The rain cut across his cheeks as he made his way up the Lower Yard to the back entrance to Exchange Court. He climbed the stairs to the inspector’s office. It was empty, as he had hoped. He took the key to the storage cabinet from the wall-rack and brought the heavy logs out onto the table, almost a dozen in all. Then he used a pair of canvas straps with metal buckles, standard issue from Her Majesty’s Stationery Office for binding heavy files, to make two bundles. He retraced his steps down the Lower Yard to the office of the city medical examiner, the two bundles clasped against his chest to protect them from the rain.

Lafeyre did most of his official work from the city morgue at Marlborough Street. But the authorities had also provided him with a small, secure room in the Lower Castle Yard, close to the Army Pay Office, to store evidence and files. A duplicate key, for convenience of access, was held in the crime inspector’s office.

Even though the November evening was closing in, Swallow needed no light to navigate the room. He unbundled the books and inserted them one by one into the space behind a storage cupboard that stood immediately inside the door. Stacked flat against the wall, they would be invisible to anyone coming or going through the doorway. He stepped out into the yard and quietly turned the key in the lock.

Chapter 6

The Exchange Court crime conference on the murder of Alice Flannery was depressingly brief. Pat Mossop and Johnny Vizzard had taken a few hours’ rest in the dormitory above the public office before resuming duty. Mick Feore had travelled in from Rathmines with Superintendent ‘Duck’ Boyle and Sergeant Stephen Doolan in a closed cab that protected them from the freezing rain.

A dozen uniformed constables from the search teams sat on wooden forms, smoking and drinking hot tea. Their sodden capes dripped icy water from coat-hooks along the side of the parade room.

‘No suspect in the area,’ Feore summarised gloomily, gesturing to the pages of the murder book. ‘No motive that we know of. No witnesses worth talking about. We’ve got a likely murder weapon though, and plaster casts of a pair of shoes.’

‘Who’s talked to the family? Immediate neighbours?’ Swallow asked

‘I did that,’ Stephen Doolan answered. ‘The mother is Bridget. Works part-time as a cleaner at the church across the Rathmines Road. Jack, the husband, died two years ago. Hit by a load of timber at Grand Canal Dock. One boy, Dan, aged seventeen. He’s apprenticed as a cellar man at Coyle’s public house in Rathmines. The others are just kids, twelve, ten, six and four. The neighbours say they’re a very devout family. If the mother isn’t cleaning the church, she’s praying in it. Young Dan attends Mass every morning and goes to confession every week, it seems.’