‘Why are you here, Kincaid?’ asks McAvoy, wearily. ‘My son,’ he says again, and hot pincers grab at his throat. ‘Fin.’

‘We thought you were the target,’ says Kincaid, apologetically. ‘My inspector is at your HQ waiting to serve the TTL notice. I saw the sense in tagging along and keeping a watchful eye. Call it professional courtesy.’

‘You mean you didn’t know if I was somebody to be trusted,’ says McAvoy, teeth clenched.

‘Aye, that too. Look, sergeant, I’m part of a unit that’s investigating a string of murders committed between 1996 and 2008. Nine, in total. All people involved in the drugs trade, arms trade or having recently fallen foul of somebody with deep pockets. All professional hits.’

McAvoy swallows, his throat agony. ‘And?’

‘And I wouldn’t advise you to play poker with a blush like that. You know exactly who I’m referring to, and if you want to see your boy I suggest you admit it.’

McAvoy snaps his head up, eyes like the barrel of a gun. ‘What did you say to me?’

‘His name is Aeron Slevin,’ says Kincaid, looking at McAvoy for any sign of recognition. ‘Story goes, he was born in a hospital. Bernie’s. You might have heard of it. Horror movie of a place. Whoever his real mammy was, he was raised by Shonagh and Gideon Slevin. Settled Tinkers … sorry, Travellers … gunsmiths. Used to do their best work for the IRA but weren’t fussy about taking on other contracts. Young Aeron was about as well-adjusted as you’d expect given his start in life. Welfare people only ever went out to the house once – great ugly barn of a place out on the islands. Found a boy with incredible intelligence, but emotionally stunted. Didn’t like touching. Parents did their best by him but he was broken from the beginning. Investigative, too. An enquiring mind. Loved nothing more than capturing the seabirds and seeing how long he could keep them alive. Plucked their feathers, clipped their wings, blinded them …’

‘Stop,’ hisses McAvoy.

‘Grew up to be a very dangerous man. And once he proved himself useful, he became the person that you set upon your enemies, if you could afford him.’

Despite his best efforts, McAvoy thinks of the moment, a dozen years before, when the strong, dark-eyed man had knocked him to the ground and pushed a slash hook through his skin and touched bone. Thinks of the moment when the van struck him, and the way he came apart as if made of damp cardboard. He was dead. Even now, he cannot believe the man who fought him, who came for Roisin and killed Eva-Jayne Puck; he cannot quite believe he is alive. Alive, and in possession of his son.

‘Last time the Teagues and the Heldens fell out, the Heldens broke the bank to put an end to it. Set him on their enemies …’

‘Eva-Jayne,’ mumbles McAvoy. ‘Roisin.’

‘Depends what you believe,’ answers Kincaid with a smile. ‘There are those who still say your wife killed her auntie. Don’t shoot the messenger, sergeant, it’s true. Heldens swear blind they never sent their man until after she was already dead. They got a call from two half-brothers from the locality, promising to hand-deliver Roisin Teague. Pure luck of the Irish that their man was already on the mainland.’