Finally, he spoke. ‘Of course, we knew who you were,’ he smiled, and I felt myself redden. ‘We were having a bit of fun with you,’ he added, smirking and taking another drag.

‘We assumed your brother had planted you. But there was only one way we could know for sure.’

I frowned. What is it with these people?

‘The lads agreed to let slip some dynamite information your way. We sat with the Sunday News every week, to see if any of it appeared. When it didn’t, we were a little disappointed, to be honest. Your brother’s been a right pain in the arse for us. We were hoping for payback. But we realised you weren’t biting.’

He took a mouthful of tea so I could catch up.

‘Listen, Donal, thanks for telling me what you know. But we’re all over it.’

‘You are?’

‘We know certain officers are selling information to newspapers, and to private investigators. But it’s far more complicated than you think.’

My mind flashed back to Fintan, in the shadow of Buck Palace, railing against people in power and their secret agendas. There must be plenty in power who’d much rather avoid a scandal of this magnitude in the police force.

Shep put out his fag and swallowed the last remnants of his tea.

‘I have to ask you,’ he said, ‘can you carry on working at the Feathers, but for us? You could really help us build a case. All you’d have to do is tell me everything you see and hear, maybe ask a few questions.’

‘I don’t know. It sounds risky.’

‘Your role would be known only to me. I’d protect you. You have my word on that.’

‘I, I don’t think so …’

‘Would you be willing to make a statement about what you just told me?’

‘I’d rather not. He’s flesh and blood, after all.’

‘I had to ask,’ said Shep, smiling to let me know he’d expected my answer. He got to his feet and pulled his coat from the back of the chair: ‘What are your plans now?’

‘I’m not even going back,’ I said, ‘Seamus scares the shit out of me.’

Shep laughed: ‘Have you anything else lined up?’

‘No.’ I shrugged.

‘Why don’t you join the Met?’ he said. ‘You’d make a decent detective. I’ll even put in a word.’

Now here I found myself, two years on, back at the Feathers. I walked in to find nothing had changed, except the bar staff – both bleach blonde Aussie surfer types. I recognised some of the old regulars but managed to skirt around their half-cut eyelines to reach a low-profile table in the far corner of the lounge.

Why had Shep invited me here? Maybe he had decided to bump me up to Acting Detective Constable? By the time he strode through the door, I’d convinced myself that this had to be the case.

Like everyone in London that scorching August, he looked a little sweaty and steamed up.

I remembered how few senior officers derived so much obvious satisfaction at being called ‘Guv’ than Shep, or being stood a drink.

‘Afternoon, Guv,’ I said, getting to my feet, ‘what can I get you?’

I delivered his double neat scotch and sat where he told me.

‘Right, the reason I wanted to meet you is to make sure I’m not going mad.’

‘Guv?’

He leaned forward, conspiratorially: ‘You were the first officer on the scene of Marion Ryan’s murder, correct?’

‘Yes, Guv.’

‘And tell me what conclusions you made please, on that night, about the crime?’

I chose my words carefully, as if being cross-examined in court: ‘Well I assumed she’d let her killer in. There were no signs of a forced entry or a struggle, either at the front door or at the door into their flat. We found her at the top of the stairs on the landing, with her keys, post, coat and a handbag that hadn’t been touched. I think she let her killer in.’

‘Precisely,’ boomed Shep, sitting bolt upright, ‘she must have let the person or people who killed her into 21 Sangora Road. Marion knew this person or these people so well that she even stopped to pick up her post as they chatted. She then unlocked the door to her flat and invited them inside.’

I sensed that this clandestine rendezvous wasn’t about my career after all but nodded eagerly, just in case.

‘But of course DS Glenn doesn’t think so. Or at least the so-called criminologists he surrounds himself with don’t think so. They think that she was murdered by a maniac who barged in when she unlocked the front door. What do you think of that, Lynch?’ he barked, like a Headmaster challenged by an upstart pupil.

‘Well it’s a possibility, of course. I assume he has other supporting evidence to pursue that line?’

‘Shall I tell you what DS Glenn is, Lynch? He’s a politician. And you know what politicians do?’

I shook my head.

‘They jump on bandwagons, Lynch. And they try to ride them all the way to the top.’

Shep registered my confusion.

‘DS Glenn has been seduced by cod science,’ he spat. ‘He’s been bringing in these forensic criminal profilers on his investigations. Have you heard about those, Lynch?’

I’d read all about profiling in the criminology correspondence course I’d failed to finish. The results had impressed me.

‘Yes, Sir, I’ve read a lot about it, as it happens.’

‘What do you think of it, Lynch? Be honest with me now.’

I knew that I shouldn’t be honest with him, now or probably ever, if I was going to get that promotion.

‘Well, Sir, in the cases I read about, profiling certainly helped narrow down the list of suspects.’

‘Precisely,’ boomed Shep, he loved that word. ‘It narrows down the list of suspects but it doesn’t go out and gather evidence against them and catch them, does it?’

I shook my head, trapped as I was in the eye of his rhetorical storm.

‘Most of it is plain common sense, isn’t it? I mean if there’s a serial rapist out there, then of course he’s going to be aged between twenty and forty-five, ugly, awkward with women, loves his old mum, lives alone, bashes off to porn, has a menial job, poor personal hygiene and no friends. I mean you don’t fucking say?’

I had to laugh. Shep enjoyed being a comedian. I then realised that, at certain points in my life, I matched five if not six of the characteristics he’d just listed. I stopped laughing.

‘You don’t need to spend seven years studying a pile of “ologies” to tell me that, do you, Lynch? But, if you believe the Scotland Yard PR machine, profiling is the future of detective work. Have you seen the articles about DS Glenn and his “progressive, groundbreaking work” with Professor Richards? Of course the Commissioner loves it. Makes us sound like we’ve cracked some sort of secret code to catching baddies. There’s a room full of the fuckers now at Scotland Yard, taking up desks that should belong to detectives.’

I wondered where all this was heading, and hoped it would get there soon. Lately, at any time of the day, there was a good chance I might nod off.

‘DS Glenn and all these careerists have pulled off a very clever trick, Lynch. They are abdicating responsibility, by stealth. It’s now up to these profilers to lead us to the offenders. When we arrest a suspect these days, it’s up to the Crown Prosecution Service to press charges. This used to be the responsibility of senior officers like me. But slowly they’re redesigning it all so that nothing can come back on the big chiefs. If you don’t have to make any decisions then you can’t make any mistakes. This is the new hands-off, political world we’re living in, Lynch.’

I could see Shep winding his mind back pre-rant, to what we were supposed to be talking about.

‘So of course DS Glenn is now in thrall to this Professor Richards. Anything Professor Richards says is gospel. So Professor Richards has decided that Marion’s murder was the work of a Lone Wolf Killer, who’d stalked her for days. They’re linking it to these other attacks in South London later that week. A Swedish nanny got harassed on the Common. And a woman living about a mile away reported a down-and-out running up to her, verbally abusing her and pushing her back through her front door. Now I might not have gone to university, Lynch, but I know a crock of shit when I see one. Anyway, guess what, it’s not DS Glenn’s problem anymore.’