Julian rang on Wednesday afternoon.

‘We’ve wrapped up in Kilmitten for now,’ he said. ‘We’ll be going back later in the year. In the meantime, I’m in Dublin so I thought I’d give you a call.’

‘I’d a feeling I’d hear from you,’ said Nina.

‘Even though you didn’t give me your number?’

‘I’m in the book – as you no doubt discovered.’

Nina hoped her casual words masked her nerves. Thankfully, she was on her own. Val’s brother was clinging to life, and Tom’s hours had become even longer than usual.

They arranged to meet in the Palace Bar. When she arrived, he was down the back, drinking a pint of Guinness. While he went to fetch her gin and tonic, she had a momentary wobble. What was she doing? If Tom knew she was meeting Julian, there would be trouble. Oh, let’s be honest, if any of her friends or family knew, there’d be trouble. But there was no reason for them to find out. And if they did? She’d say she was on a mission. She was a double agent trying to discover what the TV people knew about Father Galvin – and what they were likely to say about Kilmitten. She instructed herself to play it cool, like she had on the evening they’d first met. She tried to arrange her face and body so that she appeared poised, sophisticated, the person she wanted to be. This was easier said than done.

They spoke about Kilmitten. People were strange, he said. They claimed they didn’t like to dwell on the priest’s death, yet when they started talking there was no stopping them. Others seemed to resent the man for having the nerve to get killed in their village.

‘I assume you’ve heard most of the theories,’ he said. ‘At first, everybody was convinced the killer had to be an outsider. Then it became clear that whoever did it must have been at the party. That still left the guards with a long list of suspects.’

Nina reached for her glass, nodded, but said nothing. She didn’t know him well enough to confess her part in the initial mess.

‘So somebody must have had a reason to hurt Father Galvin, even though by all accounts he was a decent guy. Pretty much everybody we’ve spoken to says the same thing: he was involved in the community, worked hard, liked a night out, was fond of a drink but not too fond.’

‘That’s how I remember him. For a priest he wasn’t overly holy, if you know what I mean.’

‘Yeah, I do. In fact, I began to ask myself if he had some dark secret, something so warped that even the most outspoken people either didn’t know about it or were scared to mention it.’

‘Like what?’