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Manor House, North London

Saturday, April 10, 1993; 13.30

The Woodberry housing estate’s basketball courts heaved, the thudding of balls and squealing of trainers sounding like a massacre at a school for mice. A car alarm’s shrill whistle pinged about the tired old tower blocks, like the yelps of a seagull strapped to a high-speed propeller. A souped-up, blacked-out Ford Escort growled past, its drum ’n’ bass heart spreading Kiss FM and fresh defiance.

As I got close to my car, two large men in dark clothes appeared. One leaned against my driver’s door while the other walked towards me.

‘Donal Lynch?’

‘Not me,’ I lied, veering sharply to my left and taking a route between two rows of parked cars.

The car leaner read it well, heading me off where the final two vehicles stood off, face to face, like duelling cowboys.

So did we …

Behind him, a large, blacked-out jeep pulled up. The back door ghosted open.

‘Get in,’ his strong Dublin accent insisted, and I found myself hoping to God this was the IRA. At least I had some leverage with the boyos.

But the acid sizzling my gut told me these were Jimmy Reilly’s grunts, and that he’d dreamed up something diabolical for them to do to me today.