The girl sitting behind the counter was just sixteen; he knew that because he knew all about her. Her name was Kathleen Ryan, and she ran the cafe on behalf of her uncle, Michael Ryan, a Protestant gunman from his earliest youth. She was a small girl with black hair and angry eyes above pronounced cheekbones. Not pretty by any conventional standard. She wore a dark sweater, denim miniskirt, and boots and sat on a stool engrossed in a book when Keogh went in.

He leaned on the counter. “Is it good?”

She looked him over calmly, and that look told him of someone infinitely older than her years.

“Very good. The Midnight Court.”

“But that’s in Irish surely?” Keogh reached for the book and saw that he was right.

“And why shouldn’t it be? You think a Protestant shouldn’t read Irish? Why not? It’s our country too, mister, and if you’re Sinn Fein or any of that old rubbish, I’d prefer you went elsewhere. Catholics aren’t welcome. An IRA street bomb killed my father, my mother, and my wee sister.”

“Girl, dear.” Keogh held up his hands defensively. “I’m a Belfast boy home from the sea who’s just come in for a cup of tea.”

“You don’t sound Belfast to me. English I’d say.”

“And that’s because my father took me to live there when I was a boy.”

She frowned for a moment, then shrugged. “All right.” She raised her voice. “Tea for one, Mary.” She said to Keogh, “No more cooking. We’re closing soon.”

“The tea will do just fine.”

A moment later, a gray-haired woman in an apron brought tea in a mug and placed it on the counter. “Milk and sugar over there. Help yourself.”

Keogh did as he was told and pushed a pound coin across. The woman gave him some change. The girl ignored him, reached for her book, and stood up. “I’ll be away now, Mary. Give it another hour, then you can take an early night,” and she went through to the back.