Almost immediately, the damn thing sprang to life again. Tom remained in a stupor. He ought to get up and go to bed. Eyes gummed together, he squinted at the screen.

‘Ah, hell,’ he said, before deciding he’d better answer. ‘Conor?’

‘Uh, howarya? I hope I’m getting you at the right time.’

‘It’s the middle of the night.’

‘It’s ten past ten.’

‘Oh.’ Tom stood up, and in doing so, knocked over his half-full mug of tea. ‘Shit.’

‘Sorry?’ said Conor.

‘Ah, nothing,’ replied Tom, stepping into the puddle of tea. He asked his default question: ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I was hoping to have a word.’

‘You’re having one.’

‘I meant a proper word, face to face.’

‘When?’

‘What about now? I’m downstairs.’

‘You’re not serious?’ Tom resolved that when he did get a new number, he wouldn’t give it to Conor. Old friend or not, the guy was becoming a menace. ‘For feck’s sake, man, I was about to go to bed. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m kind of busy.’

‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you.’

Tom thought for a moment. The problem was, if he didn’t invite Conor in, he’d spend the rest of the night worrying. Hearing him out would be easier. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll buzz you up. But my bed’s calling. Last night was a late one.’

‘So I heard.’

A couple of minutes later, Conor was in the apartment. His face was pink from the cold, and there was a sprinkling of sleet on the shoulders of his anorak. With barely a pause for breath, he ran through a string of platitudes about the reshuffle. In return, Tom gave a version of his well-rehearsed speech about the challenges of the job.

You liar, he thought. Conor’s your best friend. Why can’t you tell him the truth? Why can’t you admit that you want your old life back?

They touched on the funeral. Tom said he’d spent much of the evening talking to Tess, but didn’t say what about. Short of looking at his watch, he did everything possible to make his impatience clear. Finally, Conor took the hint.

‘I appreciate you seeing me like this,’ he said, ‘although I’ve a feeling that when you hear what it’s about, you’ll tell me to get lost. What I’d ask—’

‘Ah, Christ,’ said Tom, ‘not again.’ Here he was, brain mangled, one sock wringing with cold tea, and Conor wanted to play Columbo. ‘Do we really have to do this now?’

‘I’ve learned something new about Father Galvin, something that could explain what happened. Before I take it any further, and I will have to take it further, I want to discuss it with you.’

‘Okay. Once you understand that I don’t have all night.’