Ned Gallagher resembled some big-shouldered forest- dwelling creature, Latimer thought, one of those apes, say, with overhanging brows and a patch of white fur on their chests, that swung themselves on their knuckles along the jungle floor. However, there was nothing apish about him when it came to handling whatever clown happened to be the Taoiseach of the day. There wasn’t a politician in the House Ned Gallagher didn’t have a file on. Ned kept a count of all the bodies and where they were buried, and could order an exhumation at a moment’s notice. Bill Latimer despised him, but he had a grudging respect for him, too. He knew how useful he could be. Ned Gallagher was the fixer’s fixer.

Gallagher walked around his desk and sat down, crossing an ankle on a knee and lacing his fingers together across his belly. He wore a blue serge suit and a waistcoat, a white shirt and a dark tie. Bill Latimer hadn’t taken off his overcoat.

‘Ned, I have a problem,’ he said.

Gallagher smiled, though a Gallagher smile was never quite a smile.

‘Sure, what else would bring you up here to stand before the seat of earthly powers in the middle of your busy afternoon?’

The Minister registered the taunt, but let it go. You didn’t start a sparring match with Ned Gallagher unless you were prepared to take off the gloves and use your bare fists.

‘Sit down, man, sit down,’ Gallagher said now, ‘make yourself at home.’ He flipped open the lid of a silver cigarette box on his desk. ‘Here, have a coffin nail.’

Latimer took a cigarette and brought out his lighter. Wreathed in smoke, he stood up from the chair and took off his coat and threw it down on a sofa and dropped his hat on top of it. He felt weary suddenly. There were times when retire ment didn’t seem such a bad option. He returned to the desk and sat down again.

Gallagher regarded him with a lively eye. Gallagher derived much quiet satisfaction from other people’s troubles.

‘So, Minister, what’s up?’