He got up from his chair and stared out the window, adjusting his glasses, no doubt thinking about cleaning them, although any blurriness was certainly on my panes rather than on his lenses. ‘After the shooting,’ he said slowly, ‘they offered us all sorts of counselling-psychologists, trauma and guilt experts, hypnotists, relaxation advisers. All bullshit. No limit to the medical backup-leave, tranquillisers, sleeping pills. Union all over them. Some of the blokes took some of it on board as a bludge, you know? Even though they’d actually enjoyed blowing Murphy away. I understand that. I can’t say I ever felt upset about the couple I shot, and one of them wasn’t ever much good after that.’

‘What’s the point?’ I said.

‘The point is there’s bugger-all of that now, is there? I need tranquillisers, I need leave and counselling and how much d’you reckon I’d get if I was to explain what I’m doing and ask for it? You think the union rep’d be on the blower offering me support?’

I still hadn’t decided to take the job and the element of self-pity in this outburst didn’t make him any more appealing. But at least he was feeling something.

‘Just exactly what are you doing?’ I asked.

He left the window and sat down. He adjusted his glasses and squared his shoulders. He was clean-shaven, wore a neat blue suit, white shirt and dark tie; no rings, no lapel pins. His watch was stainless steel on a leather strap. He was a plain man who apparently had no need for the accessories a lot of cops these days trick themselves out with-moustaches, bracelets, signet rings. ‘I’m trying to put a bunch of murdering, thieving, lying bastards in gaol where they belong,’ he said.