‘And the neighbours? What do we know about their movements?’

‘All accounted for. They’re what you’d expect: labouring men, or unemployed. A couple of the women run fruit and vegetable barrows on Camden Street. One or two of the working men were out and about, but they all gave alibis. We’re cross-checking them, but so far they seem solid.’

Duck Boyle made a loud harrumph. Swallow had become well-accustomed to this signalling of an impending pronouncement in the years when Boyle was crime inspector in Exchange Court.

‘It is me own experience, an’ I speak with rank and seniority,’ he intoned, ‘that a crime like this is rarely a random act. There’s a motive somewhere but we’re just not seein’ it yet.’

‘Very true, superintendent.’ Swallow could not fully conceal his sarcasm. ‘The truth is,’ he added in a more conciliatory tone, ‘we’re seeing very little.’

Boyle shrugged. ‘All I can do is put every man I have out on the beats tonight. Question everyone they encounter. I’ll get the off-duty lads out buckshee in plain clothes. They’re bloody keen, all of them. We don’t know if this killer could strike agin’, do we? If nothin’ else we’ll do our damnedest to ensure there’s no repeat.’

Swallow nodded. In fairness to Boyle, his instinct was protective. Not every superintendent always put the care of the community ahead of administrative police convenience. The ‘buckshees’ were young uniformed men who aspired to detective work. Given an opportunity, they would often work in plain clothes to prove their mettle. Putting them out on the street in numbers was a wise move.

‘Fair enough,’ he responded. ‘Mr Mallon’s already had Commissioner Harrel on to him. If he can tell him we’re doing everything we can to keep the streets safe, that’s at least better than nothing.’

The conference broke up with nods of agreement, but Swallow could sense the air of dejection. The atmosphere would be very different if there was a clear line of inquiry or if there were solid clues to be followed up.

‘What’s next, boss?’ Pat Mossop asked.

‘I’ll go to visit the Widow Flannery and her kids out at Blackberry Lane,’ Swallow said. ‘I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.’

Chapter 7

The murmur of prayers carried the length of the darkened Blackberry Lane as Swallow and Mossop made their way slowly through the throng of neighbours gathered outside the small cottage. Mercifully, the rain had eased off and men and women knelt bare-headed around the door, picking up the responses to the Rosary.

They stepped into the room where Bridget Flannery knelt beside her daughter’s body. Two candles flickered on a makeshift trestle, scenting the low-ceilinged space with oily smoke. A heavy-set priest of perhaps fifty years, in surplice and stole, stood beside the sobbing woman, giving out the prayers in a solemn recitation.