Before Conor could reply, Nina returned, accompanied by a tall guy with an expensive leather jacket and an air of entitlement. They placed the drinks on the table. ‘Ahm, this is Julian Heaney,’ she said. ‘As chance would have it, he was at the bar. He’s—’

‘I know who he is,’ said Conor. At any time, his patience for this guy would be limited. Tonight it was non-existent. He was still grappling with his father’s news. He didn’t want to hear about the television programme and he definitely didn’t want to be squeezed for information.

Tess raised her chin, as if to say, ‘What’s going on?’

‘Julian’s going to join us for a minute,’ said Nina. ‘He wants to talk about his project.’

‘Join away,’ said Tess to Julian, ‘but I doubt any of us will be able to help you.’

He sat down and leaned in towards them. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk about. I gather some of you have this idea that we want to do a hatchet job on the village,’ he glanced at Conor, ‘or on the investigation. I promise you that’s not our intention.’

‘What are you doing, then?’ asked Conor.

‘In the main, we’re focusing on Leo Galvin, on what type of man he was, and how his family misses him. One of his brothers has agreed to do an interview. As I understand it, the family have some theories of their own about what might have happened.’

‘If they do, shouldn’t they talk to the guards?’

‘Who’s to say they haven’t?’

For some minutes, Julian gave his sales pitch. People all over the country still associated Kilmitten with an unsolved crime, he said. This irked Conor. The place was hardly Palermo: it didn’t deserve to be stigmatised. As he listened, he was forced to admit that the guy was smooth. Infuriatingly so. He studied his friends’ reactions. Nina was unexpectedly sympathetic, Tess less conciliatory.

‘You don’t look much older than us,’ she said to Julian. ‘You can’t remember it that well.’

‘I was eighteen, in my first year at Trinity, so I remember quite a lot. Because of the snow there were no classes for a couple of weeks, and the Father Galvin case was on every news bulletin.’

‘Are you from Dublin?’

‘Guilty as charged.’

‘Let me guess, you thought we were like something out of Deliverance, a shower of murdering hicks.’

‘Even if I did, I wouldn’t own up to it. Besides, I doubt anybody could call an international supermodel a hick.’

Oh, puke, thought Conor.

‘Plenty have tried,’ said Tess, ‘believe me.’

‘Do you have your own theories?’ asked Nina. ‘About who did it, I mean?’

‘We-ell, I …’ He paused, as if waiting for a drumroll. ‘No, I couldn’t say that. That would be wrong. But the story is a fascinating one. What do you think yourselves?’