Although it was still a few weeks to Christmas, many of the shops along High Street and Thomas Street were already displaying their festive offerings. Dempsey’s, the butcher’s on High Street, had fine hams in their window adorned with sprigs of green holly. Naughton’s, the grocer’s, displayed bowls of raisins and sultanas along with a shining pyramid of fat, bright oranges. Donnelly’s, the fishmonger’s on Thomas Street, displayed a notice offering smoked cod and salted herrings up to Christmas Eve. For many, they would be an affordable alternative to goose or beef for Christmas dinner.

The night was quiet at Grant’s. Tom, the head barman, had the evening off. Two young curates served a few customers in the public area and even fewer in the select bar. Maria, as ever, moved gracefully between the two sectors, greeting customers, watching the service, directing the curates with sharp eyes so that empty glasses were taken in, dirty tabletops were polished and ashtrays were promptly emptied, cleaned and replaced.

The Monday night trade was slow. Swallow went upstairs first to the private quarters. He unstrapped the shoulder-holster with the heavy Webley Bulldog and placed the weapon in the bedside locker. He washed, changed to a fresh collar and shirt and went downstairs.

Maria saw him take up his stance beside but not behind the bar. He would not serve or tend. If that were to be reported to the Castle authorities, there was no plausible explanation he could offer for engaging in a ‘prohibited occupation’.

Rather, he would simply be a presence, as Maria’s other half, as the man of the house. She felt more secure with him there, visible, strong, commanding. The clientele knew him for a bobby. Not just a bobby but a G-man. Not just a G-man but a detective inspector. A man of rank, of substance. It was good, in a city where murder walked the streets, where the winter darkness closed in earlier each day, to know that a man like Joe Swallow was at hand. M & M Grant’s was an oasis of warmth and safety for its patrons in a perilous time.

Swallow and Maria retired early to the parlour above the bar to sit by the turf fire, leaving the bar to the curates below. Swallow had two Tullamores and Maria drank some hot chocolate that Carrie had prepared and left in the kitchen. Later they heard the last of the departing customers and the downstairs noises of the curates washing up and locking the doors. When all was silent they went to the big bedroom on the top floor with its sash windows facing St Catherine’s Church across the street.