Jack and Laura leaned on the bonnet of Ridley’s car, arms folded, chatting and laughing. Anik couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he envied how their experience made them so relaxed in situations like this. He wished he wasn’t having palpitations; he wished the sweat wasn’t running down his spine and he wished his stab vest hadn’t ridden up so high underneath his chin that it chafed every time he turned his head. Eventually he decided to get out of Ridley’s car, so he could pull his vest down; sitting in a stab vest was clearly an acquired art.

Ridley’s “slow and steady” prep had been done in a quiet side street about half a mile from Sweeney’s estate, away from prying eyes. Now they were in position, the next bit would happen fast.

The “Big Red Key” was swung back for a third time and slammed into the base of the front door. The bottom had more than one bolt fitted, so it was holding its own against the 16 kg metal battering ram. Each second of delay was giving Sweeney time to destroy evidence—Ridley was visibly frustrated. The fourth hit did its job and the door finally gave way. The officer wielding the “Big Red Key” quickly stepped to one side, allowing the armed officers to enter.

“Armed police! Armed police! Get down on the ground! Get down!” Then a pause. Then a little mumbling. Then, “Secure!”

Ridley led the way in, closely followed by Jack, then Laura, then Anik, then a team of uniformed officers who would be tasked with searching the premises. In the lounge was an elderly man in his mid-70s. He sat in a Mobility riser recliner with his feet up on the elevated footrest.

“Donal Sweeney?” Ridley asked.

“Yes, sir,” the man wheezed. “You might be after my boy though, I reckon.”

Ridley showed Sweeney Senior a warrant to search the premises. “Jack . . .” was the only word he uttered before leading everyone else out of the room.

Sweeney Senior asked Jack to pass him his reading glasses, which he did.

“The little shit!” Sweeney said once he’d read the warrant. “I said he could use my address to open a bank account and he does this? Am I under arrest?”

“Until we can establish the facts,” Jack explained, “you’ll have to come to the station.”

“Right, then. I’d better start moving, ’cos it takes a while.”

Sweeney Senior reached down into the pocket in the side of his Mobility recliner. The Armed Response Unit instantly raised their weapons and pointed them at the old man.

“Don’t move! Stay still! Show me your hands!”

Sweeney Senior slammed his hands over his eyes and waited to be shot.

“The remote! Jesus Christ!” Jack shouted. “He’s just going for the remote!”

He took the remote control from the side pocket of the chair and pressed the “down” button as the overexcited ARU team lowered their guns. The footrest on the Mobility recliner started to lower, the seat started to tilt, and the back started to push Sweeney Senior very, very slowly onto his slippered feet. As he became more upright, a catheter bag half-full of urine dropped out of the bottom of his trouser leg. The old man stood there, hands over his eyes, crying and trembling in fear, pissing into his bag. This was a whole new low for Jack.