Behind him, the rain was walloping against the window. It was, as they’d say in Kilmitten, a day borrowed from the winter. The summer recess was only two weeks away, and Tom was looking forward to a holiday. He longed for some sun. Vanessa had other plans. ‘Now you’re a minister,’ she said, ‘you’ve got to make it clear that you haven’t changed. A photo of the family enjoying a holiday in Kerry or Donegal would help. You don’t want anyone claiming you’ve lost the run of yourself.’ Tom didn’t agree. ‘The recession’s over,’ he said, ‘and so are the days of pretending to like the rain.’ His wife then gave the example of Paddy O’Grady and the infamous trip to the Canaries. ‘Ah, here,’ he replied, ‘you don’t remember Paddy O’Grady. Were you even born at the time?’ Vanessa reminded him that people had long memories.

Tom didn’t have much time for reflection, but sometimes at night, after he’d run the next day’s tasks around his head, he thought about the myriad ways in which the office was sucking him in. He’d grown accustomed to his life being arranged for him. He’d noticed that even those who claimed to hate politicians were slightly deferential in his presence. Others were totally sycophantic: ‘Yes, Minister. Right away, Minister.’ Then again, there were days when he wondered what in God’s name he was doing, when he found himself battling nostalgia for his time organising community football leagues and drugs awareness seminars. This was one of those days.

Conor was early. He bounded into the room, hair in damp spikes, like a sandy hedgehog. While he’d never carried much weight, he looked thinner than ever. Tom knew Conor better than he knew his own family. He was trying to act casual, but falling short. His mouth was too tight, his movements too stiff.

‘Some place you’ve got here,’ said Conor, struggling out of his sodden anorak. ‘I’ve seen smaller football pitches.’

‘It’s a bit OTT all right.’

For a little while, they talked about Cyril Dinan.

‘You have to cut him loose,’ said Conor.

‘That’s the plan. I’m meeting him later. We’ve got to convince him to resign. Unfortunately, unless we’re smart, he’ll become a martyr. Poor oppressed Cyril.’

Conor rearranged himself on the deep blue sofa. ‘So …’

‘So,’ echoed Tom.

‘The last day we met, I got the feeling you weren’t too keen on my looking at the Father Galvin case.’

‘I don’t reckon there’s anything to be gained by it. Simple as that.’

‘That’s a shame. I met Leo Galvin’s family. They’re good people. They deserve the truth.’