‘Sometimes, you know, when they fetch in some young person who doesn’t have a mark on them, I wish so much that I could will them back to life,’ said Dr Kelley. ‘I wish so much that I could say, open your eyes, breathe, start your heart beating again, and that they’d throw back the sheet and climb off the trolley and throw their arms around me and say thank you. But of course they never do.’

The door opened, and Roisin’s parents came in, accompanied by one of the hospital receptionists.

‘Mr and Mrs Carroll,’ said the receptionist, and gave Katie an intense look as if to say, Caution… not very friendly people.

Roisin’s mother was small and plump. She was brushing fluff from the sleeve of her coat, and frowning as if her daughter’s premature death had irritated her more than caused her grief. She had a shapeless black felt hat perched on top of her head with a bedraggled black feather in it, and a worn green mock-crocodile handbag was hanging off her arm.

Her father was tall and thin with a large nose and a fine billowing wave of white hair. He was wearing a toffee-brown coat with padded shoulders that were too wide for him. His shirt collar was curled up, and his thin black tie was askew. He had missed a bit when he was shaving, so he had left a patch of prickly white stubble on the left side of his chin.

Dr Kelley introduced herself. ‘I’m the Assistant State Pathologist, and this is Detective Superintendent Kathleen Maguire. You have our condolences for your loss.’

Without a word, Mr and Mrs Carroll went up to the window and stared at Roisin lying in the next room.

After a while, Mrs Carroll said, ‘She’s grown her hair. I never liked her with long hair.’

‘I understand you haven’t seen her in a while,’ said Katie.

‘Not since she got herself knocked up, no,’ said her father.

‘So you haven’t yet seen your granddaughter?’

‘No.’

‘I’m told that she’s made a good recovery. Will you be taking care of her, when she’s discharged?’

‘I suppose we’ll have to,’ said her mother, still staring at Roisin. Katie could hear the resentment in her voice. How dare you have an illegitimate child and then die so that we’re obliged to look after her for you? Like, how selfish is that?

‘The first thing we’ll do is talk to Father Francis to see if we can have the wain baptized,’ said her father. ‘Otherwise there’s no way we’ll be able to take her to Mass on a Sunday, will we, and what will the neighbours say then?’