'E. I. O'Leary, Slim Jim, everyone connected with the kidnapping of that wee girl there and the death of Angela Fitzpatrick.'

'Aye, well, that was unfortunate! She wasn't quite up to the pressure. I meant to give her back to you disfigured, like, but the hot water proved a bit too much for her. Shame really: nice girl. She was a squealer too. Got it on tape if you fancy a listen.'

'You're next,' said Danny.

'Come on, McGuire . . . any time you like,' said Owen O'Brien disdainfully. 'Come'n have a go.'

All this time Niamh had kept her gaze fixed firmly on Danny, waiting for the signal.

When it came it was almost imperceptible: a slight movement of the eyes, nothing more, but she caught it.

Niamh's body suddenly went limp in O'Brien's arms. Although she was small in stature, her body weight was enough to tip him forward momentarily. It was a move Danny had taught her when they used to play-fight. Drop your body in a limp feint to pull your opponent off-balance then tense and strike.

In the same instant Danny raised his arm in a small, but powerful upward movement and flicked his hand forward. A black-handled knife left his grip and spun through the air in silence, delivering the blade point-first deep into Owen O'Brien's right eye.

O'Brien let out a high-pitched squeal and stumbled backwards, clawing at his eye socket, then he suddenly pitched forward, his arms flailing wildly, grabbing for the girl. But Niamh was too quick. She ducked out of reach and started down the stairs.

Sean was up on his feet waiting for her, his face wracked with pain.

'Get her outside,' shouted Danny, as Niamh disappeared from view.

Danny took a step forward and swung his right leg in a high arc. The heel of his shoe struck O'Brien on the side of his face and knocked him sideways to the ground, but as he fell O'Brien managed to twist himself round and squeeze the trigger of his gun, firing wildly in all directions. Bullets smashed into the walls and ceiling.

Danny ducked out of the way as one whistled dangerously overhead. In the same movement, he flicked his foot forward again and managed to kick the weapon from O'Brien's grasp.

O'Brien screamed wildly and lashed out. In his frenzy he managed to grab hold of Danny's leg and start to pull him off balance. He tried to kick his way free, but O'Brien's grip was like a vice. Suddenly Danny pitched forward, cracking his head on the top of the banister as he fell to the floor.

In an instant O'Brien was on top of him with his knee digging painfully into Danny's chest, forcing the breath from his lungs: his big, rough hands wrapped tightly round Danny's throat, choking his airways.

Danny struggled desperately to tip O'Brien off by raising his stomach off the floor and twisting back and forth, but O'Brien's weight and the lack of oxygen made it impossible. He threw punches at his face, but O'Brien's arms were splayed out at the elbows, blocking anything from landing with any force.

Danny was rapidly losing his strength. He could feel his arms becoming heavy and limp. He was starting to lose consciousness.

Nearby, a small voice shouted something indiscernible.

He saw O'Brien turn his head and felt the pressure on his neck ease slightly. Suddenly there was a deafening boom and O'Brien's face appeared to explode in front of him.

Danny coughed and spluttered as the air rushed to fill his lungs. He tried to sit up, but his strength had not yet returned. O'Brien's headless body lay jerking and convulsing on the floor beside him, no longer any threat.

Danny turned his head, searching for the source of the noise, and saw Niamh on the landing below: her face taut with fear, her expression grim, as she took her finger off the trigger then lowered the AR15 gently to the floor.

She started to cry.

Chapter 43.

St Patrick's Cathedral, Newry, early hours of Saturday morning

The reflections of bright orange street lamps slipped silently over the windscreen of the VW Polo as it picked its way through the quiet streets of Newry. In the back of the car sat a small girl, curled in a tight ball, staring out of the window with an unfocused gaze.

The expression on the driver's face was grave, as he glanced round at his brother, sitting with his arms wrapped, like a protective shield, round the young girl's shoulders. His brother's face was pale and bloodless: covered in sweat.

No one spoke for the entire journey.

At around 2 a.m. Father Anthony heard a knock at the door. He was sitting by the open coffin of one of his parishioners, keeping vigil over her body. He carefully placed his tea cup on the floor underneath his chair and made his way over to the large vestry door.

