Conor took a long, shuddering breath. In front of him, Tom was sobbing, his head bowed, his body trembling. What were they going to do? What was he going to do? Of course, he’d known it was possible that Tom had seen Helen. He just hadn’t considered it likely. Every part of him had said, ‘It must be Emmet. It’s got to be Emmet.’ Once again, he’d been wrong.

He scrambled for alternative explanations. Suppose the priest had already been on the floor when Helen had reached the back kitchen? Suppose she’d panicked and dashed back to the front room? But if that had been the case why hadn’t she raised the alarm? Why had she left the discovery to Cora Crossan? No, whatever had happened, Nina’s mother had been to blame. Conor asked himself if Emmet knew. He didn’t think it likely.

One lamp didn’t give enough light for the entire room. The place was grey, airless. It was quiet too, the only noise coming from Tom’s hiccups and whimpers. How strange to see his friend in tears. Even as a child, Tom hadn’t cried. Sometimes he’d got angry. Sometimes he’d sulked. But only once before had Conor seen tears in his eyes. He recalled that night in Pilkington’s: Tom raw from his break-up with Nina, the O’Gradys taunting him, Seánie falling to the floor.

Although he felt he should do something, Conor was unable to move. His body was rigid, his mouth soldered shut. In a few hours, the man on the other side of the room was due to become the minister for justice. He’d be in charge of the police, the courts, the country’s security. It would, Conor reckoned, be a popular appointment. He was a popular man. But what if people knew he’d suppressed information that could have solved a serious crime? That he’d done so for more than thirty years? And that, because of it, a family’s suffering had been prolonged?

If the truth emerged, there would be ructions, not just a regular political ding-dong but a genuine scandal.

Conor should have given it all more thought. He’d been so obsessed with proving his theory that other considerations had given way. What he needed now was to hear Tom’s explanation. Asking questions wouldn’t be easy. Conor wasn’t in an interview room with a conscience-free drug dealer or a young scrote who’d pulled a knife during a robbery. He was with someone he’d known since he was six years old.

‘Jesus,’ he said, the force of his own voice taking him by surprise.

It surprised Tom too – and shook him from his daze. He rubbed a palm across his face. ‘I’m sure you want to hear more about what I saw,’ he said, ‘and why I stayed quiet.’

‘I’m guessing there’s more than one reason.’