IT TOOK BILLY CONWAY LESS than thirty minutes to establish that Maggie Donahue lived at 8 Stratford Gardens with her only child, a daughter who was called Catherine, after Quinn’s sainted mother. The neighbors were unaware of the source of the child’s name, though most suspected that Maggie Donahue’s absent husband, be he dead or alive, was an IRA man of some sort, quite possibly a dissident who had rejected the tenets of the Good Friday Agreement. Such sentiments ran deep in the Ardoyne. During the worst of the Troubles, the Royal Ulster Constabulary regarded the neighborhood as a no-go area, too dangerous to patrol or even enter. More than a decade after the peace accords, it was the scene of rioting and clashes between Catholics and Protestants.

To supplement the cash payments she received from her husband, Maggie Donahue worked as a waitress in the Lobby Bar of the Europa Hotel, the most bombed hotel in the world. That afternoon she had the misfortune of attending to the particular needs of a guest named Herr Johannes Klemp. His hotel registration card listed a Munich address, but his work—apparently it had something to do with interior design—required him to spend a great deal of time away from home. Like many frequent travelers, he was somewhat difficult to please. His lunch, it seemed, was a catastrophe. His salad was too limp, his sandwich too cold, the milk for his coffee had gone bad. Worse still, he had taken a liking to the poor creature whose job it was to make him happy. She did not find his attempts at small talk appealing. Few women did.

“Long day?” he asked as she refilled his cup with coffee.

“Just beginning.”

She smiled wearily. She had hair the color of a raven’s wing, pale skin, and large blue eyes over wide cheekbones. She had been pretty once, but her face had taken on a hard edge. He supposed Belfast had aged her. Or perhaps, he thought, it was Quinn who had ruined her looks.

“You’re from here?” he asked.

“Everyone’s from here.”

“East or West?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m just curious.”

“About what?”

“Belfast,” he said.

“Is that why you came here? Because you’re curious?”

“Work, I’m afraid. But I have the rest of the day to myself, so I thought I’d see a bit of the city.”

“Why don’t you hire a tour guide? They’re very knowledgeable.”

“I’d rather slit my wrists.”

“I know how you feel.” Her irony seemed to bounce off him like a pebble thrown at a bullet train. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“You can take the rest of the day off and show me around the city.”

“Can’t,” was all she said.

“What time do you get off work?”

“Eight.”

“I’ll stop by for a drink and tell you about my day.”