Two golden retrievers were patrolling the gates of Michael Fingleton's south Dublin home this week, warding off callers with their piercing barks.
In the driveway of the disgraced banker's detached residence in the coastal suburb of Shankill, his navy Jaguar shimmered in the midday sun, but uninvited guests met silence at the intercom.
The former chief of basket-case building society Irish Nationwide, whose catastrophic lending spree saddled the taxpayer with a bailout bill of €5.4bn, has become an expert in the art of lying low.
For a man whose mobile phone number was once on speed dial to every business journalist in the land and whose legendary lunches peppered the pages of social diaries, it's quite a turnaround.
Since his toxic bank came crashing down more than two years ago, he has only spoken once in public and then it was under duress when he was cornered by RTé business reporter David Murphy in Dublin Airport last August.
At the time, he breathlessly admitted to feeling remorse for what had happened to Ireland as a result of banks like his, but could not shed light on why he had refused to return a €1m 'performance' bonus taken by him before he left the society in 2009 and after the bank guarantee.
But in the coming days, a subpoena will be served at his door compelling him to attend an employment appeals tribunal in September.
There, he will be forced to answer allegations that he presided over disastrously lax lending practices at INBS and respond to damning claims by staff that he subjected them to 'a culture of fear'.
The case against the INBS is being taken by one of the Sligo septuagenarian's branch managers, Brendan Beggan (48), a former Monaghan GAA star who was once part of Fingleton's golden circle but was dismissed in July 2009.
Beggan, who is understood to have outstanding property loans with the society of €2m, is the partner of another former employee and whistleblower, Olivia Greene. Last year, she revealed Fingleton fast-tracked loans to Fianna Fáil politicians, including €1.6m for former European Commissioner Charlie McCreevy.
For a man not used to being told what to do, Fingleton is unlikely to relish the prospect of the autumn imposition. This week, one friend who was willing to speak about his current frame of mind, says his dramatic downfall has left him "broken, miserable and distraught". He also feels completely misunderstood.
"There are two sides to every story and we will wait and see what happens in September," says the close associate.
"But even though he is a public hate-figure second only to Seanie Fitz, the whole thing has taken a massive toll on him.
"I spoke to him a few weeks ago and he is as down as down could be. He is hurting very badly. His whole world has fallen down around him.
'Nobody sees him any more. He can barely go outside the door. I don't think he has played a game of golf since the whole thing happened.
"He feels shocking hard done by. He thinks he did nothing wrong.
"It's hard for the man in the street to understand this -- but think about it.
"He worked seven days a week for almost 40 years building up that business. He gave his whole life to it.
"He transformed it from a tiny firm with four people to an institution that was the envy of the financial world in Europe -- only to see it shredded to ribbons along with his career.
"Yes, in hindsight some of the lending was very wrong, but the criteria were very loose at the time and he committed no crime. He feels he got hung, drawn and quartered for the Seanie Fitz loans."
(Over eight years, the INBS provided short-term loans for tens of millions of euro to Sean FitzPatrick, enabling the former chairman of Anglo Irish Bank to conceal the extent of his own borrowings when the auditors were in town.)
"He never signed off on those loans," his friend claims.
"The truth is that the blame really lies at the feet of much bigger people than Michael Fingleton."
This time last year, seething tax-payers were able to glean some fleeting satisfaction from the sight of FitzPatrick, who owes state-owned Anglo €110m, being declared bankrupt by the High Court.
But with Fingleton, there is an impression that he has got away scot-free, greedily clinging on to the €1m bonus he promised to return and his privileged boom-time lifestyle.
In April, he mingled with Prince Albert of Monaco at a private K Club dinner hosted by old friend Michael Smurfit, an outing that did little to alleviate that perception.
But the reality is not so clear-cut. There's no denying the massive salary, the €27m pension pot, the fancy car and the holiday home in Marbella, but some who know the man who headed up Ireland's original subprime lender claim he was never driven by material wealth but used money purely as a measure of his success and power.
There's evidence of that, for instance, in his choice of address for the last 40 years. Compared to the extravagant piles that litter nearby Killiney Hill, the Fingleton family home 'Liskillen' is distinctly modest, sandwiched between a Travellers' halting site, a major sewage works and one of the biggest council estates in south Dublin.
His apparent lack of interest in the good life is also reflected in the frugal nature of the INBS offices. Fingleton's successor at the firm, Gerry McGinn, who has been left to clean up the multi-billion euro mess left by its ex-boss, was surprised to find only two meeting rooms for customers at head office on Dublin's Grand Parade.
McGinn described this minimalist design as proof that only 'one guy made the decisions' in the firm, but even some of Fingleton's most outspoken critics accept they never saw the trappings of wealth around him. If anything, he was thrifty when it came to spending, they suggest.
"To be fair, there was never any sign of a lavish lifestyle," says Brendan Burgess, founder of Askaboutmoney.ie and member of INBS who has led a decade-long campaign against its former boss.
"He drives a good car and had lunch in a nice restaurant every Sunday but his office was rather spartan. He didn't tend to spend money. He used to boast about having the lowest costs for a bank in almost the whole world."
One friend points back to Fingleton's early adulthood, which began in a seminary in Sligo and included a spell as an aid worker in Africa.
"He is still very much that priest even though he didn't take his final vows. He's not interested in the flash things in life. During the good times, people would fill his office with bottles of whiskey and hampers but he never took so much as a matchbox from them. He just wasn't interested.
"His sustenance came from the fact that he had built up that business from nothing. These days, when he wakes up, if he sleeps at all, I'd say he thinks the whole thing is an incredible nightmare."
But sympathy is a scarce commodity in Fingleton's life today and, as he approaches his 80s, he is unlikely to ever see the day when he can walk down the street without being subjected to filthy looks and stinging insults.
"It's hard to feel any pity for him," says Brendan Burgess.
"Fair enough, he doesn't have much now. He was a man of great wealth at one stage but his original €27m pension fund has been affected by changes in stock values.
"People keep harping on about the €1m bonus and why he hasn't given it back. I don't like the guy. I don't like what he's done but we need to move on. Irish Nationwide is a €5bn problem not a €1m one.
"But Fingleton is getting what he gave to others. He was a predatory lender. He put people through the wringer. He went after them. He caused enormous damage to their lives.
"What's the worst thing that can happen to him after all of this? It's not as if he will be out on the street."
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