“Pour yourself a whiskey, Nero. Sit down and spit it out,” he told the scrawny little man twisting his tweed cap in the middle of the lounge-room in the Cheapside flat. “There’s still some of those Kit-Kat crisps in the box.” Nero said: “I went back to see that Irish tart. To cut a long story short, she’s shacked up with this big Irish bloke while her old man is stuck in the PoW camp. Tough on the outside, but heart of gold on the inside, she said. Eamonn is his name. She said people take advantage of him, especially some of the IRA supporters in Luton. After a couple of glasses, she told me that first thing this morning, he was up at Luton Hoo with some IRA bloke whom she doesn’t trust. A real mean bastard.” Sowerbutt was on his feet, strapping on his shoulder holster. “Christ, Nero. An IRA attack on Luton Hoo. An attack on the army base."
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