This was his old boss’s way of chiding him for not taking on the role himself.

It had been offered. The assistant commissioner, Bronwyn Maher, had summoned Tom that spring just after Sean had dropped the bombshell about leaving, and told him the job was his for the taking.

‘People in high places hold you in strong regard,’ she had said.

‘Forcing your hand, are they?’ Tom had quipped.

She’d smiled.

‘Not at all. I’m your biggest advocate. How on earth do you know the new Taoiseach, anyway?’

‘Jarlath O’Keefe? Oh, we go way back. Well, back to that case in Leinster House last autumn anyhow.’

‘Ah. You were the making of him, so. He’s pushed hard for you, Tom. He’ll be giving you my job next. Can’t say I’d mind. Look, I’d be happy to have you in as head of the Bureau. But only if you’re willing to put your heart and soul into the job. You can’t half do this role.’

And that had been the problem. The inspector didn’t want the added responsibility and pressure that being Chief of the National Bureau would bring. He liked his job and it was already demanding enough. And when he’d turned fifty the previous year, he’d begun to realise that he wanted to spend more time with his family, not less.

So he’d resisted the promotion and Joe Kennedy was appointed.

Kennedy was a master of spin. He’d cultivated a persona that was at once serious, intelligent and comforting. He wore period-rimmed spectacles and an expression of constant concern for the safety of the Irish public. He came into his own at press conferences, when reassuring rhetoric dripped from his lips like honey.

He was a complete remove from the man sitting across from Tom now, with his frenzied bushy black eyebrows and shock of grey hair, the wine glass looking dainty in a hand so large it could pull up a small tree by the root. McGuinness was brusque and intimidating, but he ran deep, as the saying went.

The decision to replace Sean with Joe Kennedy was so clichéd it made Tom nauseous.

‘It’s all quiet on the western front,’ he said, keeping his thoughts on his new boss to himself. ‘This weather’s too hot to be off killing people.’

‘I wouldn’t go planning any holidays, Tom. You might be on hiatus now, but this heat … it gets people feverish. A man can go from being mildly irritated at his wife nagging him to do the garden or stoke the barbecue, straight to feeling murderous.’