The gang boys don’t bother with the likes of me and Steve, working-class singles on the way up; unless there’s a gambling problem or a coke habit, we don’t come with enough leverage. But Breslin has a high-maintenance blonde wife and three bucktoothed blond boys, like something out of an ad, and a house in a snazzy part of Templeogue. That’s a lot of needs tugging at his sleeves, and a lot to lose if he were to change his mind down the line. Once he was in, even one toe, he wouldn’t be getting out.

Breslin and McCann pull a lot of the big gang murders; they spend a lot of their time talking to seriously hard-core guys. It would be a miracle if, somewhere along the way, someone hadn’t made Breslin an offer.

That same flex to the air that I felt in the squad room, straight lines buckling at the edges of my eyes. My heart is going hard.

I say, ‘Yeah. He is.’

‘Exactly the type. And a Murder D would be worth top dollar to a gang boss.’

Breslin wears good suits, but we all do. He drives a 2014 BMW and he bangs on about how his kids go to private school because he’s not having them surrounded by skangers and immigrants who can barely speak English – and that’s just the skangers, ha ha ha, no offence, Conway, Moran – but I always figured Daddy and Mummy were bankrolling him. He takes his family to the Maldives for holidays, but if I’d cared enough to think about it, I would’ve assumed he’d squared a few penalty points for his bank manager in exchange for a sky-high credit-card limit and no pressure to pay it off.

Me and Steve have been wanting an interesting case. This could be a lot more interesting than we bargained for.

Steve says, ‘And if he’s the one who fed Crowley his info, that would explain why.’

Enough mud in the water can take you a long way towards reasonable doubt. The air twitches, in the corners.

And I can’t keep the grin off my face.

If Steve’s right, then there’s some high-level danger headed our way, from a bunch of directions at once. Gangs don’t kill cops, it would draw too much hassle, but they don’t have a problem firebombing your car to tell you to back off. And that’s small-time, compared to what the lads will do if we dob Breslin in to Internal Affairs.

I can’t wait for them all to bring it on. Danger doesn’t bother me; I’ll eat danger with a spoon. Breslin the puffed-up little tosspot, trying to twist me like a balloon animal, he made me feel like I was in a straitjacket and writhing to punch him. But Breslin the bent cop: he’s a dare, a bad poison dare that no one with sense should take, and I’ve always had a thing for dares.

Steve’s eyeing me like I’ve lost it. ‘What? What’s funny?’