The four men sat at a long table, cups of coffee at their hands. Each one of them was worried, suspicious of each other, troubled and afraid.

Tom Rickard spoke first. ‘Well?’

‘We shouldn’t be meeting like this. Someone might see us,’ said Mike O’Brien, nervously wiping dandruff from his shoulders. ‘And I’ve to get back to the bank before I’m missed.’

‘It’s getting very near the crucial deadline. We need to be sure of what we’re doing,’ said Gerry Dunne. ‘You wouldn’t get this type of carry on at a council meeting.’

‘And I need to be sure you approve that planning permission,’ Rickard said, pointing a finger at Dunne. ‘I want this development to go ahead, otherwise I’ll be bankrupt.’

Dunne straightened himself up in his chair, smoothing the creases in his immaculate pinstripe trousers. ‘I know how important this is to all of us.’

Rickard scrutinised the men and wondered, not for the first time, why he’d allowed himself to be corralled into the deal. Gerry Dunne, county manager, with the planning fate in his hands, O’Brien manoeuvring the money around banks and Bishop Connor maintaining a stake in the development after the sale.

‘I heard a rumour this morning. What’s this about a priest found dead? In James Brown’s back garden, no less.’ Rickard nodded to the bishop. ‘Do you know anything about that?’

‘It’s of no concern to us,’ Bishop Connor replied.

‘For all our sakes, I hope that’s true,’ Rickard said. ‘Two murders and now this.’

‘The sooner it’s all over the better,’ O’Brien said.

‘We’re depending on you to keep your finger on the money,’ Rickard said and noticed a tremble in the other man’s hand.

O’Brien picked up his glass, drank quickly and started to cough. ‘I need more water,’ he said with a choke.

‘I need another holiday,’ Dunne said and knocked over his coffee.

‘You all need to calm down,’ Bishop Connor said as the dark liquid spread over the desk.

Lottie switched off the car engine outside the red-brick, multi-windowed mansion.

An image of her daughter, with her weed-smoking boyfriend, intruded every time she attempted to co-ordinate her thoughts into a cohesive train. Rather than let it fester throughout the day, and to avoid dealing with Father Joe’s hasty departure from Ragmullin, she’d decided to talk to the Rickards about their son’s illegal habit and the source of his drugs.

She stepped out of the car and rang the ornate bell before she could change her mind. As the sound echoed inside she noticed the watery sun slip round the side of the house. Trees stood tall, encircling the building like giant umbrellas. The first snowdrops sprouted through icy beds, straining against the weather. An expanse of lawn appeared in patches through the snow. Someone was going to be busy come spring. And probably not the errant son, Lottie thought.

Soft footsteps approached from behind the door. Jason Rickard opened it.

‘Oh! Mrs Parker,’ he said and jumped back, barefoot, on the marble tiled hallway. He was wearing yesterday’s clothes.

‘Are your parents home?’ Her eyes were drawn to the black inscription snaking along the skin of his neck.

He stepped forward and leaned against the door frame, folding his arms over his skinny chest. ‘They’re not here.’

‘Really? Who owns the cars outside, then?’

‘We do.’

‘Jesus, how many cars do you own?’ Lottie blurted. Behind her, she noted four cars and a quad, neatly lined up in front of a triple garage.

‘The quad and Beamer are mine. The others belong to my mum and dad.’ The boy guarded the entrance to his house with a hint of youthful cockiness.

A BMW? And she’d initially thought he was a bum. Wrong call, Inspector.

‘I thought you said your parents are not home,’ she said.

‘They have other cars,’ he said.

Lottie stared at him.

‘What age are you, Jason?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘Well, if you’re going to hang out with my daughter, I better not catch you in possession.’

‘Possession of your daughter?’

‘Listen, smart arse, I don’t like you and I don’t know what Katie sees in you, but take this visit as a warning. Next time I’ll come with a search warrant.’

Lottie moved closer to the crack in the door. She noted Jason’s eyes clouding into dark challenging arcs. Like father, like son, she concluded.

‘Katie is old enough to know her own mind,’ he said, closing over the door further.

‘Do you know your own mind? I sincerely doubt it,’ Lottie said. ‘I’ll be back to speak to your parents.’

The door closed.

Lottie strode away, disgruntled. Twice in one morning – a door shut in her face. Was she losing her touch? And all those cars. They needed checking out. She snapped photos on her phone camera.

Just in case the little shit was lying.

Jason sauntered from the hall to the kitchen at the back of the house and poured a glass of water. He looked out the window.

His father’s white Audi, a dark blue BMW and two black Mercedes were parked in the yard. His dad had told him that the visitors were not to be disturbed. And they weren’t.

He wished he could get a new car. He wished Katie didn’t have such a bitch for a mother.

He turned. One of his father’s friends stood in the doorway.

‘I’m looking for something to wipe up a spill,’ the man said, ‘and a jug of water.’

‘This should do it.’ Jason handed him a tea-towel. He could swear that the man’s fingers lingered on his own a second or two longer than necessary. Pulling his hand back, he hastily rubbed it on his jeans. He searched in the cupboard, found a jug and poured the water. The man took it and his lips curled into a slow smile, eyes flashing up and down Jason’s body.

‘You have grown into a fine young man,’ he said and walked out, letting the door swing behind him.

Jason was rooted to the ground. It was as if someone had reached through his skin and pinched his heart.

He suddenly felt naked.

Outside the kitchen door the man took a few deep breaths, scrunched the tea-towel into a ball and tried to stop the shaking in his hand holding the jug. He closed his eyes and consigned the image of the boy’s lean body to memory. He could still smell the boy’s youthful scent, soft and sweet. Beautiful.

It had been years since he’d had these feelings, so why had they resurfaced over the last few months? It must relate to all the stress he was under with the project, he thought. Or was it because St Angela’s was once again to the forefront of his mind? He had believed he was so far removed from the boy he once had been that nothing could resurrect the past. But now it stalked him every day. Every single day. And with it came the emotions he had suppressed. He shuddered and water splashed out of the jug. He’d forgotten he’d been holding it. Forgot for a moment where he was, who he now was.

Taking a deep breath, he dabbed at his trousers where the water had splashed and went to rejoin the meeting, the image of the boy firmly on his mind.