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one cubicle and a washbasin. You accepted the account of sixteen men who said they were all in there at the same time.’
    ‘You know where that bar is?’ Thompson asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Then you know what kind of street it’s on, the kind of area it’s in. I could walk up and down that street bare-bollock naked with my arse painted red and my hair on fire, and no one would see a bloody thing.’ Thompson smiled at his own imagery. ‘What, you think those witnesses would’ve suddenly remembered who put that poor bastard in intensive care if I’d just asked them a bit nicer?’
    ‘No, but I’ve questioned as many uncooperative witnesses as you have. There are ways and means, pressures to apply. I’d like to be sure you explored every possible avenue.’
    Thompson’s smile dropped away, his eyes darkened. ‘Just who the fuck do you think you are?’
    Flanagan opened her mouth to speak, but he slapped the table, rattling cups and cutlery. Ballantine flinched.
    ‘Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?’ Thompson said. ‘Accusing me.’
    ‘I’m not accusing you of any—’
    He stood, his chair sliding into the wall with a clatter. People all around looked up from their sandwiches and drinks.
    ‘Thirty years,’ he said, his voice rising, his finger wagging at her. ‘Thirty fucking years I gave this bloody service. Now they’re done with me, they’re going to throw me away like a shitty rag. And now, here’s you.’
    Flanagan placed her hands flat on the table, adopted as soothing a tone as she could manage. ‘Please, why don’t you just sit down and we can—’
    ‘Who are you? Tell me that. Who the fuck are you to come here and accuse me of not doing my job?’ His hands shook. His eyes red and watery. ‘I think of everything I gave up for this. All the abuse I got on the streets. All those mornings I crawled on my hands and knees in the frost and the rain, looking under my car to see if some bastard had put a bomb there. What for? You tell me, what for?’
    Flanagan glanced around the room. Saw the other police officers look away. Ballantine stared at her notebook, her pen’s nib frozen half an inch from the paper.
    ‘Eighteen years, you said. If eighteen years isn’t enough to suck the will out of you, try thirty. See how you feel then. Tell me if you think it was worth it once your whole bloody life’s been wasted.’
    Thompson stood by the table, breathing hard, his hands opening and closing. Flanagan held his hateful stare, refused to look away. She watched his anger burn out, leaving a shell of a man in front of her.
    ‘Christ,’ he said, his gaze flicking around the silent room, the florid colour washing away from his sagging cheeks. ‘Jesus Christ.’
    He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, his palm across his mouth.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, the words choking in his throat. He walked away.
    Flanagan closed the file and put her notebook back in her bag as murmurs rippled around the canteen. Ballantine stowed away her notebook and pen, got to her feet.
    ‘Where are you going?’ Flanagan asked. ‘I haven’t finished my coffee.’
    She lifted her cup, took a sip. She would not leave until the last drop was gone, no matter how hard they stared.

6
    THE PHOTOGRAPHERS HAVE left. No one pays any attention as Ciaran and Paula use the pedestrian crossing. She presses the button at the first section, the word WAIT lighting up until the shrill beep-beep-beeping and the green man tells them to go. At the second set, she keeps her hands by her sides.
    After a while, she says, ‘You’d better do the needful or we’ll be here all day.’
    For a moment, Ciaran wonders what she means, but then he understands. He reaches across and puts his finger on the white plastic button. He feels the gouges in the otherwise smooth plastic, and something gritty and sticky. He wipes the tip of his finger on his jeans.
    They cross the final section and walk around the building. Through the