Sean McGuire's cadaverous frame stood hunched in the doorway. Father Anthony offered his hand as support and led Sean through the vestry and along the short corridor towards his kitchen. Danny followed closely behind with Niamh clinging to him, her arms wrapped tightly round his neck.

'Anyone we know, Father?' asked Danny as he passed the coffin.

'No! One of the invisibles! Her husband died a few years ago and she has no family over here to mourn her passing, but a great woman nonetheless. A fighter. Used her wit and humour to fight her battles, not guns and fists,' said the priest pointedly. 'But you're not here for a lecture. Does anyone want anything to drink? Doctor Campbell's on his way; should be here any minute.'

'Tea would be grand, Father,' replied Danny. 'I'm sorry to put you through this, but we didn't know where else to go.'

Father Anthony waved his hand dismissively and said, 'I'm not doing this for you, Danny, I'm doing it for your mother.'

Sean lifted his head and spoke in a quiet voice. 'All the same, we appreciate it, Father.'

The priest gave Sean a look. 'I spoke at your last funeral, Sean, and I don't intend to do the same at your next one. I can't think of another occasion when I've had to minister to someone I've already buried, but these are strange times. As far as I can make out it doesn't mention anything in the Bible about it being wrong or a sin to help a dead man. In fact I would argue that is the very tenet of the bloody thing anyway: looking after the dead . . .' He paused for a second and smiled ruefully. 'In particular, the ones that have come back to life.'

Chapter 44.

Marie's apartment, Tuscaloosa Friday

Marie tipped two heaped spoonfuls of freshly ground coffee into a pot and filled it almost to the brim with boiling water. 'How do you take it?'

'Black, please,' answered Jeff Kneller through a hacking cough. 'Who did you get to represent you?' he continued eventually. 'I hope you didn't plump for that idiot the court were going to appoint: Geraldine Fitz, she's a bloody nightmare.'

Marie bit her lip as she handed Kneller a steaming mug of coffee. 'Went for Mr Larsson. He seems okay, but his summary took longer to read than it did for me to live through the actual events.'

'Yeah, he does go on a bit, but once he gets going he's very good; covers all the angles,' replied Kneller.

Her living room was now clear of all the boxes; most of their contents were packed away in drawers and cupboards. But despite her best efforts to make it feel more homely, the apartment felt strangely empty.

She was smartly dressed, but wishing she'd opted for casual.

Jeff Kneller sat awkwardly on the sofa it was too low down for a guy wearing a suit, and the whites of his shins were showing above his faded black socks.

'You sure I shouldn't have my lawyer present for this meeting?' asked Marie.

'This is an "after hours" visit: I'm not on duty, more of a social call.'

Kneller looked uncomfortable without the support of his partner.

'Are you going out?' he asked.

Marie smiled. 'No. I have this strange need to look respectable whenever I'm around a grown-up. I thought the suit would make me look more . . . organised.'

She was hoping he would smile back and make her feel that she wasn't quite as dumb as she sounded, but Kneller just nodded.

'Got a couple of questions I'd like to ask, then I'll leave you to enjoy the rest of your evening.'

'Sounds official,' said Marie. 'Where's your boyfriend?'

Kneller knew she was referring to his partner, Joe Evelyn, but he didn't take the bait. 'Where's yours?' he replied.

'Is that one of the questions?'

'I promise you, this is just to satisfy my own curiosity. If you feel uncomfortable with what I'm asking, don't answer. I want to spend my retirement in peaceful contemplation, not worrying over unsolved mysteries or wondering which if any of the bad guys are still out there lurking in the shadows. Besides, it doesn't look like you'll need a lawyer at all. The only solid piece of evidence we had on you was the letter you wrote to Finn O'Hanlon . . .' Kneller looked embarrassed as he finished the sentence. ' . . . and that's been misplaced.'

'Misplaced?' said Marie.

Kneller gave a slight shrug. 'No one knows where it is. The asshole whose job it was to file it put it down somewhere, but can't remember where. It may still turn up, but we can't go to a prosecutor and say, "We have evidence, but do you mind waiting till we find it again?" A simple case of ineptitude, but one that works in your favour.'

Marie was surprised at how candid Kneller was being with her, but she kept her thoughts to herself. 'Are you old enough to retire?' she asked.

