‘Because true punishment has no place in the gar,’ said Crazy Boy. ‘And the money isn’t a fine, it’s compensation.’ He put his arm around Two Knives. ‘You think the old men there would agree to true punishment, to an eye for an eye?’ He shook his head. ‘They believe that the shame that is brought to a family is punishment enough. That and money ends it in their eyes.’ He gripped the back of his friend’s neck and squeezed tightly. ‘But not in mine, brother,’ he said. ‘You will wait for the family to pay the money, and then you will do what has to be done.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Two Knives. ‘The gar decided that the family pays compensation and that is the matter closed.’

‘That they did,’ said Crazy Boy. ‘But what the gar decides and what I decide are two different things. You wait until the blood money has been paid and then you and your brothers pick them up and show them what happens to anyone who crosses us. I want them to lose their hands and their feet and their pricks and their heads and I want the pieces fed to dogs. Do you understand?’

Two Knives grinned and nodded. ‘That’s more like it,’ he said.

‘Make sure that no one sees you pick them up, make sure that no one can connect what happens to them to me. But I want them to die screaming and I want to see a video of their last moments.’

‘It will be a pleasure,’ said Two Knives.

Ahead of them was a large Mercedes. The driver already had the door open for Crazy Boy and another of his bodyguards was standing by the front passenger door. Crazy Boy slapped Two Knives on the back and climbed into the car.

Charlotte Button was sitting at a corner table in a West Belfast pub, wearing a cheap coat and with a half pint of Guinness in front of her. There was a copy of the Belfast Telegraph on the table with a pair of wool gloves and by her feet a Tesco carrier bag filled with provisions.

Shepherd bought a Jameson’s whiskey with ice and sat down opposite her. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d shop at Tesco,’ he said. ‘I would have you as more of a Waitrose customer.’

‘It’s cover,’ she said. She gestured at her coat. ‘I’m trying to blend. You don’t think I’d wear this for any other reason, do you?’

Shepherd smiled. The coat and the bag of shopping might have been in character but she was too pretty and too well groomed to blend and she was wearing a slim gold watch on her wrist that belied any attempt to pass herself off as a Belfast housewife.

He sipped his whiskey. ‘I have to leave today,’ he said.