He lived in the barracks and slept in a small bed placed in an office off the day-room. It fell to him to do the last round of the village at night. The step was quick, faultless, unerring. He wrung the handle of every shop-door. Stood a second or two in the alleys off the pubs and listened acutely. Shone his torch into vehicles left overnight on the street. He read nightly to the sergeant’s children from the scriptures. Sat by their bedside during their fevers. Stoked the fires. Retired to his room to sit and read. Oil his revolver. Shine his buckles, his leather belt, his hat’s insignia. He did it without a soldier’s conviction, slowly, and then slept without dreaming. Drunks found porridge in their cell at first light. And morning found coals blazing in the blue-and-yellow tiled fireplace in the day-room. Jonathan Adams was already abroad on his bike, calling on people in remote areas to collect the unpaid licences for dogs, radios, bulls, guns, cars. He came only once to collect the fee. If it was not paid, then despite protests, the summons invariably arrived soon after, in that unyielding script the whole area recognized as stemming from the unforgiving, scholarly hand of Jonathan Adams.

And when he entered the court with his victims, no first names passed his lips. Every man was Mister, even his neighbours. Jonathan Adams brooked no familiarity till the case was over. Civilians to him were criminals once they had charges to answer.

“I’m afeared ye can’t address me now, Mr Pratt, if you please.”

“Right, Constable.”

In silence, like strangers, he and Pratt would sit on a bench outside the court, policeman and farmer, each eating from their own sandwich bag and drinking from identical blue bottles of milk. As they waited they studied the other offenders. The sheepstealers. The brawlers. The whispering doe-eyed Catholics who always lived in the vicinity of guilt. Avid with the assumption of contrition. Sly. The barristers. The brass nameplates of the famous above where they sat in the cold air of the outside chamber.

“Now,” breathed Jonathan Adams, as Pratt’s name was called. He dropped a hand on Pratt’s shoulder and led him in. He stood by the accused throughout the proceedings, grim, unsmiling. Out came the notebook. On the 22nd of June I had reason . . . The business of the court took place in a formal language which pleased the constable. Then, when it was over, Pratt and himself climbed on their bikes and cycled home, shoulder to shoulder, through the tree-lined roads of Fermanagh.