‘I don’t think they were aiming at him. He just happened to be there. Don’t ask me why. You know what he’s like. The man can’t rest.’

Tess swallowed. Her mother hadn’t answered the question she’d asked. ‘Is he … He’s not dead, is he? I mean, on the radio they said he was injured, but I thought they might be holding back information. “Until the family is informed”. That’s what they say, isn’t it?’ She was babbling. Pins and needles ran up and down her arms.

‘Lord, no,’ said her mother. ‘He’s in hospital.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Between you and me, he’s not in great condition. He’s in Intensive Care. Flan’s in a state, though, and I don’t want to make him any worse.’ Her voice rose again. ‘We’re setting off shortly. We’re waiting for Lauren. She’s going to drive. If there’s one thing both Flan and I hate, it’s the traffic in Dublin.’

Tess became conscious of Daisy, sitting in the back, drinking this in. Her daughter was a sponge for information. ‘Ahm, I’d better go, Mam. Call me as soon as you hear anything, will you? Miles is in London but, fingers crossed, I’ll be able to get a flight to Dublin later tonight. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.’

‘What about Daisy?’

‘The Carters will be able to mind her until Miles gets back.’ She turned to her daughter, who frowned. Tess’s housekeeper and her husband adored Daisy, and she loved them back, but this didn’t mean she’d want to be left behind.

After her mother had hung up, Tess rested her face in her palms. The clock whirred back. She was thirteen, leaning against the kitchen counter in Pearse Terrace, and the man on the radio was saying that Father Galvin was dead.

Chapter 25

Dublin

The reporters and photographers gathered around Tom in a messy semi-circle. The glimmer of camera flashes made him blink. He guessed they were more interested in Tess, but she wouldn’t be arriving for another hour or more. In the meantime, a politician would have to do.

He paused by the hospital’s main entrance and had a look to see if he recognised any of the scrum. While the photographers were familiar, the reporters were strangers. They were either grooved and grizzled crime correspondents or shiny-faced junior hacks. Heads upturned, mouths open, they reminded him of a nest of hungry chicks.

‘Are you here to see Detective Inspector Varley?’ one shouted.