No matter that he had a hundred other things to do, Conor decided to call into the Avondhu Hotel. He’d heard a rumour that Warren Burke would be there, and while, officially speaking, Warren was free to go wherever he liked, Conor wanted him to know he was being watched. Plus, it was a fine afternoon for a walk, the watery sun offering the first hint that winter was coming to an end.

Warren wasn’t the brightest criminal in town, but what he lacked in brains, he made up for in self-confidence. ‘All foam, no beer,’ according to one of Conor’s colleagues. He spent much of the year in Málaga in a complex of houses owned by his father, Kenny. Burke senior liked to portray himself as an old-style villain when in fact he was a psychopathic thug who’d made his fortune selling heroin to the communities he claimed to love. Too cunning to risk coming home, he employed a network of couriers, street-sellers, enforcers and gunmen. A considerable number ended up in jail or dead, yet there was always someone greedy enough, or desperate enough, to take their place. Kenny’s reluctance to visit Dublin wasn’t based solely on his fear of the law (after all, he’d slithered out of the guards’ grasp many times before), but on a falling-out with a rival gang. The McPartlands were even rougher than the Burkes. Liam McPartland would sell crack in a crèche if he could get away with it.

That didn’t stop Warren making the occasional trip back to Dublin. He liked to throw his cash around the city’s tackier nightclubs. And he loved to play poker.

The Avondhu was a dive of the old school: no Wi-Fi, no spa, the flock wallpaper encrusted with dirt, the carvery lunch offering fatty bacon and water-logged spuds. It was kept in business by tourists who didn’t know any better and by poker tournaments.

The receptionist gave Conor a cool appraisal. He wasn’t surprised. Everything from his tweed jacket to his sceptical squint shouted, ‘Guard.’ Lay him on the operating table, and you’d probably find the word was stamped right through him, like a stick of rock. The police weren’t popular in this part of the inner city. Depending on who you asked, they were either too heavy-handed or not proactive enough.

He made his way down a narrow corridor, all threadbare carpet and photos of dead footballers, to the function room at the back. A poster of a bride and groom told him the hotel was available for weddings. God bless the couple who celebrated their big day in the Avondhu. As expected, there was a heavy on the door: Ray Tomelty, one of the Burkes’ men. Conor had encountered plankton with a higher IQ, but Ray was loyal.

Conor lifted his chin, his way of saying, ‘I know you. You know me. Let’s not play around here.’