Declan tossed his own drink back then; he needed it. ‘Since last week, I think. But be fair, Michael, we had no idea who she was or what she wanted. It was only because she was so persistent that I called her myself. And then came to you. I realise the error of my ways now, we should have been on top of it. But it wasn’t deliberate, you know that.’

Michael held his empty glass out, and followed Declan out to the kitchen, where he waited for him to pour them both more Scotch.

‘She is a nice lady, Mrs Singh.’

Declan nodded his agreement. ‘I could see that, Michael. I could also see that you really think a lot of her, and her husband as well.’

Michael Flynn took out his cigarettes and lit one. ‘She was very good to me, both her and her husband were. I went to school with Davinda, their oldest son, we were good mates. They are Sikhs and, years ago, the Sikhs and the Muslims sent their kids to a faith school – in other words, a Catholic school. So we all grew up together. It was nice. Davinda – Dave, as we called him – was a real fucking brainiac. He went on to university – that was Mr Singh’s dream, you know? Education. He saw it as the jewel in the crown of the United Kingdom. He used to say, “Remember, boys, this country has the best education system in the world, and it’s free.” I didn’t appreciate that until it was too late. But I used to spend a lot of time round there when I was a kid. Mrs Singh looked after me when my mum was working.’

Declan listened to his friend without interrupting. He knew he had to let him say what he needed to in his own time.

‘When I went to work for your brother, I lost contact with the Singhs and a lot of the people I had gone to school with. That was deliberate on my part. I wanted to pursue my own agenda but, to be absolutely honest, I also didn’t want Davinda or anyone to get dragged into any of my shit, if it all went tits up.’

Declan shrugged. ‘I can understand that, Michael. There’re people we don’t bring into our working lives. That’s par for the course. But I have to ask you, who the fuck is Steven Golding?’

Michael Flynn looked Declan Costello straight in the eyes, and Declan knew that whatever had happened with this Steven Golding, Michael had buried a long time ago.

Michael lit another cigarette, and he drew on it deeply. He needed to calm himself down, needed to remind himself that he had come a long way since those days. He was at the top of his game, and there was no one with the strength to challenge his position.