Tom pinched the top of his nose. ‘It’s hard to know where to begin. But the first thing you’ve got to appreciate is this: I didn’t know that Father Galvin was dead. He didn’t look good, but I couldn’t see his face. I saw Helen’s back. That’s all. Then I ran. Well, I couldn’t run … because of the snow. I moved as quickly as I could and hid around the corner. I was scared someone would see me. When I’d calmed down a bit, I went back to the shed. The Lord knows how, but I managed to spin the rest of you a tale about the door being locked.’

‘And it was definitely Helen you saw?’

Tom straightened his back. ‘Please,’ he said, voice crackling with irritation, ‘after everything you’ve done, after the way you wrung her name out of me, don’t say you doubt my word.’

‘Sorry,’ said Conor. ‘I didn’t mean to doubt you. I’m trying to get everything straight in my head.’

‘Well, have no doubt about this: I saw Helen Minogue. I would have known her anywhere. She was different from the other women in the village.’

Conor recalled Tess saying that, while most of the blondes in Kilmitten looked like they dyed their hair with Domestos, Helen’s grooming was so perfect she might have been French. He knew what she meant. Even from behind, none of them would have mistaken Helen Minogue for anyone else.

Tom continued: ‘Later that night, when your dad told us that Father Galvin was dead, I was terrified. I kept thinking that maybe I could have saved him … and that if anyone found out, I’d be sent away. After that, one lie spawned another until I figured it was too late to change my story.’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t expect you to understand this, but I learned to box it all off. What happened, what I’d seen, was in a special compartment.

‘Sometimes, though, for no reason, that would change. I remember the feeling: it was like someone banging a stick against a sheet of metal. Like the truth was desperate to get out. I wouldn’t be able to think of anything else. Then I’d withdraw. I couldn’t describe what was happening, or explain why, so the only option was to say nothing. Nina used to get annoyed with me. “Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” she’d ask. I’d pretend it was no big deal. That I was just a bit down. Then I’d lie there, waiting it out, hoping I’d feel normal again the next day.’

‘You were never tempted to talk to her?’

‘No. Actually, there was one occasion but … What’s that phrase the bishops used when they were trying to explain why they hadn’t reported child abuse?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Conor. ‘I’m not with you.’