“Too many lonely nights. Too much time to think.” Cramer wondered how the Colonel knew about his previous job as a nightwatchman. He poured himself another measure of whisky.

“Money problems? The pension coming through okay?” Cramer shrugged. He knew that the Colonel hadn’t come to talk about his financial status. “You ever meet a guy called Pete Manyon?” asked the Colonel.

Cramer shook his head.

“I guess he must have joined the regiment after you left. He was in D squadron.”

Cramer looked at the whisky at the bottom of his mug. If the Colonel had bothered to check up on his employment record, he’d have been just as capable of checking the regimental files. He’d have known full well whether or not the two men had served together.

“He died a week ago. In Washington.” He held out his empty mug for a refill. As Cramer poured in a generous measure of Famous Grouse, the Colonel scrutinised his face for any reaction. “He’d been tortured. Four of his fingers had been taken off. He’d virtually been skinned alive. And he’d been castrated.”

Cramer’s hand shook and whisky slopped down the side of the Colonel’s mug. “Shit,” said Cramer. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” said the Colonel, putting his mug down on the desk and wiping his hand with a white handkerchief.

“It was Hennessy, right?”

The Colonel nodded.

“Bitch,” said Cramer venomously.

“Manyon was a captain, working undercover in the States, on the trail of Matthew Bailey, an IRA activist. We’d heard that he’d popped up in New York so Manyon infiltrated one of the NORAID groups there.”

“Did he say he’d seen Hennessy?”

The Colonel shook his head. “No, but considering what happened to him . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. Jesus Christ, Colonel, the bitch should have been put down years ago.”

The Colonel shrugged. “She’s been underground a long time, Joker. And she has a lot of friends.”

“I can’t believe you let a Rupert go undercover against the IRA,” said Cramer. “I mean, I’ve served under some bloody good officers, I can’t deny that, but knowing which fork to use and what month to eat oysters in doesn’t carry any weight when you’re hanging around with the boys. They can spot a Rupert a mile away.”

“He was an experienced officer, Joker. He’d been with D squadron for almost three years.”

“How old was he?”

“Twenty-five.”

Cramer shook his head, almost sadly. “After what happened to Mick Newmarch, I’d have thought the SAS would’ve learnt its lesson.”

“I know how the NCOs feel about officers, but Manyon was different. His parents were Irish, his accent was perfect and he knew Belfast inside out. His cover was faultless, Joker.”

“So how did he get caught?” Cramer poured himself another whisky. He offered a refill to the Colonel but he shook his head. The question was clearly rhetorical and the Colonel didn’t answer.