I ran through my calls list to see if there were any I couldn’t ignore. And I decided that, for the moment, the handwritten notes I’d made of this morning’s cases would suffice – the orders would be in from the court office in a day or two, anyway. The only work I wanted to do for the rest of the afternoon was on the Carney case, and that meant neglecting other essentials. But Jeremy Gill was going to be in Cork tomorrow and I needed to have as much knowledge as I could before he arrived. I tried calling Lorcan Lucey, got voicemail, and left a ‘Finn Fitzpatrick, Solicitor’ message and my mobile number, hoping it would pique his interest enough for him to call me back.

‘Back to school time,’ I said aloud.

Almost instantaneously, I was out of my chair, taking the stairs two at a time and on MacSwiney Street, walking at speed in the direction of Deirdre’s old school. I’d think about what I was going to say when I got there along the way.

But five minutes later, I was back in the office. I had forgotten to put the exhibits in my newly purchased lockable box. And I’d forgotten, too, about returning the photos to the Film Festival. No matter, I thought. The photos could wait. I put them, and the exhibits, into the box, locked it, and locked everything into the desk. It wasn’t anything to worry about, I told myself. The photos weren’t of interest to anyone except me.

Most likely, nobody had even noticed they were gone.

12

Built in the late nineteenth century, with more than a nod to the neo-Gothic splendour of William Burges’s St Fin Barre’s Cathedral, St Finbarr’s Catholic University School was something of an oddity. Co-ed since the seventies and, despite its title, an independent school from its inception, it had been founded by a Catholic merchant prince family determined not to be outdone by the city’s numerous Protestant benefactors. Legend had it that the ‘Finbarr’ in the school’s name referred not to St Finbarr of Cork’s first monastic settlement but to Finbarr McCarthy himself, the school’s founder, he of the charity and good works, and never shy when it came to publicising them.

‘Sure you probably know our history, Finn,’ Eoghan MacGiolla said, ushering me into his shockingly palatial office overlooking the Lee. ‘And you’re most welcome to visit, let me add, most welcome indeed, fáilte, but I’m wondering, now, what can I do for you?’

Short and wide, with tightly cut brown hair and a well-fed, fleshy face, Eoghan looked like a man who had a hard time controlling his temper. His back teeth clenched, his mouth faking an unconvincing impression of a smile, I could see that he was having second thoughts about his eager co-operation but tried to smarm my way through his doubts.