“Yeah? What would that be?”

“OK.” Stephen took a deep breath: he had rehearsed this, ready to impress me. “So far, we’ve none of us paid any attention to the fact that Rose Daly’s body was concealed, yeah? We’ve thought about the implications of where it was concealed, but not the fact that it was concealed to start with. And I think that should’ve told us something. Everyone’s agreed that this looks like an unplanned crime, right? Our fella just snapped?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“So his head must’ve been well wrecked once he saw what he’d done. Me, I’d have legged it out of that house as fast as I could go. Instead, our guy got up the willpower to stay put, find a hiding place, stash a heavy body under a heavy concrete slab… That took time and effort, loads of it. He needed that body hidden. Like, badly. Why? Why not just leave her for someone to find in the morning?”

He’d make a profiler yet. I said, “You tell me.”

Stephen was leaning forward across the table, eyes fixed on mine, all wrapped up in the story. “Because he knew someone out there could link him either to Rose or to the house. Has to be. If her body had been found the next day, someone out there would’ve said, ‘Hang on, I saw So-and-so going into Number Sixteen last night,’ or ‘I think So-and-so was planning on meeting Rose Daly.’ He couldn’t afford to let her be found.”

“Sounds about right to me.”

“So all we need to do is find that link. We’re discounting Imelda’s story, but someone out there has another story a lot like that one, only true. Probably they’ve forgotten all about it, since they never realized it was important, but if we can just jog their memory… I’d start by talking to the people who were closest to Rose-her sister, her best friends-and the people who used to live on the even-numbered side of Faithful Place. Your statement says you heard someone going through those gardens; he could have been seen out a back window.”

A few more days working along these lines and he was going to get somewhere. He looked so hopeful, I hated to smack the poor little bastard down-it was like kicking a half-grown retriever who had brought me his best chew toy-but it needed doing. I said, “Good thinking, Detective. That all hangs together very nicely. Now leave it.”

Blank stare. “What…? What d’you mean, like?”

“Stephen. Why do you think I texted you today? I knew you wouldn’t have the phone records for me, I already knew about Imelda Tierney, I was pretty sure you would’ve been in touch if something momentous had happened. Why did you think I wanted to meet up?”

“I just figured… updates.”

“You could call it that. Here’s the update: from now on, we’re leaving this case to its own devices. I’m back on my holidays, and you’re back on typist duty. Enjoy.”

Stephen’s coffee cup went down with a flat bang. “What? Why?”

“Did your mother ever tell you, ‘Because I said so’?”

“You’re not my mother. What the hell-” Then he stopped in mid-sentence as the lightbulb went on. “You’ve found out something,” he said, “haven’t you? Last time, when you legged it out of here: something had hit you. You chased it for a couple of days, and now-”

I shook my head. “Another cute theory, but no. I’d have loved this case to solve itself in a blinding flash of inspiration, but I hate to break it to you: they just don’t do that as often as you’d think.”

“-and now that you’ve got it, you’re keeping it to yourself. Bye-bye, Stephen, thanks for playing, now get back in your box. I suppose I should be flattered that you’re worried about me catching up, should I?”

I sighed, leaned back in my chair and kneaded at the back of my neck. “Kid. If you don’t mind hearing one little piece of advice from someone who’s been doing this job a lot longer than you have, let me share this secret with you: with almost no exceptions, the simplest explanation is the right one. There’s no cover-up, there’s no big conspiracy, and the government has not planted a chip behind your ear. The only thing I found out, over the last couple of days, is that it’s time for you and me to let this case go.”

Stephen was staring at me like I had grown an extra head. “Hang on a minute here. What happened to us having a responsibility to the victims? What happened to ‘It’s just you and me, we’re all they’ve got’?”

I said, “It got pointless, kid. That’s what happened. Scorcher Kennedy’s right: he’s got a beauty of a case. If I were the DPP, I’d give him the go-ahead in a heartbeat. There’s no way in hell he’s going to ditch his whole theory and start from scratch even if the Angel Gabriel comes down from heaven to tell him he’s got it wrong, never mind because something a little funny shows up on Kevin’s phone records or because you and I think Imelda’s story smells icky. It doesn’t matter what happens between now and Tuesday: this case is over.”

“And you’re OK with that?”

“No, sunshine, I’m not. I’m not one little bit OK with it. But I’m a grown-up. If I’m going to throw myself in front of a bullet, it’s going to be for something where that might possibly make a difference. I don’t do lost causes, no matter how romantic, because they’re a waste. Just like it would be a waste for you to get reverted to uniform and booted to a backwoods desk job for the rest of your career because you got caught leaking useless info to me.”

The kid had a redhead’s temper: one fist was clenched on the table, and he looked like he was just about ready to plant it in my face. “That’s my decision. I’m a big boy; I’m well able to look after myself.”

I laughed. “Don’t fool yourself: I’m not trying to protect you. I would happily get you to keep putting your career on the line through 2012, never mind through next Tuesday, if I thought for one second it would do any good. But it wouldn’t.”

“You wanted me to get involved here, you practically shoved me into it, and now I’m involved and I’m staying that way. You don’t get to keep changing your mind every few days: Fetch the stick, Stephen, drop the stick, Stephen, fetch the stick, Stephen… I’m not your bitch, any more than I’m Detective Kennedy’s.”

“Actually,” I said, “you are. I’m going to be keeping an eye on you, Stevie my friend, and if I get just one hint that you’re still poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, I’m going to take that post-mortem report and that fingerprint report to Detective Kennedy and tell him where I got them. Then you’ll be in his bad books, you’ll be in my bad books, and more than likely you’ll be at that desk in the arsehole of nowhere. So I’m telling you one more time: back off. Do you get that?”

Stephen was too stunned and too young to keep his face under control; he was staring at me with a naked, blazing mix of fury, amazement and disgust. This was exactly what I was aiming for-the snottier he got with me, the further he would be from the various forms of nasty that were coming up-but somehow it still stung. “Man,” he said, shaking his head, “I don’t get you. I really don’t.”

I said, “Ain’t that the truth,” and started fishing for my wallet.

“And I don’t need you buying me coffee. I can pay my own way.”

If I kicked him in the ego too hard, he might keep chasing the case just to prove to himself that he still had a pair. “Your choice,” I said. “And, Stephen?” He kept his head down, rummaging in his pockets. “Detective. I’m going to need you to look at me.” I waited till he cracked and reluctantly met my eyes before I said, “You’ve done some excellent work here. I know this isn’t how either of us wanted it to end, but all I can tell you is that I’m not going to forget it. When there’s something I can do for you-and there will be-I’m going to be all over it.”

“Like I said. I can pay my own way.”

“I know you can, but I like paying my debts too, and I owe you. It’s been a pleasure working with you, Detective. I look forward to doing it again.”