Ray pulled a face, then let him through.

After almost thirty years in the force, most of them in Dublin, Conor knew a lot of criminals. In some cases, he’d known their fathers before them. From time to time, he thought about moving on. But what else would he do? After the struggle of his initial postings – the grey hell of Termonbeg, the tedium of Aghaflesk – he’d secured a transfer to the capital. He’d never forgotten the grinding unhappiness of his early years in the force. It had given him a belief in perseverance that drove younger colleagues mad. ‘Relax, old-timer,’ one had said. ‘The 1980s are over. We don’t have to offer up our suffering for the holy souls in Purgatory.’ That this was exactly what Conor had been urged to do at school didn’t make the comment any more palatable. He was well aware that some of the youngsters in Drugs and Organised Crime considered him a relic. Forty-seven wasn’t old. Was it? For years, he’d hardly thought about ageing. It hadn’t seemed relevant and then – boom – he’d started feeling out of sync. He’d realised that all the truly old fellows had retired, leaving his generation in charge. Now, the old guys were playing golf in Wicklow – and watching their successors flounder.

He’d started to understand the seductive power of nostalgia. He’d hear a song he hadn’t particularly liked as a teenager, something by Madonna or Bon Jovi, and find it had improved with age. He’d see an old photo and think, We didn’t look so bad, after all.

A week or two back, he’d caught a few minutes of a soap opera. Sharon was a demon for them, the more ridiculous the better.

‘I can’t believe how old the actors have got,’ he’d said.

‘They might say the same about you,’ his wife had replied.

Lauren was fond of telling him that everything had changed. ‘My generation won’t be slaves,’ she said. ‘Work doesn’t define us.’ But Conor’s sister was twenty-four and still at college, so he wasn’t going to take any lectures from her.

Speaking of the people in charge, it was Tom’s birthday. No doubt he was at the negotiations. The papers were filled with them. One step forward, two steps back. As far as Conor could see, the country was managing fine without a government. He’d leave a message on Tom’s phone. Or send a text. Or something. Tom had been hard to track down lately, and Conor suspected he’d been distracted by the whiff of power.