‘I’m not claiming it was exactly the same. It’s …’ Conor paused. ‘You’re viewing this through one lens, and I don’t blame you. In your position, I might do the same. All I’m saying is, there are other ways of looking at it.’

It occurred to Tess that far from dissuading him, the more she spoke, the more entrenched his position became. The funny part was, in their younger days, both Conor and Tom had been reluctant to talk about the night of the party. Nina had been the one with whom she’d traded theories.

‘Just take it handy,’ she said. ‘Please.’

‘There’s no guarantee I’ll get anywhere. And, even if I do, it’s not an official investigation.’

Tess removed her sunglasses. ‘It’s not like the rest of us don’t think about what happened that night, you know. In fact, we talked about it in the hospital. Nina brought it up.’

‘Really? What did she say?’

‘Nothing of any significance.’

‘Go on, Tess.’

‘I’m not sure why I’m telling you this, but … well, I was surprised by her vehemence. She said she’d never believed that Noel O’Grady was to blame.’

‘Why would she say that when it was her own husband who promoted the theory in the first place?’

This wasn’t going how Tess had planned. She was beginning to feel like she was in a police interview room. It was impossible to keep the tetchiness from her voice. ‘Ah, Conor, I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?’

Chapter 31

It was funny, thought Tom, how you could go months, years, without talking to someone. Then, for whatever reason, you kept on meeting.

He was leaving his Saturday clinic when he saw her coming out of the chemist, stuffing change into the pocket of her jeans.

‘Nina,’ he shouted, before he had a chance to think about what he was doing.

She waved, and they met halfway.

It was Hugh’s birthday, she said, so she was home for the night. Tom got the impression that she was on her own. After a minute or two of awkward chit-chat about Conor, they decided to go for a coffee.

The lunchtime crowd was gone from the Cherry Tree café, and they slipped into a corner seat. Mercifully, none of the village’s more dedicated rumour-merchants was there. You could never be too careful in Kilmitten. In no time, a casual coffee would become a red-hot affair.

Nina sipped her cappuccino and assessed their surroundings. The Cherry Tree was decorated in shades of pink and red, its walls dotted with colourful photos of local landmarks. The coffee was served in large blue cups. ‘When we were growing up,’ she said, ‘who would have thought that one day the village would have a proper café with a proper coffee machine?’