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‘Thought you said he was in Knockraw. That wasn’t a laundry.’

‘Do your work, Sergeant. I’m not doing it for you. You can find the link. I think Imelda found it. And now she is missing. Probably in hiding, fearing for her life. And if she turns up dead, I will personally broadcast your incompetence to the world.’

As if. He thought of Wilson’s local radio station with its few thousand listeners. Then again, the man was a pompous ass. People might listen to him. More fool them. But he didn’t like that Wilson seemed to possess inside information about the investigation. That was something to worry about.

‘When did Ms Conroy meet with you?’

‘Oh, must be two months ago now. She was researching the subject matter at the time.’

‘And why did she contact you?’

‘Initially she was sourcing funding for her documentary. The nationals had told her they’d done all they could about the laundries. She was on her own.’

‘And did you?’

‘Did I what?’

‘Fund her?’

‘Not then. But I told her that if she ran the demos by me and if I thought they contained anything new, then yes, I would procure the necessary funding to get her radio series broadcast.’

‘Did you get to hear the tapes?’

For the first time, Wilson appeared uneasy. He stopped fidgeting with his cravat and ran his hand through his glistening hair. His eyes seemed to dart this way and that, as if searching for someone hidden in the room.

‘No. I hate to admit it and it’s much to my regret. But I think whoever your murderer is has the content. Or has destroyed it.’

‘Why would you think that?’

‘Why else did he go to kill Imelda in that cottage?’

‘You think Imelda was the intended target?’

‘Of course she was.’

‘And was she there that night?’

‘How would I know?’

‘You appear to know everything else about Ms Conroy. I think it’s time you made a formal statement.’

‘Why on earth would I have to do that?’

‘Because you are one of the last people I now know of who met with Imelda Conroy.’ He didn’t know if that was actually true, but neither did Wilson. He tried hard to hide his inner dance of glee as Wilson went into meltdown mode.

‘I want to speak with the superintendent to make a formal complaint about you.’

‘I’m afraid the super tasked me with talking to you. Come along now. I’ll try to find a nice cool interview room. Councillor.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘That is your prerogative. But as I said earlier, if I believe you have information pertinent to my investigation, I can arrest you. I don’t think that would do your run for the Dáil any favours. Do you?’

He knew Wilson might not consent to an interview, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to witness him squirm.

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RAGMULLIN