In his sermon, the priest talked about evil being in their midst. Was it possible, Conor wondered, that the killer was sitting there, reciting prayers and acting like nothing had happened? He thought of Father Galvin. Had he been on the floor when Tom’s mam found him? Had there been anyone to say the last rites – or had he needed the last rites? Were priests so holy that they bypassed Purgatory and went straight to Heaven? Conor tried to push these thoughts aside. There was enough bad stuff in his head as it was. He wished there was an easy way to do the right thing. He glanced at Tom, but his friend’s face had a glazed look. Even when Nina turned around, hand thrust forward for the sign of peace, there was barely a stir out of him.

As the Mass meandered on, Conor realised that he was content to sit there and let Father Smith’s voice wash over him. In the church, he didn’t have to make a decision. He didn’t have to talk to his dad or anybody else. For the first time, he could see why old people were so fond of Mass.

Afterwards, Tom’s dad appeared. ‘Your mam’s having a rest,’ he said, ‘but she’d love to see you. You can get your dinner in your auntie Noreen’s house.’

Tom practically skipped away, relieved, no doubt, to avoid any further talk about the shed. Conor would have liked to speak to the girls, but Nina was with her parents and Tess had disappeared.

After they’d answered a flood of questions about their dad (‘Did the poor man get any sleep at all?’) and ducked out of various invitations (‘You’re welcome to have your dinner with us. It’s not a big chicken, mind, but there’s plenty of veg’), Conor and Paula wandered towards home. Conor wanted to buy a newspaper except he didn’t have enough money. Paula hummed and hawed and finally agreed. ‘We can’t read it on the street, though,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to appear too nosy.’ While this didn’t make much sense to Conor, there was no point in arguing: she had the cash. He picked the Sunday Herald because there was an enormous picture of Father Galvin, and a smaller one of Tom’s house, on the front. Holy Murder read the headline. Gardaí Find Vital Clues. Paula threw her eyes up to Heaven, but Conor knew she was gasping to read it too.

Back home, he unfolded his paper and laid it out on the kitchen table. Paula hovered behind him.

‘Oh,’ he said. As he read, the lump that had been in his stomach since the day before became harder and rose up towards his throat.