‘Bravo, Max. You’re getting the hang of this. And before you ask, it’s got nothing to do with the Troubles. He’s been out of that game as long as you’ve been in ours. He hasn’t even been back in the country for five fucking minutes.’

I looked at Frank, but Frank was looking at the bar. The tourist sat and sipped his pint, lost in his phone.

‘Why me? Why task UKN? Why not give it to Grumpy Jock and the Wing?’ Frank turned his attention back to me and hesitated for a second. And then the bad penny dropped. ‘Because you couldn’t. No one knows, do they? Whitehall didn’t sanction it. And neither did DSF.’ Frank cocked his head to one side, which he always did when he was about to change the subject. When faced with anything he didn’t like, Frank either stepped on it or over it. True to form, he ignored me and ploughed on.

‘What do you mean that you tried to kill him but couldn’t? Stop enjoying yourself for a moment and explain to me why it is that Chappie Connor’s brains are not decorating a cottage in Cashel Glebe.’

‘They are,’ I said. ‘He’s dead.’

‘But …’ Frank stopped short of demonstrating his ignorance. The nerves at the base of my skull tingled. I was getting the better of him, and it felt good. It almost made up for the grinding pain in my shoulder.

‘He was already dead, Frank. Someone had shot him through the heart, in the cottage at least a week ago.’ I put my right hand under my sweater; Frank’s jerked reflexively towards his open sports jacket. In this respect he’d never changed: threatened or confused, he reached, unfailingly, for his pistol. I removed my hand, slowly, and held it up. My index finger was bright red with blood. ‘There was another shooter. A very good shooter; probably the best I’ve gone up against. Ever gone up against.’

Frank sat upright and put his hands where I could see them.

‘Go on.’

I told him what had happened.

‘As I made it out the door, I threw in a Willy Pete. The thatch went up like a rocket.’

‘Jesus,’ Frank sighed. ‘You let off a phosphorus grenade? In the Republic? DSF is going to fucking love this. And outside?’

‘I made it to the skiff. The whole place was in flames but I was still taking fire from the side room.’

‘Second shooter?’

‘No. I don’t think so. Whoever it was shot out the window and then shot up the skiff. Shredded it. I made it to the surf and swam from there.’

Frank considered what I’d told him and fiddled with his pint glass.

‘Max, please tell me this shooter is dead and not about to join us for a drink.’