‘If you don’t mind, chief, could I brief you on that a bit later? I’ve got to pick up Pat Mossop inside and we need to talk to a potential suspect.’

‘A suspect? Good. Is he in custody?’

‘No, chief. But he might be after Alice Flannery’s funeral Mass.’

Chapter 14

Alice Flannery was buried at Mount Jerome cemetery, near Harold’s Cross, south of Dublin city, on Monday morning after requiem Mass in the Church of Mary Immaculate at Rathmines.

Swallow and Mossop came into the church at the back of the nave and moved up to the transept, selecting a viewing point from which to survey the mourners. ‘Duck’ Boyle and an inspector from the E-district, both uniformed in fulfilment of regulations, solemnly took seats in a pew to the front, behind the row that was customarily reserved for next-of-kin.

The congregation, as Swallow expected, was comprised largely of local people, denizens of Blackberry Lane and the poorer cottages scattered behind the newly developed streets and avenues of the Rathmines township. They crowded deferentially in the middle and back pews, leaving the forward seating for the bereaved family and any important people that might be in attendance.

From his vantage point in the transept, Swallow recognised the figure of Stefan Werner from the New Vienna, seated in the same pew as Boyle and his inspector. His fine Crombie coat contrasted with the poor jackets and shawls that predominated among the mourners in the farther pews.

The coffin containing Alice Flannery’s remains had already been brought from the mortuary chapel and placed on trestles facing the high altar. Bridget Flannery sat, huddled with her children in the front pew. Daniel sat next to his mother, a protective arm around her shoulders, his siblings ranged on his other side. The pews behind the immediate family were filled, according to custom, by the extended family, aunts, uncles and cousins.

The church bell tolled above the dome of St Mary Immaculate at the moment the doors from the sacristy were opened, as by an invisible hand.

‘Father Cavendish, a grand young man, God bless him, Father James,’ an elderly woman in the pew behind the G-men whispered aloud to her neighbour as the celebrant came out to the altar, preceded by two acolytes.

Swallow recognised the young priest who had briefly appeared when he and Mossop had interviewed Monsignor Feehan in the parlour of the parochial house on Saturday.

Swallow saw Mossop pencil the detail into his notebook. There was no sign of Monsignor Feehan, or indeed of any other priests. That was odd, he reasoned, given the involvement of both the dead girl and her mother, however humbly, in the work of the parish. If it were a requiem Mass in his native rural Kildare, Swallow knew, there would be multiple celebrants.