He heard footsteps walking down the hallway to the kitchen and then the sound of bags of shopping being placed on the counter followed by the click of an electric kettle being switched on. More footsteps back into the hall and then the rustle of a coat being removed. Then the door was pushed open and she walked into the room. She was wearing a knee-length black skirt, a pale blue shirt and a dark blue jacket, and looked more like a bank cashier than a Republican enforcer with blood on her hands. ‘Shit,’ she said. She was about to take a step back to the door when she saw the gun in his hand.

Shepherd waved the Glock at the sofa by the fireplace. ‘Sit down,’ he said.

She did as she was told. He could see her looking around for something to use as a weapon, which told him that she wasn’t carrying a gun. It didn’t matter either way; now that she was sitting she wouldn’t have time to do anything.

‘Cross your legs at the ankles,’ he said.

She obeyed him.

‘It wasn’t personal,’ she said.

‘I’m not sure that’s true.’

‘You attacked us. You killed two of our people. I’m sure you’d say that wasn’t personal either.’ Her voice was calm and measured with hardly any trace of the stress that she was under. Shepherd knew that her adrenal glands would have gone into overdrive and that she’d be geared up for flight or fight, but that wasn’t going to happen. And with her legs crossed she wouldn’t be able to spring at him.

‘OK if I smoke?’

‘Where are your cigarettes?’

‘Right-hand jacket pocket.’

‘Knock yourself out,’ said Shepherd. ‘But move very slowly and if you pull out anything that looks remotely like a weapon you’re dead.’

She nodded and slowly took out a packet of Rothmans. ‘I’ve a lighter in my pocket, too. Gold.’

‘Gold?’

‘Gold plated. It was a gift from my father.’

‘Take it out nice and slowly,’ said Shepherd. ‘No sudden movements.’

O’Hara took the lighter out, flashed him a tight smile, and then lit a cigarette. She put the lighter back in her pocket and blew smoke at the ceiling, her green eyes fixed on Shepherd.

‘You attacked my family,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s as personal as it gets.’

‘I’m a soldier in the Real IRA,’ she said flatly. ‘We’re at war with the occupying forces, of which you form a part.’

‘You attacked my son and my au pair. You put a bomb in my car knowing that they would use it.’

‘Thousands of Irish citizens have been killed in the fight for independence,’ she said. She took another pull on her cigarette and held the smoke deep in her lungs.