'By rights I should have another nine years to serve, but ill health doesn't come with an age limit, and I cut a deal with my doctor. Which reminds me: d'you mind if I smoke?'

Marie shook her head. 'Only if I can have one too.'

Kneller pulled out a packet of Marlboros and offered them to Marie before taking one himself. 'Don't suppose you have a light?' he asked.

Marie took his cigarette from him and crossed over to the hob. She lit hers first then pushed the tip of Kneller's cigarette against hers and lit it too.

'What d'you want to know?' she asked, blowing a small cloud of smoke out across the room.

'Is Sean McGuire/Finn O'Hanlon or whatever he likes to call himself still in the country?'

'No.'

'Do you know where he is?'

Marie shrugged her shoulders. 'I think he's gone back to Ireland, but I've no idea where.'

'Did he kill De Garza?'

Marie looked surprised. She'd seen the news reports. It was a huge story, making not only the local news, but the national as well.

Everybody had a theory as to who had organised the hit on De Garza the guy had a lot of enemies but it had never once crossed her mind that Sean was somehow involved. 'I'm pretty sure not.'

'His brother?'

Marie shrugged again. 'I honestly don't know.'

'Did you know that Finn O'Hanlon was his assumed name: that he was living here under a false passport and his name was Sean McGuire?'

'I didn't know that from the off, but I did find out later,' said Marie.

'He used to be involved with the IRA and at one point was being groomed for the leadership.'

'That I didn't know,' answered Marie truthfully.

'We've had some preliminary contact with the British authorities and the one thing that none of us can work out is why they sent his brother over to assassinate him?' Kneller sounded like he was asking her a question.

'I have no idea. Everything happened so fast, like an avalanche of events, but at no point did we all sit round a table and discuss why we were all present, in these circumstances, at that moment in time, y'know what I mean? The only thing I would say is that Danny seemed more surprised to see Sean than Sean was to see Danny. In a weird way it was almost as if Sean was expecting it to be his brother.'

'And the night you were over at O'Hanlon/Sean McGuire's apartment collecting his belongings, that was the first time you'd come across Ardel and Hud.'

'A few weeks ago I'd never heard of any of them. If that asshole Conrado hadn't come into my place of work and started shooting the place up like he was at a goddamn fairground, then I would be sitting here in my pyjamas watching the news wondering who all these fucked-up people were and how they ended up getting involved in so much shit. I'm one of life's observers, Jeff, I'm not a participant. I shouldn't be standing here in my own apartment, with a goddamn suit on cast in one of the leading roles.'

Kneller nodded quietly to himself for a few moments. He seemed to have made his mind up about something.

'Culo Conrado was an asshole, Vincent Lee Croll was an asshole and Hernando De Garza was twenty different sorts of asshole rolled into one. There's no one in my department mourning their loss. Whoever terminated those suckers did us a favour as far as I'm concerned. The trouble with people like De Garza is, he was very influential. You can't shoot an asshole as big as that and not expect to get covered in shit. His murder has created a power vacuum that's going to cause an explosion, with shock waves that will destroy a lot of people. There will be certain colleagues of his looking for revenge and others who are glad to see the back of him and hoping to fill his shoes. Now, it makes no odds to me if they want to fight it out amongst themselves, but my worry is that if we prosecute you for aiding and abetting Sean McGuire the man who shot Cola Conrado then the newshounds will get their teeth into it and make the connection between Conrado and De Garza. If that happens you are going to be linked however tenuously to De Garza's death. Chances are you're going to have some very nasty people knocking on your door. And they won't be here for a coffee and a smoke.'

Marie's expression was grave. She was standing with her back against the kitchen worktop, but she needed to sit down. She wondered if Kneller could see that her legs were trembling under her black gabardine slacks. 'Why are you telling me this?'

'I'm here to deliver a warning. I'm not trying to scare you, just give you the information and let you make up your own mind. There's a very strong possibility that all the charges against you will be dropped now. To my mind that's the right decision. I believe you when you say you were an innocent in all this. That's not to say you didn't go along with what was happening, but you're not a criminal. If I were you I'd take the opportunity to go away for a while, certainly move to a different address, better still get out of the state. The press still have a lot of questions and if you're not here to answer them, there's not much they can do.'

'I've just finished unpacking,' said Marie.

'You still got the boxes?'