“The guards.”

In uniform. Looking about sixteen. But mean with it. The first said,

“Jack Taylor?”

“As if you didn’t know.”

The second said,

“We’d like you to come with us.”

“Why?”

The first smiled, said,

“To help us with our enquiries.”

“Can I grab some coffee?”

“I’m afraid not.”

The squad car was parked right by the door. I said,

“Thanks for the discretion, lads. I wanted to impress the neighbours.”

Just like the movies, the guard put his hand on my head as he put me into the back. Almost looks like care, managed to bang my head, went,

“Oops.”

At Mill Street, as we got out, Mike Shocks, the local photographer, rushed over, asked,

“Anybody?”

“Naw, he’s nobody.”

Inside, I was brought to the interview room. Rubbed my wrists as if I’d been cuffed. A tin ashtray sat centre on a graffiti surface: a logo, “Players Please”. I shook loose a red, cranked the Zippo. Deep drag and tried to guess where the camera was. Door opened and Clancy entered. Superintendent Clancy. Man, we had history, none of it good. He’d been present at the action that cost me my career. Then, he’d been skinny as a wet greyhound. We’d been friends. During the events before my exile, he’d been a bastard.

Dressed in the full regalia, he’d leaped into middle age. His face was purple, blotches on the cheeks. The eyes, though, sharp as ever. He said,

“You’re back.”

“Well detected.”

“I’d hoped we’d seen the last of you.”

“What can I tell you, bro?”

“I only hope that other yoke, Sutton, won’t show up.”

“I doubt it.”

Sutton was dead. I’d killed him, my best friend. With, as they say, malice afterthought. Clancy walked behind me. The old ritual of intimidation. Rule one of interrogation. Not in the training manual but laid in stone. I said,