‘So I have this information and what I need, Tom, is for you to help me out. This time I don’t think I’ve got it wrong. But I’m not infallible either. What I’m looking for is a nudge in the right direction.’ Conor paused. ‘We didn’t get to do Latin in St Ursula’s – it wasn’t that sort of school – but we all have a few phrases. There’s one on the front of the Bridewell, near the Four Courts. You probably know it already but, if not, you’re likely to come across it in your new job. Fiat justitia ruat caelum: let justice be done though the heavens fall. Now, I’ll be honest with you, I’ve always considered that a wee bit overblown. Despite what some people think, I’m the same as every other cop. I’ve cut a few dodgy deals in my time. I’ve ignored skulduggery because my priorities were elsewhere. Sometimes justice isn’t clear-cut. My father knew that. That was why he felt free to do what he did. But he was disillusioned. He was convinced the truth would always be out of reach. Thanks to Hannah Galvin, it doesn’t have to be.’

Tom was listening, but not listening. The years had fallen away. His head – no, not just his head, his entire body – had returned to 1982. To a winter’s night even colder than this one. He saw the priest’s legs, then his head. He saw the person leaving the room. He saw it all as clearly as if it was happening now. It was imprinted on his brain and would never be erased.

‘No doubt,’ said Conor, ‘you’ve convinced yourself that what happened thirty-five years ago doesn’t matter. But it does. I’ll have to report what Hannah told me. Emmet and Helen are likely to be questioned. Perhaps Nina, too, for fear she remembers anything. Let’s face it, they’re bound to suspect Emmet. If his wife was about to leave him, he had more reason than anyone to attack Father Galvin.’

Tom was rocking back and forth. There was a fast flapping high in his chest. ‘Stop it,’ he heard himself say. ‘Stop it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’ve got it wrong.’

The flapping became quicker.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Conor.

‘That wasn’t what happened.’

‘Oh, I think it was.’

‘No,’ said Tom, his voice too high, too thin. ‘It wasn’t Emmet Minogue I saw leaving the room. It was Helen.’

Chapter 43