a few weeks later anyway, believe me – and anyone who gets outraged over it needs to get out more, but the fact is it’s illegal. If someone’s cousin was thinking of hiring Aislinn, or if someone’s parents were thinking of asking the nice young lady next door to mind their spare key, all it would take is thirty seconds on the computer; just doing a harmless favour, no reason anyone should ever know. Now that she’s a murder victim, though, anyone who’s been running illegal checks on her is gonna get a bollocking from the gaffer and lose a couple of days’ holiday, minimum. No wonder no one’s jumping to put his hand up.