‘I’d be less than honest if I told you we’re going to be able to do that, Father,’ Swallow said. ‘Usually there’s a fairly clear motive, and that can point us towards the perpetrator, but as of now we don’t have any idea why it happened. She was just a young waitress on her way home from work.’

‘According to the newspaper she worked in the church on Rathmines Road,’ Lawrence said. ‘It must be a terrible shock to the community out there.’

‘She worked part-time as a cleaner out at the Church of Mary Immaculate. I went out to talk to the parish priest there, Monsignor Feehan. Do you know him?’

The old friar frowned.

‘No. Only by repute. But I’m told he’s a very difficult man. A terrible snob too, by all accounts. There was talk that he would be assigned to the Pro-Cathedral, but I think the priests there objected to the appointment and persuaded Archbishop Walsh to send him elsewhere. I’d say he’d be straight enough though.’

‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ Swallow said. ‘He told me we’d get nowhere. He hoped I was a good hunter.’

He finished his whiskey and stood.

‘Winter isn’t a great time for hunting, though. I think I need a miracle, Father,’ he laughed. ‘Can you do anything about that?’

Lawrence was solemn.

‘Miracles are reserved to the Lord, Joe. And I don’t know if he’s that much in favour of hunting anyway.’

Chapter 12

Young Daniel Flannery gave no trouble to the G-men who picked him up at the cottage in Blackberry Lane. His employer, Tom Coyle, had given him time off work in the circumstances of his sister’s tragic death. On Sunday in particular, the trade at Coyle’s would be light, and he could manage without the services of his young cellar man.

‘You told us you worked until midnight on Friday,’ Swallow said after he had introduced himself. ‘But our information is that you were gone from Coyle’s by half past eleven.’

Flannery sat opposite in a straight chair in the crime inspector’s office. He was well composed, Swallow reckoned, and not visibly distressed by being asked to come in to Exchange Court. He was neatly turned out, in a suit that was pressed and clean, albeit of cheap cloth and indifferent cut. Swallow could not decide at first whether it was confidence or defiance he saw in the young man’s face.

‘Can you explain that?’

Flannery’s features seemed to harden.

‘First, Mr Swallow, you should understand that I am an Irish nationalist. I like to be known as Domhnal Ó Flanbharra. I’m a proud member of the Gaelic Union. I’m tellin’ you now that I have no enmity agin’ you, but I reject your authority as an agent of the English Crown.’

He paused.