Our levels of shock are inversely proportionate to number of murders

Trevor O’Neill was murdered, shot when he was doing something that an ordinary father would do, writes Alison O’Connor

WE GOT chatting in a Dublin city centre café. After exchanging a few pleasantries the man began to tell a story of how he had been driving just off the South Circular Rd in Dublin this day last week.

As he drove he heard a succession of loud noises. It was, as they say in all the best crime stories, broad daylight, and traffic was quite heavy. It was also very near a part of Dublin in which I used to live. A passenger apparently asked: “What was that?” to which the he replied: “Gunshots.” Just then they saw a man run out of the back of a house into a waiting car, a small one, most likely he thinks a Micra or a Fiesta. The car drove towards them on the opposite side of the road. As it passed them they got a clear view of the driver and the guy they assumed to be the shooter who was wearing sunglasses and a hat, so not identifiable. “Let’s see how long it takes for us to hear the sirens,” he said to his passenger. That took, if I remember correctly from what he said, eight minutes. By that time they were out on to the city quays.