‘Just to say that we’re continuing to search around the offices for the protection logs but so far we haven’t had a lot of luck. I wanted you to know that we’re doing all we can.’

Mallon looked him in the eye.

‘Yes, Swallow, thank you. I understand exactly what you’re saying to me. I’ve already had a further query this morning from the office of the assistant under-secretary. I’ve assured him that no stone is being left unturned in the search. And what’s the other matter you want to raise?’

Swallow grinned.

‘You’ve told me often enough that I should, ah . . . pop the question to Mrs Walsh. So I’ve done it. And we’re tying the knot down at Merchants’ Quay on Saturday. Maria, the soon to be Mrs Swallow, and I would be honoured if you and Mrs Mallon might be in attendance.’

Mallon’s face broke into a smile that Swallow rarely associated with the man who headed G-Division.

‘Swallow, my friend, I knew that underneath all that Kildare bone-headedness there was a spark of intelligence. I’m glad to hear of this. She’s a fine woman, and I can tell you that you’re making no mistake. Mrs Mallon and I’ll be there with the greatest of pleasure.’

Thursday November 8th, 1888

Chapter 16

Swallow’s painting class was on Thursday afternoons at the Municipal Art School. Before his promotion he had juggled his leave every week, taking on extra shifts to wheedle the half-day off duty from his then boss at Exchange Court, Inspector ‘Duck’ Boyle. He had thought initially that it would be easier to plot his week’s work at his new rank, but in fact, as he realised quickly, it put him under more pressure to stay with the job. Nonetheless, he rarely missed the class. The Municipal Art School was on Thomas Street, just a few minutes’ walk from Exchange Court.

He took a pork chop with potatoes and parsnip for his midday meal at the police canteen in the Lower Yard. Another blast of chilly November rain, driven before a sharp northern wind, hit him full in the face as he stepped through the Palace Street gate. He turned his coat collar up, jammed his bowler down on his head and set off towards Thomas Street.

He had always been a sketcher, drawing birds, animals, trees and buildings around the scenes of his childhood in rural Kildare. The family finances did not allow for the purchase of sketch pads, but his pencil and charcoal drawings filled the pages of innumerable school copybooks. He had never painted, and it was Maria’s sister, Lily, who taught a weekly painting class at the Art School who had suggested that he should enrol with her.