Keogh took his tea to a table by the door, sat down, and lit a cigarette. Five minutes later, Kathleen Ryan emerged wearing a beret and an old trenchcoat. She went out without looking at him. Keogh sipped some more tea, then got up and left.

IT WAS RAINING harder now as she turned on to the waterfront and she increased her pace, head down. The three youths standing in the doorway of a disused warehouse saw her coming as she passed under the light of a street lamp. They were of a type to be found in any city in the world. Vicious young animals in bomber jackets and jeans.

“That’s her, Pat,” the one wearing a baseball cap said. “That’s her. The Ryan bitch from the cafe.”

“I can tell for myself, you fool,” the one called Pat said. “Now hold still and grab her on the way past.”

KATHLEEN RYAN WAS totally unaware of their existence as they stayed back in the shadows. It was only the quick rush of feet that alerted her and by then it was too late, one arm around her neck half choking her.

Pat walked round in front and tilted her chin. “Well, now, what have we got here? A little Prod bitch. Ryan, isn’t it?”

She kicked back catching the youth in the baseball cap on the shin. “Leave me be, you Taig bastard.”

“Taig bastard is it,” Pat said. “And us decent Catholic boys!” He slapped her face. “Up the alley with her. Time she learned her manners.”

She didn’t scream, for it was not in her nature, but cried out in rage and bit the hand that fastened on her mouth.

“Bitch!” Baseball Cap called out and punched her in the back, and then they ran her along the alley through the rain. There was a stack of packing cases clear under an old-fashioned gas street lamp. As she struggled, two of them pulled her across a packing case and Pat moved up behind and racked her skirt up.

“Time you learned,” he said.

“No, time you learned!” a voice called. Pat turned and Martin Keogh walked up the alley, hands in the pockets of his reefer. “Put her down. I mean, she doesn’t know where you’ve been, does she?”