Conor’s father had never been given to drinking, but in recent years, he’d had even less time for alcohol. And far less tolerance for drunkenness. Like so much else, Conor traced the change back to the killing of Father Galvin. If the first major upheaval in their lives had come with the death of his mother, the second had been prompted by the death of the parish priest. It seemed too simplistic to say that his dad had never been the same, but it was true. While the crime hung over all of them, his father relived it every day.

For a few months afterwards, the village had throbbed with activity. Opinions had been canvassed, statements taken, leads pursued. Gradually, most of the investigating gardaí had been called back to Dublin or Limerick, leaving Conor’s dad to work on the case alone. Every now and again, there was a spurt of activity. Somebody would come forward with a new theory or what they claimed as a fresh piece of information. For a short while, his dad would be filled with purpose and vigour. He’d be up early, out late, making calls, interviewing witnesses. But every time the hope would wither away. To all intents and purposes, the investigation had failed.

In the intervening years, Conor had heard more about what had happened that night. Excluding his father, there had been fifty-four people at the party. Fifty-four suspects. Or should that be fifty-five? There were those who argued that Flan Varley should have had no role in the investigation. He’d been at the party. He’d been seen talking to Leo Galvin. How could he conduct a fair and thorough inquiry? Although Conor’s father had attempted to brush aside these claims and insinuations, it was clear they’d left their mark. ‘We talked about the snow,’ he’d say. ‘Nothing else.’