Annie had seen junkies of every variety over the years, from some she was positive were dead to others so clear-minded she couldn’t believe they were drug addicts, and she quickly guessed that Sinead Moffat was closer to the latter type. Not many people knew it, but a heroin addict who got her regular, quality-controlled doses of the drug could often function almost normally, hold down a job, raise a child and so on. It was the desperation of no fix, no money to feed the habit, the uncertain quality of the stuff and the aura of crime in squats, dirty needles and dingy flats where the addicts congregated that caused the problems. You just had to think of the opium addicts of the nineteenth century, like Coleridge and De Quincey, to see both the range of achievement and the depths of despair that were part and parcel of a junkie’s life. But now, according to Lenny Thornton, Sinead was on the methadone cure. Methadone suppressed opioid withdrawal symptoms, and because it was an opioid itself, it also blocked the effects of drugs such as heroin and morphine. It worked for some people, and many prisons had extensive methadone treatment programs.

Gerry took a chair by the door. Annie sat on the edge of the bed and took Sinead’s hand. Sinead didn’t resist but her hand felt dry and lifeless as a sheet of paper. “I’m very sorry,” Annie said. “Do you want to see the artist’s impression?”

Sinead sniffed and nodded. Annie showed it to her. Sinead traced her index finger over the image, then passed the drawing back to Annie and turned aside. “That’s Mimosa,” she said. “I’ve got a better likeness, if you can use it.” She opened the drawer of the bedside table, shuffled through a stack of photos and handed one to Annie. “Taken last year. She hasna changed that much.”

It was a close-up of a young girl with short blond hair parted on one side so that a long lock curved over her left eye, almost covering it. Her face was free of makeup, her complexion smooth and pale, and it was clear that she was destined to become a true beauty, if only she had lived. She had the ghost of a smile on her face, as if an amusing thought had just passed through her mind. Annie also thought it was the kind of face that men would find attractive.

“I took that,” Sinead added. “We went to Filey for the day. I was doing good on methadone and Mimsy . . . well, Mimsy was being the kind, attentive daughter.”

“It’s good,” said Annie. “May I borrow it? I promise I’ll let you have it back.”

“Please do,” said Sinead. “It’s the best one I’ve got.”

“How are you doing?” Annie asked.