‘The monsignor speaks highly of him. He says he might have gone for the religious life if the family didn’t need his wages. Beyond that I don’t know, chief. We’ll have him in shortly and I’ll be better able to get the measure of him.’

Mallon stood from his chair.

‘Like I said, in my experience piety and intelligence aren’t incompatible with the criminal mind. Indeed, they can sometimes be complementary to it.’

He glanced at his pocket watch.

‘My domestic obligations press on me. Time for Sunday dinner with Mrs Mallon. But just so you should know, I’ve been summoned to the office of the assistant under-secretary for security in the morning. They want to know why I haven’t provided the protection logs on Mr Parnell.’

Swallow nodded.

‘That’s not giving you much time, chief.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of mock-sincerity. ‘But it’s a bit unfortunate, I’d say. You’ve asked me to locate them, and of course we’ve searched; they’re just not to hand. I suppose they’ll be found in due course. But right now they’re not easily located. I’m sure Mr Smith Berry will understand.’

‘I want you with me at that meeting, Swallow. I think it could be a difficult encounter. And I’ll need corroboration that we’re doing all we can to find these damned logs. Be at my office at half past nine.’

In the afternoon, still trying to absorb the impact of what Maria had told him, Swallow walked down from the Castle to the Franciscan monastery by the river on Merchants’ Quay. The water was high, pushed up against the quay walls by a rising tide from the bay. A flotilla of swans made its stately way along the icy surface downriver towards Queen Street Bridge.

Father Lawrence ushered his visitor to the small private parlour overlooking the quay. In contrast with the public areas of the church and monastery it was comfortably warm and furnished, with a fire glowing in the grate. Upon hearing Swallow’s news, the old friar’s eyes lit up with delight.

‘Oh, this is splendid. Splendid indeed.’

He crossed the parlour and reached into the oak sideboard to produce a bottle of Tullamore.

‘This is a little indulgence you introduced me to, Joe. But I keep it for special occasions.’ He winked at Swallow as he poured two sizeable tots. ‘And if ever there was one, this is it.’

He raised his glass.

‘Here’s to Mr and Mrs Swallow and the health of their child—their children, we hope.’

Swallow had not until that moment thought beyond the possibility of one child. The old friar was right, of course. Marriage could mean the coming into the world not just of this child but possibly others as well. It was an arresting thought. He was glad of the whiskey.