He said he would kill whoever had taken his wean. I didn’t admonish him for that. I felt the same way at that moment.

He sounded honest in his answers. Mary went off with her class to confirmation (just as Miss Stevens had told me), dressed in her finery. She never came back. He almost broke down as he said this. I thought in that moment, here’s a guy who thought he was in control of his family, belt and all. Then some unknown fucker blows it all sky high.

I asked to speak to Mrs McIntyre alone. He didn’t like that, but I insisted. She changed when he left the room. She looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Whoever took her will kill her, won’t they?’ What could I say to that? I said something stupid like, ‘There’s time yet to find her.’ Her eyes went misty then. I thought she would cry. Then she pulled herself together and that same direct look was back. ‘My boy Robbie doesn’t like Father Feeney. He says he does things to kids. Robbie’s different.’ She indicated the closed door. ‘I know that. His father doesn’t.’ She looked frightened. ‘You mustn’t tell him.’ I asked if she trusted Father Feeney. ‘He’s a priest,’ she said. ‘A man of God. It would be blasphemous not to.’ I asked about Karen. ‘She’s a nice wee girl,’ she said. ‘Quiet. Her dad’s strict with her, being a policeman. The girls get on well together.’ I wanted to ask about what Mrs Marshall had said, but put it a different way. Did Mary have a boyfriend? She gasped at that. ‘She’s only eleven, well, almost twelve,’ then she looked away. So no boys hanging around? ‘Dave would never allow that,’ she said.

Robbie was next. A fourteen-year-old, he gave me a look that suggested he thought I was a likely enemy. I thought, this boy can go either way, and if his mother’s right about him, whatever road he takes it will be a hard one. He resembled his missing sister, with a wild head of dark curly hair on top, and cut short round the sides. He sat hunched and defensive, giving a swift glance now and again at the belt, which was the only thing on the wall apart from a crucifix. I wondered how soon the boy would reject the beatings and turn on his father. Not long.

When I asked him what he knew, he told me to check out the priest. ‘He likes altar boys.’ He gave me a look that suggested he did more than just like them. And girls? He laughed then. ‘Not so popular,’ he said. So why ask the priest about Mary? He sat up at that. ‘Father Feeney has friends. Fancy friends.’ When I asked who, he shook his head. ‘That’s for you to find out, detective.’ I asked if Mary had a boyfriend. ‘She’s fucking eleven.’ Nearly twelve, I said. Any boys or men hanging about her? ‘There’s a weirdo at the shops flashes her and Karen,’ he says. ‘And smart Alec up the road talks dirty when the girls play tennis in the street. I told them to ignore him. Plus one of the altar boys, Gerry Ryan, had a notion on Mary. I sorted him out too.’