Most people in Kilmitten had a favourite theory about Father Galvin, some plausible, some ridiculous. At the same time, they tended to fall back on wishy-washy words. They’d refer to ‘the trouble’, ‘the tragedy’ or ‘the night of the party’, as if, in the entire history of the village, there’d only ever been one party. From time to time, Tess and the other three spoke about the priest’s death. Conor always maintained that whoever was responsible would be tracked down in the end. Tess suspected that this view was shaped more by loyalty to his dad than anything else. She didn’t reckon the killer would be caught. Neither did Nina. It was hard to know what Tom thought. He didn’t appear to enjoy talking about Father Galvin, and it rarely took him long to steer the conversation in another direction.

Officially speaking, Tess, Tom and Nina weren’t in London together. Nina’s father remained sniffy about Tess. How he felt about Tom, she didn’t know, but Tom was a man and Dr Minogue wouldn’t approve of his daughter sharing a flat with a man. That the arrangement was entirely sex-free, that they were eighteen years old, and that this was 1987, not 1957, didn’t matter. As far as the Minogues were aware, their daughter was in London with friends from her teacher-training college. When Nina called home, which she did twice a week, she had to invent stories about Cathy, Orla and Gráinne, her make-believe flatmates. Tess had warned her mam not to reveal the real story, especially not to gossip hounds like Mags and Mercedes. ‘If anyone asks, I’m with a girl from Templemorris, and Nina’s with a gang from St Pat’s,’ she’d said.

Tom was always making fun of St Pat’s, describing it as ‘the virgin megastore’. Nina pretended to get annoyed, but Tess knew from the twitch in her cheeks that she was only messing.

‘Harriet Osborne-Webb called,’ said Marjorie, as she gestured at Tess to sit down.

‘Ah. She told me she’d been talking to you.’

‘No, I mean she called again – in a total tizzy. She’s going to use a different employment agency in future. She said you’d made a nasty comment about her … eyeliner, was it?’

‘Mascara.’ Tess gazed at the grey carpet tiles. Overhead, the strip lighting buzzed. ‘Shit, Marjorie. I’m sorry. She’s even more of a cow than I thought.’ When she looked up, Marjorie was passing her large red-framed glasses from one hand to the other.

‘You’ll have to learn to think before you speak.’

‘So people tell me.’

‘Perhaps you should listen to them.’