‘That is not how we do things in this country,’ said Bromley.

‘What I do not understand is why the Government allows this IRA to be,’ said Nguyen.

‘To be what?’ said Bromley, frowning.

‘To exist, to be,’ Nguyen said. ‘Why does the Government not arrest everybody who is in the IRA. Lock them up. Then there will be no more killing. And perhaps then you find who murdered my family.’

Bromley held his hands up in surrender. ‘Life is not so simple, Mr Nguyen. It is a question of politics, not policing. You should speak to your MP.’

‘MP?’ said Nguyen, his brow creased.

‘Member of Parliament,’ explained the policeman. ‘Perhaps he can help you.’

Bromley got to his feet. ‘Mr Nguyen, there is nothing else I can tell you, I am afraid. I don’t want to offend you, but you must not keep coming here. I am very sorry about what happened to your family, but your coming here is not helping. It makes it more difficult for us. Do you understand?’

Nguyen pushed back his chair slowly and stood in front of Bromley, still smiling. ‘I understand, Detective Chief Inspector Bromley. And I thank you for talking to me.’ He held out his hand and Bromley shook it. The small, wrinkled hand was surprisingly strong, as if there were steel rods under the old skin. Nguyen turned and walked out, leaving Bromley alone with his pipe.

Tempers were flaring on the football pitch. It wasn’t that there was anything at stake other than the game itself, it was just that the army team hated to lose and they were two goals down with less than ten minutes to go before half-time. Their opponents, the local police team, had the edge when it came to skill and finesse but the army boys had the aggression. The referee looked at his watch and missed the sharp elbow jab in the ribs that sent the police sweeper sprawling but he heard the cop swear and he blew hard on his whistle. The crowd jeered as the referee fumbled in the pocket of his shorts for his notebook.

There were two groups of supporters, one on each side of the pitch. The police supporters, mainly loyal girlfriends and bored wives, stood with their backs to Woolwich Common, facing Stadium Road. The army supporters, mostly soldiers with nothing else to do on a Saturday morning, were ranged along the other side. O’Reilly was standing with the police wives as he studied the referee through the lens of his Pentax. The man’s cheeks were flushed red as he spluttered at the policeman who was waving his arms and protesting his innocence. He moved the lens to the left and the Queen Elizabeth Military Hospital came into focus and then he saw the road sign. Shrapnel Close. He smiled at the irony of it.

The referee blew his whistle to restart the game as O’Reilly walked slowly along the sideline, stopping every now and again to take photographs. Over his shoulder was a black camera bag. Close to the corner flag was a stack of sports bags and towels and two polythene bags full of quartered oranges. The crowd roared as a big, beefy, army striker sent the ball ripping into the net, and as his team-mates rushed to congratulate him O’Reilly dropped his camera bag down among the sports bags. He walked back to the line and took more photographs before checking his watch. Three minutes to go. A red Renault drove down Repository Road and into Stadium Road and came to a halt at the junction with Shrapnel Close. O’Reilly knew that he’d attract attention to himself if he walked behind the goalmouth while the game was on, so he stayed where he was until the referee’s whistle blasted out and brought the first half to a close. The players ran across the pitch to where the bags were as O’Reilly walked over to the car. McCormick opened the passenger door for him and he got in. They both looked over at the foot-ballers, clustered around the now-opened polythene bags and helping themselves to pieces of orange.