“Martin Keogh.”

“Wait for me outside.”

He did as he was told and saw her go to the phone again. Probably speaking to her uncle, he thought. A few moments later, she joined him, this time carrying a large umbrella.

As she put it up against the driving rain, he said, “And wouldn’t a taxi be safer?”

“I like the city at night,” she told him. “I like the rain. I’ve a right to go my own way and to hell with those Fenian bastards.”

“A point of view,” he replied as they started to walk.

“Here, get under this,” she said, pulling him under the umbrella and took his arm. “A sailor, you said?”

“Just for the past couple of years.”

“A sailor from Belfast raised in London who carries a Walther.”

There was a question in her voice. “A dangerous place this old town as you saw tonight.”

“Dangerous for you, you mean, and that’s why you’re carrying.” She frowned. “You’re not a Fenian or you wouldn’t have done what you did to that lot.”

“I’m not anybody’s, girl dear.” He paused to light a cigarette.

She said, “Give me one.”

“I will not, you with your green years ahead of you. God, but you’re one for the questions, Kate.”

She turned to glance at him. “Why do you call me that? No one else does.”

“Oh, it seems to suit.”

They were walking along the waterfront now, container ships anchored at the quay and further out, the red and green lights of a freighter moving out to sea.

Kathleen Ryan said, “So, the gun? Why are you carrying?”

“Jesus, it’s the persistent one you are. A long time ago I was a soldier. Did three tours of duty in this very town, and there’s always the chance of someone with a long memory and a grudge to work off.”

“What regiment?”

“One Para.”