‘You know, back then, if you’d visited Rakedale, you could have depended on finding people with a bit of self-reliance – they were known across Derbyshire for a streak of independence. It was an independent spirit forged by hardship, all right. But that made them all the better as people, I reckon.’

‘I think I know what you mean,’ said Cooper.

‘Well, you’ve met some of the people who live in Rakedale now. Would you say that describes them?’

‘Perhaps not, sir.’

‘Don’t be so namby-pamby, lad. You can see perfectly well they’re not like that any more. They’re defeated. Their spirit has gone.’

Cooper wasn’t sure about Palfreyman’s verdict on the people of Rakedale. His contempt had sounded more like a judgement on himself.

There seemed to be building going on everywhere in Dublin – new offices, new housing estates, new roads. Fry saw signs claiming that some of the projects had been funded by the European Union. So that’s where her taxes had been going. She’d often wondered.

Detective Garda Tony Lenaghan had greeted her in the arrivals hall at the crowded airport. He was a cheerful-looking man in his thirties, relaxed and talkative. He gave Fry such a genuine smile of welcome that she almost hugged him on the spot. She hadn’t felt like doing that to anyone for years.

‘Sergeant Fry, welcome to An Garda Síochána.’

He loaded her bag into his car and asked where she was staying. It was only a short drive from the airport at Swords to Coolock, which turned out to be an area of north Dublin, lying somewhere between the M1 urban motorway and the northern arc of Dublin Bay.

‘Croke Park is just down the road here,’ said Lenaghan. ‘We were all on duty at Croke, back in February. The rugby, you know? England versus Ireland. Your boys had never been allowed to play at Croke before, for obvious reasons.’

Fry frowned, thinking she was missing some arcane fact about the game of rugby.

‘Obvious?’

‘Because of the Black and Tans.’

After a few seconds, Lenaghan rightly interpreted her silence.

‘You do know about the Black and Tans? The massacre in 1920?’

‘Sorry.’

Lenaghan stared at her in amazement. In fact, he stared for so long that Fry started to worry about his car drifting dangerously across the carriageway.

‘Thirteen spectators and one player were killed during the match between Dublin and Tipperary. Shot by the Black and Tans. It was the original Bloody Sunday massacre. Surely they teach you about that at school in England, Sergeant?’

‘No. These Black and Tans – were they English, then?’

Lenaghan shook his head in despair. ‘Eight hundred years of suppression, and you just forget.’