What Bill Latimer was asking him to do could land him before the courts. Jesus, it could put him behind bars. Latimer had said nothing outright, had given no specific directive – he was far too much of a cute hoor for that – but all the same he had no doubt as to what he wanted done. And what choice had Gallagher but to do it? If that bloody niece of Latimer’s were to come back from the dead and spill the beans – well, both himself and Latimer would be in the soup, and the soup would be very, very hot.

He dropped his face into his hands. The years of labour he had put in, the conniving and scheming, the grovelling at the feet of talentless bastards who weren’t fit to tie the laces of his shoes, all, all of it could go for naught. And why? Because the Latimers, those pillars of nationalist rectitude, those guardians of the sanctity of The Cause, were in serious danger of having their dirty secrets hauled out into the light of day for the country to see and rub its hands and gloat over.

Wearily he lifted his head and gazed towards the window and the Iron Duke’s birthplace beyond. Don’t think about it, he told himself, don’t brood on it. Just get it done. He hadn’t risen to the heights he commanded today by wringing his hands and worrying. Be a man, he told himself. Act.

From the rack behind his desk he took down his black wool overcoat, and was halfway into it when he paused and took it off and hung it up again, and chose instead the wrinkled old mackintosh he hadn’t worn in years. It wouldn’t do to look too respectable, not this evening.

Chapter 33

Detective Inspector Strafford stepped into the hallway and stopped, still with the front-door key in his hand. The  empty house seemed to stop too, as it always did nowadays when he walked in, especially at an unusual hour. Everything wore a slightly affronted air – what did he mean, coming home at this hour of the day? He sympathised. He was himself a stickler for the proper observances. Routine was the engine by which his life was run, especially in the absence of his wife. He contemplated going out again and spending a couple of hours in the National Library and returning home at the usual, proper hour.

The fact was, he had never felt entirely at home in this house, even when Marguerite was still here and life had at least the semblance of normality. But then, where would he feel at home?