He’d been at a meeting when the news about Conor emerged. Since the previous month’s general election, life had been an endless series of meetings, of grey coffee and curly-cornered sandwiches. This one had been with the man who might be justice minister in the next government and the woman who might be its deputy leader. They wanted to tie up a deal with Tom’s collection of independent politicians. Without him, they didn’t have the numbers to form a government. The reward would be a seat at the cabinet table for Tom, plus a couple of junior ministerial positions and a few additional sweeteners. Progress was slow to non-existent, and there were several obstacles in their path. St Patrick’s Day was looming, and the following week would be eaten up by the Easter Rising commemorations.

So, when the future justice minister’s phone began to throb, Tom assumed it was a ruse. A case of ‘Look at me, I’m a busy man – I can’t be fooling around with you guys for ever.’ Within seconds, a flurry of civil servants arrived. Although the officials didn’t know quite how close Tom was to the injured guard, they were aware of a connection. They moved to another room for the briefing, and nobody objected when Tom accompanied them. The boss, the caretaker taoiseach, was there, as were several other senior figures. While an official confirmed the details, a shiver travelled through the group, giving Tom his first real sense of what government would be like.

A criminal called Warren Burke and another man, Dessie Hartigan, were dead. Three more men, including Conor, were injured. One was unlikely to survive. The attack had been carried out by two gunmen who were thought to have been working for the Burke family’s enemies, the McPartlands. The families were at war, principally over Dublin’s drugs trade. But, as was so often the case, there was also a personal dimension: the McPartlands alleged that a member of the Burke gang had raped one of their daughters. The feud was squalid and brutal, and the guards were losing control. Kenny Burke, who hadn’t been seen in Dublin for more than two years, would be going berserk in Spain. His retribution was likely to be swift. The gunmen had escaped through a rear door. Even as the briefing took place, key areas were flooding with guards and the usual suspects were being rounded up.

Tom had sat through all of this, his impatience threatening to break through. ‘For crying out loud,’ he’d wanted to say, ‘nobody gives a rasher’s about those spaced-out scumbags. They can all kill each other as far as I’m concerned. What’s the story with my friend?’ He kept his tirade to himself. This wasn’t the time to sound like a caller to a low-end radio phone-in.