Increasingly, Tom felt as if he was trapped in a twilight place. He was taking everything in, but didn’t know how to react. Twenty-four hours earlier, he’d been ready to talk, but the circumstances had been different. He forced himself to speak. ‘With the greatest respect, you haven’t a clue whether any of that’s true.’

‘I can find out, though. I can ask. On my way back to Dublin this evening, events began to connect. I got to thinking about Emmet Minogue and his reaction to Father Galvin’s death. Do you remember – of course you do – how we went up to the house the following day? He was adamant that whoever was to blame must have come in from outside. That put the frighteners on us. I was terrified Dad would find out what we’d been up to. And you? There was hardly a peep out of you. You were in a bad way. He’s a clever fellow, is Emmet. If he took so much trouble to spin his story to a bunch of kids, presumably he did the same with everyone else. Not, of course, that it worked. Once the guards knew that we were to blame for the footprints, they had no reason to believe the killer came from outdoors.’

‘Again,’ said Tom, his throat tightening, ‘that doesn’t mean anything.’

‘You’re right. Maybe it doesn’t. But, like I say, all I can do is ask. And, believe me, I will.’

‘Fine, but why are you telling me all of this tonight?’ Tom looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly twelve o’clock. I’ve listened to you, but I’ve got a full day tomorrow. I—’

‘Because I still think you saw someone that night. Oh, and by the way, so does Nina.’

‘What?’

‘That’s one of the awkward things about all of this. Up until today, she was the only person to give me any encouragement. She didn’t fall for the O’Grady line either.’ Conor leaned forward. ‘But if I was running a proper investigation here, I’d be starting to suspect that the person you saw was Emmet Minogue. Was he near the body? Or, more likely, was he walking away? Does that explain why you saw him, but he didn’t spot you?’

Tom told himself that the time had come for turning on the theatrics. He ought to be dismissing Conor’s statements as fantasy. The deluded ramblings of someone who’d lost all perspective. He ought to say he’d heard enough. But he couldn’t. He was paralysed.