Billy was zipping up his puffer jacket, and blinked. ‘You’re right,’ he agreed. Then, ‘Do you want to say that again?’

‘Just get going, Billy. I’ll have Darragh ring you later when we’ve found out a bit more.’

‘See you later, men!’ called out Lenny the barman as they made their way to the pub’s front door. Thomas lifted his hand but didn’t answer.

Billy was the first to step into the street. It was pelting now, and the rainwater was running in rib-like patterns down the middle of Gerald Griffin Street and gushing out of the blocked-up shores. The clouds were so low that they looked as if they were being ripped apart on the TV aerials like ragged grey sheets. A truck loaded with scaffolding was grinding slowly down the hill, and at the same time a bronze Honda Accord was coming up the hill towards The Weavers, with its headlights full on.

The Honda slowed down as it approached the corner of Cathedral Walk. As it came level with the pub door, its rear nearside window was lowered, and there were two suppressed gunshots, like loud sneezes, followed by a third. Billy danced a little jig and then tumbled sideways on to the pavement, ending up flat on his back with his arms spread wide. Thomas had been following him out of the door but he threw himself backwards, colliding with Muireann, and then he dived to the floor, knocking over the umbrella stand.

Darragh pushed Muireann to one side and leapt out of the door, yanking a pistol out of his black leather jacket. He pointed it up the hill, but it was too late now. The Honda was already turning the corner into Cathedral Road, its red brake lights flaring for an instant before it disappeared.

Darragh turned around. Billy was still lying on his back on the pavement and dark red blood was streaming from his head and down the hill. Thomas peered out of the pub door and when he saw that the Honda had gone he stepped outside.

‘Muireann, stay there, girl,’ he told her. ‘You don’t want to be seeing none of this.’

Thomas and his henchmen gathered around Billy, looking down at him in silence as if they were distant relatives who had just arrived at a wake. One shot had hit him in the right side of his mouth, so that his jawbone was hanging to one side, with all his teeth in it, most of them filled with silver amalgam. A second shot had hit him about three centimetres above the left eye. The entry wound was nothing more than a neat circle, but the hollow-point bullet had burst inside his head and cracked open the back of his skull. His custard-coloured brains were slowly sliding on to the paving stones, mingled with blood.