His face was gaunt and yellowed, his eyes bloodless, his chin sandpapered with stubble so light in colour, it appeared grey. His left shoulder was bulky with the dressing beneath his T-shirt, his arm still suspended in a sling. I smelled hospital disinfectant as he took the seat opposite. Looking at him, I instinctively reached up to my own shoulder where the burn wound seemed to have settled. I turned on the twin recorders on the table in front of us and introduced myself and Joe McCready, then Kielty and the duty solicitor. ‘I’m sorry about Ms McEvoy,’ I said, after cautioning Kielty. He nodded. ‘It’s a pity it came to this,’ I said. He straightened himself in the chair, wincing as he moved his left arm. ‘Came to what?’ ‘Let’s start with Ian Hamill, shall we?’ ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I took out the pictures we had on file of the three leaders of The Rising. ‘Do you know anyone here?’ I had expected him to stonewall me, but after a short pause, Kielty decided to do himself a favour, and thumped his index finger onto the picture of Armstrong.
