Most of the time, his father’s job was pretty dull – and most of the people he dealt with were soft in the head. A large chunk of their stupidity was connected to drink. People either didn’t know when to stop drinking, and his dad had to arrest them for being in the pub when it should have been closed, or else they got all violent and messy, and his dad had to calm them down. Then there were what his father called ‘domestics’. He didn’t like getting involved but sometimes he had to arrest fellows who’d hit their wives. Afterwards, he’d say he didn’t know why he bothered, because in no time at all the wife would be calling around to the house claiming that her husband hadn’t meant any harm and that he was a good man who’d taken to the drink on account of having no job.

Apart from dealing with alcoholics and idiots, his father’s other main task was to keep an eye on what the TV news called ‘subversives’: men – and women – who supported the IRA. His dad said that most of them were only ‘sneaking regarders’, who wouldn’t know what to do with a gun, not to mind a stick of gelignite. Others, like the Duggan family, who lived next door to Tess, were more involved. Mr Duggan hung around with men who’d been to prison for being in the IRA. Not that long ago, Conor had watched his father knocking on the Duggans’ door. Mrs Duggan had poked her head out of an upstairs window.

‘What do you want now, Flan Varley?’ she’d roared.

‘A chat, that’s all,’ his dad had said.

‘If you’ve got a search warrant, you can fuck off,’ she’d yelled back. ‘But if you haven’t, you can come in for a cup of tea.’

Conor’s sister perched on the kitchen counter, her face glowing with insider knowledge. Paula was sixteen and she wore her three extra years like a crown. While Tom and Conor removed their scarves and anoraks, she told them what she’d heard.

‘Dad was here for a few minutes,’ she said. ‘An important guy’s after arriving from Dublin. He knows all about forensics and evidence so he’ll turn Tom’s house inside out. Apart from the guards, nobody’s allowed in until he’s finished.’

‘What’ll I do?’ said Tom, the first words from his mouth in ten minutes or more.

Paula fiddled with her leg warmers. (For once, Conor could see a point to them. If it got any colder, he’d consider wearing a pair himself.) ‘You’ll have to stay here for another couple of days. You can have Conor’s bed, and he can sleep on the old sun-lounger. If we put some blankets and sheets on it, it’ll be grand.’