He recalled what they’d said to him. Like most victims, it wasn’t so much their words as the way they’d voiced them that had affected him. Their quiet sincerity had given those words their power. If you asked Conor, the old line about time being a great healer had been coined by someone who’d never suffered the impact of a violent crime. The pain might dull a little, but for the Galvins, and many others, it was always there, circling them like a thunderstorm.

He’d realised early on that most criminals bore no resemblance to the characters in books and films. He’d never encountered an ingenious serial killer. Most crimes were born of greed or desire, fear or jealousy. Some stemmed from desperation or plain bad luck. For every criminal with the low cunning of Kenny Burke or Liam McPartland, there were twenty who lived hand-to-mouth, dreaming that one of their inept con jobs would transform their lives. Some were twisted, pitiful figures, prepared to inflict pain or suffering for small gain. Others were delusional: ‘She was asking for it’; ‘He’s no loss’; ‘I was provoked.’ Many managed to convince others of their respectability. For almost two decades, Noel O’Grady had paraded around Kilmitten without anyone suspecting him of a brutal crime. Conor wondered if he’d assaulted other women, and if they, too, had been afraid to talk.

He ploughed on through the documents, his shoulders becoming hunched, his eyes scratchy. Gregory Galvin had been convinced that money lay at the heart of the mystery, and there was ample evidence that this was what the police had thought too. The poker school had been interviewed. Some, like Timmy Moynihan, Batt Meaney and Arthur Sexton, had admitted to being in the priest’s debt. The amounts were minor. Noel O’Grady had owed most: one hundred and forty pounds, a tidy sum in 1982. People had killed for less. But O’Grady had had an alibi.

As far as the poker debts were concerned, Leo Galvin’s record-keeping had been haphazard. When it came to the money he’d lent, he’d been more thorough. He’d poured most of his winnings, and possibly some of the parish funds, into money-lending. While there was no evidence that he’d charged interest, he’d kept a tight rein on his debtors. The names and the sums owed were catalogued in a red notebook, its pages crisp with age. The parish priest had been a one-man credit union.