‘This won’t be difficult and it won’t take too long,’ Swallow told him. ‘I’ve a warrant to take this fellow Werner into custody on suspicion of Alice Flannery’s murder. He’ll be no great problem. He’s not expecting us, and he’ll protest that he’s busy running his restaurant. We may need to persuade him that he hasn’t any choice about coming back here with us. And I should tell you that behind the veneer he has convictions for assault and violence on the continent. He’s unlikely to cause a row at the restaurant, but we’d need to be on our toes all the same.’

‘I’m your man, Inspector,’ Vizzard said eagerly. ‘First time I’ve had anything to do with an arrest for murder. Anything I need to watch out for?’

‘Watch out for yourself,’ Swallow answered. ‘It’s a bit different with murder all right. You know that when you take someone into custody it’s not like any other offence. When it’s murder, you’re very likely bringing them on their first steps to the gallows. You’ve got to be sure you’ve got the right man.’

‘I know you’d be sure you’ve got the right man, Inspector,’ Vizzard said confidently. ‘That’s your reputation. Everyone in the force knows that.’

It was ironic, Swallow thought. He had a reputation, he knew, as a man who didn’t make mistakes. He was not just good at his job. He was a first-class detective. Thorough, focused and committed. But none of that counted in the minds of the masters of his fate in the Upper Yard. They thought nothing of his loyalty or his service. He was just a cog in their machine. When it suited their purpose, the privacy of his home, the welfare of his wife or the life of his unborn child could all be set aside.

They exited Exchange Court onto Dame Street. The afternoon light was starting to fade and the gas lamps were already burning in Dan Lowrey’s Music Hall opposite the Palace Street gate. In a few hours the theatre would be buzzing as patrons flocked in for the evening show. Tonight’s performance was Dion Boucicault’s melodrama of murder, innocence and love, The Colleen Bawn. It always drew packed houses. Swallow sometimes reflected on the paradoxical juxtaposition of one of Dublin’s leading entertainment venues with the grim granite gateway to the Castle across the street.

It was a short walk up South Great George’s Street to the New Vienna. The lobby, with its mahogany panelling and brass fittings, was warm and enticing, as always. A young man in a waiter’s dress suit looked up from the desk when Swallow and Vizzard walked in.

‘I’m sorry, gents, lunch is finished. Would yiz like to put yer name down for a table for dinner later? Startin’ at seven o’clock.’