With his heartfelt yet rigorous response to the Avondhu Hotel shootings, Tom Crossan showed himself to be one of the few politicians with an understanding of the cancer eating away at our towns and cities. He also appreciates the challenges being faced by rural Ireland, while his decisive handling of the Cyril Dinan controversy proved he’s not afraid to take tough decisions. A reshuffle this early in a government’s term is unusual, but the time has come for bold, imaginative moves. The justice minister doesn’t have to be a solicitor or barrister. The post should be filled by someone with common sense. Promoting the minister for rural and regional affairs would send a message that the government is serious about tackling crime, reforming the gardaí and tackling the miasma of sleaze that threatens to engulf public life.

‘For feck’s sake,’ Conor had said, ‘why don’t you canonise the guy while you’re at it?’ The question had prompted an alarmed look from the elderly man standing beside him in the newsagent’s.

When he arrived at the café, Hannah was sitting in the corner with a pot of tea, her neat white hair and beige polo-neck at odds with the seasonal gaudiness of her surroundings. In a world full of people clamouring to be seen, women like Hannah were an anachronism. They slipped through life, attracting little attention. Often, they were deceptively tough. They’d had to be.

‘I thought we’d hear from you,’ she said, as Conor sat down and signalled for a coffee.

‘I’m sorry, I should have called.’

‘Are you still interested in what happened to Leo?’

‘I am, only it hasn’t been easy. I thought I was getting somewhere, and then I realised I wasn’t. I’m back at work, so I haven’t had a lot of time.’ He considered giving her some of the detail, then decided it wouldn’t be fair to anyone involved. He sighed. ‘I wish I’d more to say.’

‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘I understand.’

Conor’s coffee arrived, its bitterness surprisingly welcome. They were surrounded by Christmas excess. At the next table, a woman with a whinnying voice was having a phone conversation about handbags: ‘I told you, Gerard, that’s how much they cost. I don’t know what decade you’re living in.’ On the other side, two young guys were comparing hangovers: ‘Honestly, man. The. Worst. Ever.’ They segued into a discussion about their plans for later in the day: ‘Fitzy’s home from Australia. It’d be a crime not to go for a few beers.’ Clearly, nothing said Christmas like alcohol poisoning.

Hannah sat bolt upright, one thumb rubbing against the other. She opened her mouth, then quickly closed it again.

‘Is there something else?’ asked Conor.

‘It mightn’t be of any use to you.’