“What the hell?” I said, after a moment. “I’m gonna go see that shrink after all and tell him I’m living with total loopers.”

“Don’t you start,” Justin said. “Just don’t.” His voice was shaking.

Abby put the cards down, stood up, pushed her chair in carefully and left the room. Daniel didn’t move. I heard Justin knock something over and swear viciously under his breath, but I didn’t look up.

Breakfast was quiet, the next morning, and not in a good way. Justin was pointedly not speaking to me. Abby moved around the kitchen with a tiny worried furrow between her eyebrows, till we finished washing up and she prised Rafe out of his room and the three of them left for college.

Daniel sat at the table and gazed out of the window, wrapped in some private haze, while I dried the dishes and put them away. Finally he stirred, caught a deep breath: “Right,” he said, blinking bemusedly at the cigarette burned away between his fingers. “We’d better get moving.”

He didn’t say a word on the drive to the hospital, either. “Thanks,” I said, as I got out of the car.

“Of course,” he said absently. “Do ring me if there’s anything wrong, not that I think there will be, or if you change your mind about having someone with you.” He waved, over his shoulder, as he drove away.

When I was sure he was gone, I got a Styrofoam cup of approximate coffee from the hospital café and leaned against the wall outside to wait for Sam. I saw him, pulling into a parking space and getting out of his car to scan the car park, before he saw me. For a fraction of a second I didn’t recognize him. He looked tired and pudgy and old, ridiculously old, and for that instant all I could think was: Who is this guy? Then he saw me and smiled and my mind snapped back into focus, and he looked like himself again. I told myself Sam always puts on a couple of pounds during a big case-junk food on the run-and I had been spending all my time with twenty-somethings, a thirty-five-year-old was naturally going to look geriatric. I tossed my cup in the bin and headed over.

“Ah, God,” Sam said, wrapping me in a massive hug, “it’s good to see you.” His kiss was warm and strong and unfamiliar; even the smell of him, soap and fresh-ironed cotton, seemed strange. It took a second before I figured out what this felt like: that first evening in Whitethorn House, when I was supposed to know everything around me inside out.

“Hi,” I said, smiling up at him.

He pulled my head against his shoulder. “God,” he said, on a sigh. “Let’s forget all about this bloody case and run away for the day, will we?”

“Business,” I reminded him. “Remember? You’re the one who wouldn’t let me wear the white lace undies.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” He ran his hands down my arms. “You look great, do you know that? All relaxed and wide awake, and not half as thin. It’s doing you good, this case.”

“Country air,” I said. “Plus Justin always cooks for about twelve. What’s the plan?”

Sam sighed again and let go of my hands, leaned back against the car. “My three lads are coming into Rathowen station, half an hour apart. I figure that’s plenty of time; for now, all I want to do is feel them out, not put their backs up. There’s no observation room, but from reception you can hear everything that goes on in the interview room. You can just wait in back while I bring them in, then slip out to reception and have a listen.”

“I’d like a look, too,” I said. “Why don’t I just hang out in reception? It might do no harm to let them see me, accidentally on purpose. If one of them’s our guy-for the murder, or even just the vandalism-then he’s going to have a pretty strong reaction to me.”

Sam shook his head. “That’s what I’m worried about, sure. Remember the other night, when we were on the phone? You thought you heard someone? If my boy’s been following you around, and then he thinks you’re talking to us… We already know he’s got a temper.”

“Sam,” I said gently, linking my fingers through his, “that’s what I’m there for. To get us closer to our guy. If you don’t let me do that, I’m just a lazy wagon getting paid to eat good food and read pulp fiction.”

After a moment Sam laughed, a small reluctant breath. “Right,” he said. “Fair enough. Have a look at the lads when I bring them out.”

He squeezed my fingers, gently, and let go. “Before I forget”-he fished inside his coat-“Mackey sent you these.” It was a bottle of tablets like the one I’d brought to Whitethorn House, with the same pharmacist’s label announcing loudly that they were amoxicillin. “He said to tell you your wound isn’t all the way healed yet and the doctor’s worried you could still get an infection, so you’ve to take another course of these.”

"At least I’m getting my vitamin C,” I said, pocketing the bottle. It felt too heavy, dragging at the side of my jacket. The doctor’s worried… Frank was starting to think about my exit.

Rathowen station was craptacular. I’d seen plenty like it, dotted around back corners of the country: small stations caught in a vicious circle, getting dissed by the people who hand out funds and by the people who hand out posts and by anyone who can get any other assignment in the universe. Reception was one cracked chair, a poster about bike helmets and a hatch to let Byrne stare vacantly out the door, rhythmically chewing gum. The interview room was apparently also the storeroom: it had a table, two chairs, a filing cabinet-no lock-a help-yourself pile of statement sheets and, for no reason I could figure out, a battered eighties riot shield in one corner. There was yellowing linoleum on the floor and a smashed fly on one wall. No wonder Byrne looked the way he did.

I stayed out of sight behind the desk, with Byrne, while Sam tried to kick the interview room into some kind of shape. Byrne stashed his gum in his cheek and gave me a long depressed stare. “It’ll never work,” he informed me.

I wasn’t sure where to go with this, but apparently it was no reply required; Byrne retrieved his gum and went back to gazing out the hatch. “There’s Bannon now,” he said. “The ugly great lump.”

Sam has a lovely light touch with interviews, when he wants to, and he wanted to that day. He kept it easy, casual, nonthreatening. Would you have any ideas, any at all, about who might have stabbed Miss Madison? What are they like, those five up at Whitethorn House? Have you seen anyone you didn’t recognize, hanging around Glenskehy? The impression he gave, subtly but clearly, was that the investigation was starting to wind down.

Bannon mainly answered in irritable grunts; McArdle was less Neanderthal and more bored. Both of them claimed to have no clue about anything, ever. I only half listened. If there was anything there, Sam would spot it; all I wanted was a look at John Naylor, and at the expression on his face when he saw me. I arranged myself in the cracked chair with my legs stretched out, trying to look like I’d been dragged in for more pointless questions, and waited.

Bannon was in fact an ugly great lump: a serious beer belly surrounded by muscles and topped off with a potato head. When Sam ushered him out of the interview room and he saw me, he did a double take and shot me a vicious, disgusted sneer; he knew who Lexie Madison was, all right, and he didn’t like her. McArdle, on the other hand-he was a long skinny streak of a guy, with a straggly attempt at a beard-gave me a vague nod and shambled off. I got back behind the desk and waited for Naylor.

His interview was a lot like the others: seen nothing, heard nothing, know nothing. He had a nice voice, a quick baritone with the Glenskehy accent I was starting to know-harsher than most of Wicklow, wilder-and an edge of tension. Then Sam wound it up and opened the interview-room door.