‘They are but children. The eldest boy is Daniel. Dan. He is apprenticed as a barman. About seventeen I’d say. A fine young man. Extremely devoted to his faith. Perhaps unusually so, compared to most young men of his age and circumstances. He attends Mass daily. His mother would have wished him to have gone on for further education. The Christian Brothers at Synge Street would have taken him without any requirement for fees. He would have made a fine brother himself, or even gone forwards to the priesthood perhaps. He served as an altar boy here at Mary Immaculate. Indeed, he served my Mass many times, and his devotion to his faith was manifest. But the household needed his income.’

Swallow stood. ‘Thank you for your time, Monsignor Feehan. It’s very helpful to have an understanding of the poor girl’s circumstances. If you think of anything else you’d like to tell me, please send word to the G-Division office at Exchange Court.’

He moved to the door. ‘There’s one other detail I should mention. The city medical examiner, Dr Lafeyre, found an extensive area of injury on the girl’s left leg. A burning or scalding perhaps. It would appear to have been relatively recent. Certainly not an injury from childhood. Would you have any knowledge, perhaps from conversation with her mother, what might have caused it?’

Feehan’s face flushed. ‘Mr Swallow, it is presumptuous almost to the point of obscenity to suggest that I would have any such . . . anatomical knowledge of a young female parishioner. You may consider yourself fortunate if I do not report your effrontery to your authorities.’ He gestured to the door. ‘Please, let yourselves out.’

They crossed the darkened roadway and hailed a cab at Portobello Bridge. It stopped short of the Castle at The Long Hall on South Great George’s Street, where Swallow ordered a large Tullamore, and a pint of Guinness’s stout for Mossop. Mossop kept a tactful silence while the head settled on the porter.

‘They’re not all quite as obnoxious as that monsignor, Pat,’ Swallow told him, downing half of his Tullamore.

‘Ah, sure, I know, boss. Your friend Father Lawrence down there with the Franciscans on Merchants’ Quay is a gentleman. This monsignor is a fella with a high opinion of himself.’

Swallow allowed himself a grin. ‘Other than his manners, what did you think?’

Mossop took a gulp from his pint. ‘Manipulative. Guarded. Nervous behind the bluster. Odd how the mother told us that he knew the girl well. I think she said “all the priests knew her”, but your monsignor acts as if he’d only ever seen her occasionally. You could say there’s a bit of an inconsistency there.’

Swallow nodded.

‘It was almost as if she saw him as a spokesman for the family. But he doesn’t see it that way, does he?’