Accidental killers. They confessed, usually driven by guilt. Criminals too, when the evidence was against them. But a terrorist? Within hours of his greatest triumph? When he was free to plan another attack?

It’s too convenient.

The screen changed again, just as Dempsey’s thoughts were coalescing.

The correspondent disappeared. Replaced by footage of a press scrum outside of a building Dempsey instantly identified.

Westminster Magistrates’ Court.

A moment more and the building was no longer the only thing he could name. On the screen, pushing through the crowd of cameramen and reporters, were two men.

One of them Dempsey had never seen before.

The other he would recognise anywhere.

THIRTY

Michael Devlin poured a double dash of sixteen-year-old Lagavulin into a Waterford Crystal tumbler, replaced the cork and set the bottle back among his whisky collection.

He raised the glass to his nose and breathed deeply. The smell of smoky peat was all-pervasive. Exactly as it should be. And exactly as it was on the tongue as he took his first sip.

The house was empty. Michael had no idea when Sarah would be home, but it was 5 p.m. and he’d had enough. It was early by his standards – by Sarah’s, too – but it had been a long and stressful day. One that had left Michael with concerns he did not need.

Not again.

The whisky collection – the good stuff, at least – was kept in the living room, on top of a large, antique sideboard. It was a room that Michael and Sarah rarely used, and so the collection of framed photographs dotted near to the whisky was rarely seen.

Michael took another sip. Bigger this time, a full slug. And as he felt the burn in his throat, he reached out for the picture that always caught his eye first.

Liam Devlin had been older than Michael, but not by much. Just a year ahead of his brother at school, Liam’s life had taken a drastically different route. Prison followed by a decade at the pinnacle of the Belfast underworld. And then death in the hills of Wicklow, the victim of a bullet meant for Michael.

The two boys were young in the photograph. Liam had been the bigger of the two back then, with a shock of dark hair in contrast to his brother’s blond. But there could be no doubt of their family connection. Almost identical faces – full of life and of mischief – saw to that.

Full of life, Michael thought again.

The words brought tears to his eyes. Tears of grief, and of guilt.

Michael rarely thought of Liam. He had taught himself not to, because that was the only way to get past his brother’s death. A death for which he would always blame himself.

He smiled sadly and touched his fingertip to the image of his brother’s face.

Another deep gulp of whisky left the glass in need of a refill. He placed the frame down carefully and dealt with his drink, before turning to another photograph.