Tom hadn’t asked his father about the loan from Father Galvin. He hadn’t needed to. His father had done nothing wrong. By the sound of things, the priest’s lending operation had been harmless, more credit union than Ponzi scheme.

As justice minister, he might be pressed to reopen the Galvin case. If somebody within the gardaí made that decision, he doubted he’d be able to stop them. It was unlikely they’d get anywhere.

Tom leaned back into the leather. He’d go to bed soon. Tomorrow would be hectic, and he could do with a solid night’s sleep. He allowed the milky tea to wash down his throat. Smoking all those cigarettes hadn’t been wise. He didn’t smoke any more. Correction: he didn’t smoke in Kilmitten. Or in the presence of Vanessa. In Dublin, he did as he pleased. Tess didn’t smoke any more either. ‘Except when I’m really desperate,’ she’d said. ‘Like now. If I get lung cancer, I’ll blame the O’Gradys.’

Vanessa hadn’t been happy about his extended stay at the funeral. She’d met him at the door. ‘The state of you,’ she’d said, over and over again. The fact that he’d been with Tess had deflated her anger a little. Vanessa would travel up to Dublin in the morning. She didn’t want to miss the big day. The boys had to go to school but they’d been there when he first became a minister, and the occasion had gone over their heads. Tom’s parents and Dympna were also making the journey. Eamon would stay at home to mind the garage. ‘We could do with a day out,’ his dad had said, ‘and it’ll give the ladies a chance to get my Christmas box.’ Tom had considered inviting Conor but decided against. While their friendship hadn’t been sundered, it was under strain, and he figured Conor would see through the cynicism. He wouldn’t want to become a photo opportunity.

Tom took another slug of tea. A wave of weariness swept over him. He would rest his eyes for ten minutes. Then he’d definitely go to bed.

How long he’d been asleep, he couldn’t say. Perhaps an hour. Perhaps a few minutes. Long enough for his neck to go stiff. He’d been woken by the jangling of his phone, which was beside him on the sofa.

‘Go away,’ he said. He knew it wasn’t Vanessa: they’d spoken before he’d left town. His parents rarely called after nine, so it was unlikely to be them. It was probably his press officer. Or a journalist from one of the morning shows. Or someone looking for something. Too many people had his number. He’d have to address that. The phone stopped. No message. That was good.