"In a hurry?" Cassie inquired.

"My lawyer should be here within twenty minutes," Cathal said. "Let me save us all some time and hassle, though: I'll have nothing to say to you then either."

"Awww," Cassie said, perching on the desk with her backside on a pile of paperwork; Cathal eyeballed her, but decided not to rise to the bait. "We're wasting a whole twenty minutes of Cathal's valuable time, and all he ever did was gang-rape a teenage girl. Life is so unfair."

"Maddox," I said.

"I've never raped a girl in my life," Cathal said, with a nasty little smile. "Never needed to."

"See, that's what's interesting, Cathal," Cassie said confidentially. "You look to me like you used to be a pretty good-looking guy. So I can't help wondering-do you have some problems with your sexuality? A lot of rapists do, you know. That's why you need to rape women: you're desperately trying to prove to yourselves that you're actually real men, in spite of the little problem."

"Maddox-"

"If you know what's good for you," Cathal said, "you'll shut your mouth right now."

"What is it, Cathal? Can't get it up? In the closet? Underendowed?"

"Show me your ID," Cathal snapped. "I'm going to file a complaint about this. You'll be out on your arse before you know what hit you."

"Maddox," I said sharply, doing O'Kelly. "A word with you. Now."

"You know, Cathal," Cassie told him sympathetically, on her way out, "medical science can help with most of that stuff, these days." I grabbed her arm and shoved her through the door.

In the corridor I chewed her out, keeping my voice low but carrying: stupid bitch, have some respect, he's not even a suspect, yada yada yada. (The "not a suspect" part was actually true: along the way we had learned, to our disappointment, that Cathal had spent the first three weeks of August drumming up business in the United States and had some fairly impressive credit-card bills to prove it.) Cassie gave me a grin and an A-OK sign.

"I'm really sorry about that, Mr. Mills," I said, going back into the boardroom.

"I don't envy you your job, mate," Cathal said. He was furious, red spots high on his cheekbones, and I wondered if Cassie had actually hit the mark, somewhere in there; if Sandra had told her some little detail she hadn't shared.

"Tell me about it," I said, sitting down opposite him and running a weary hand over my face. "She's a token, obviously. I wouldn't even bother filing a complaint; the brass are scared to reprimand her in case she runs to the Equality Commission. The lads and I will sort her out, though, believe me. Just give us time."

"You know what that bitch needs, don't you?" Cathal said.

"Hey, we all know what she needs," I said, "but would you want to get close enough to give it to her?"

We shared a manly little snigger. "Listen," I said, "I should tell you there's not a chance of us arresting anyone for this alleged rape. Even if the story's true, the statute of limitations ran out years ago. I'm working a murder case; I don't give a fuck about this other thing."

Cathal pulled a packet of tooth-whitening gum out of his pocket, tossed a piece into his mouth and jerked the pack at me. I hate gum, but I took a piece anyway. He was calming down, the high color fading. "You looking into what happened to the Devlin kid?"

"Yeah," I said. "You know her father, right? Did you ever meet Katy?"

"Nah. I knew Jonathan when we were kids, but we don't stay in touch. His wife's a nightmare. It's like trying to make conversation with wallpaper."

"I've met her," I said, with a wry grin.

"So what's all this about a rape?" Cathal asked. He was cracking easily at his gum, but his eyes were wary, animal.

"Basically," I said, "we're checking out anything in the Devlins' lives that smells funny. And we hear you and Jonathan Devlin and Shane Waters did something dodgy to a girl in the summer of '84. What's the real story?" I would have liked to spend a few more minutes on the male bonding, but we didn't have time. Once his lawyer got there, my chance would be over.

"Shane Waters," Cathal said. "Now there's a name I haven't heard in a while."

"You don't have to say anything till your lawyer gets here," I said, "but you're not a suspect in this murder. I know you weren't in the country that week. I just want all the information I can get about the Devlins."

"You think Jonathan knocked off his own kid?" Cathal looked amused.

"You tell me," I said. "You know him better than I do."

Cathal leaned his head back and laughed. It eased his shoulders and took twenty years off him, and for the first time he looked familiar to me: the cruel, handsome cut of his lips, the tricky glitter in his eyes. "Listen, mate," he said, "let me tell you something about Devlin. The man's a fucking pussy. He probably still acts the hard man, but don't let that fool you: he's never taken a risk in his life without me there to give him a shove. That's why he's where he is today, and I'm"-he tilted his chin at the boardroom-"I'm here."

"So this rape wasn't his idea."

He shook his head and wagged a finger at me, grinning: Nice try. "Who told you there was a rape?"

"Come on, man," I said, grinning back, "you know I can't tell you that. Witnesses."

Cathal cracked his gum slowly and stared at me. "OK," he said finally. The traces of the smile were still hanging at the corners of his mouth. "Let's put it this way. There was no rape, but if-let's just say-there had been, Jonner would never in a million years have had the balls to think of it. And, if it had ever happened, he would've spent the next few weeks so scared he was practically shitting his pants, convinced that someone had seen it and was going to go to the cops, babbling on about how we were all going to jail, wanting to turn himself in… The guy doesn't have the nerve to kill a kitten, never mind a kid."

"And you?" I said. "You wouldn't have been worried that these witnesses would rat you out?"

"Me?" The grin broadened again. "Not a chance, mate. If, hypothetically, any of this had ever happened, I would've been fucking delighted with myself, because I would have known I was going to get away with it."

"I vote we arrest him," I said, that evening in Cassie's. Sam was in Ballsbridge, at a champagne-reception-cum-dance for his cousin's twenty-first, so it was just the two of us, sitting on the sofa drinking wine and deciding how to go after Jonathan Devlin.

"For what?" Cassie demanded, reasonably. "We can't get him on the rape. We might just possibly maybe have enough to pull him in for questioning on Peter and Jamie, except we don't have a witness who can put them at the rape scene, so we can't show a motive. Sandra didn't see you guys, and if you come forward, it'll compromise your involvement in this whole case, besides which O'Kelly will cut off your bollocks and use them for Christmas decorations. And we don't have a single thing linking Jonathan to Katy's death-just some stomach trouble that might or might not have been abuse and might or might not have been him. All we can do is ask him to come in and talk to us."

"I'd just like to get him out of that house," I said slowly. "I'm worried about Rosalind." It was the first time I had put this unease into words. It had been building in me, gradually and only half-acknowledged, ever since that first hurried phone call she had made, but over the past two days it had risen to a pitch I couldn't ignore.

"Rosalind? Why?"

"You said our guy won't kill unless he feels threatened. That fits with everything we've heard. According to Cathal, Jonathan was petrified that we'd tell someone about the rape; so he goes after us. Katy decided to stop getting sick, maybe threatened to tell, so he kills her. If he finds out Rosalind's been talking to me…"