Mike O’Brien had left the bank in a foul mood, after he had dispatched Rickard’s loans account to Head Office. He knew there could be repercussions. One day. Not yet, though. He had massaged the figures as best he could. Now, he had to wait and hope the account might get lost in cyber world. The diversion on his way home had done little to assuage his temper.

He sat with his orange-striped cat on his knee, as he did most nights. Classical music filled the air from the music system speakers. It usually served to relax him. Not tonight.

Chewing his nails, he stroked the purring creature. Most of his life was spent alone. He liked it that way. Loneliness and aloneness went hand in hand with him. He’d never been one for forming friendships, let alone relationships. He had a few acquaintances at the gym, Boyd the detective included. But they were not friends. His sexual inadequacies warped his sense of belonging. He had learned to live with it. Found ways to supplement it. Not always tastefully, but he survived. And another couple of months before the hurling season resumed. He missed training the young lads. The activity helped fill the spring evenings.

The doorbell sounded, screeching into his reverie.

Flinging the cat to the ground, O’Brien looked around wildly. Had Head Office sent the crime squad already? Could they be on to his fraudulent activity with the Rickard loans so quickly? That was insane. Not at nine o’clock at night.

He switched off the music, flicked back the curtain and peered into darkness. Living on the outskirts of town had its disadvantages, particularly since his home was in the middle of a Rickard ghost estate. Twenty-five houses, enclosed behind high walls, was the original plan, but only half were completed and the erection of intercom gates had not transpired. The remainder struggled against rusted scaffolding and wind howled through windowless concrete. The sound resonated through O’Brien’s skull.

Pulling back from the window, his reflection in the glass was all that remained. He let the curtain fall and smoothed down its creases.

The doorbell rang a second time.

He cursed and went to answer it.

Bishop Connor had an anxious scowl scrawled on his face.

‘Let me in, before someone sees me,’ he said, pushing past O’Brien.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked O’Brien, his smile faltering. He closed the door, having first checked no one else was outside.

‘I hate cats.’ Bishop Connor walked straight into the living room, eyeing the ginger cowering beneath a Queen Anne chair.

O’Brien clenched his hands into tight fists. This was his home.

‘I’ll take your coat,’ he said, rescuing it from the back of the couch where Connor had dropped it. A cat hair clung to the shoulder. O’Brien plucked it away and hung the coat in the hall.

He returned to find Connor holding a fragile Lladro ornament of a young boy.

‘Your décor could do with a facelift,’ Connor said, returning the ceramic piece to the mantle.

‘It serves me well. I don’t see any reason to waste money unnecessarily.’

‘Ah, yes. Ever the banker.’

‘Drink?’ asked O’Brien.

He poured generous fingers of whiskey into two crystal tumblers and handed one to Connor. They clinked glasses, remained standing and sipped the alcohol.

‘That interfering Inspector Lottie Parker is poking her nose around,’ said Connor.

‘She has a job to do.’

‘She knows I met that Sullivan woman and she’s snooping about Father Angelotti.’

‘That had nothing to do with you,’ O’Brien said. ‘Did it?’

‘I do not need her joining any more dots.’

‘What about your friend, Superintendent Corrigan? Won’t he help?’

‘I think I have exhausted that line of friendship.’

‘Sit?’ O’Brien indicated a chair. The cat sulked beneath it.

‘I will stand,’ said Connor, taking up centre position in the room.

O’Brien’s legs felt weak, he needed to sit, but remained standing. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Get her off my back. We need to transfer her focus somewhere else.’

‘And what do you propose?’ O’Brien asked, a sense of helplessness swamping him. His throat constricted so he swallowed another draught of whiskey. Lottie Parker had ridiculed him in his own office yesterday. He’d love to make her pay for that, but what could he do?

‘What about Tom Rickard? What does he have to say?’

‘I am talking to you, not Rickard,’ said Connor, his voice a shaft of steel.

The room seemed smaller with the bishop in it. O’Brien perspired uncontrollably and the glass slipped slightly in his hand. He placed it on the mantelpiece behind him.

‘You and I know how important it is that nothing is uncovered.’ With one step, Connor moved into O’Brien’s personal space. He flicked a flake of dandruff from the banker’s shoulder. ‘Secrets have to remain just that. Secrets.’

O’Brien stepped back. His ankle collided with the fireguard. He had nowhere to go. Both men stood eye to eye. The sour whiskey odour turned his stomach. Connor’s neck was naked of any religious collar and his carotid artery throbbed visibly in his pulsing throat. He watched it expand and contract, hypnotised, imagining it pumping blood into the bishop’s heart, if he had one. He held his breath.

‘What do you mean?’ O’Brien asked, eventually.

‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’

‘No . . . no, I don’t think so.’

Connor’s eyes darkened. He put his glass beside the Lladro boy and planted his two hands on O’Brien’s shoulders.

‘Good. I cannot afford to lose out on this deal,’ said Connor. ‘You are the money man. You see to it that my finances and . . . everything else, remain untraceable.’

Each word reverberated throughout the room. He gave O’Brien a shake, removed his hands, picked up his whiskey glass, drained it and replaced it on the mantle. He turned away. Only then did O’Brien exhale.

‘I hate cats,’ Connor said again on his way out to the hall.

O’Brien didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The odour from the bishop’s breath almost suffocated him. He rested against the fireplace for support.

Connor put on his coat.

‘No need to see me out,’ he said.

When the cat appeared from beneath the chair and rubbed against his leg, only then did O’Brien move.

To reach the position of a local authority county manager required a lot of hard work, brains and a good business acumen. It also helped that your father had once been a county manager. Gerry Dunne was no fool, he knew his father had worked behind the scenes to ensure his success. Now he regretted it. The job brought him too many problems for which he had the final decision. He hated making tough decisions, especially when he would be held responsible.

He had left work earlier but returned to check the file once more and silently cursed his interfering father. He flicked through St Angela’s planning application file, thankful that James Brown had handed it over to him for final consideration, just before his untimely death. Consigned it to his desk drawer. Locked it. The project wasn’t as contentious as it should be since they’d succeeded in contravening the development plan. But Tom Rickard wanted to be doubly sure, so he was willing to pay over more cash. Dunne wasn’t about to decline the offer. Soon he hoped he could forget about it and get on with his life, without Rickard’s claws scratching all over him. He looked out at the falling snow and wondered where the hell he was going to procure salt from, to last the rest of the week.

He picked up his coat, switched off the light and headed for home. Never before in his life had he felt this much pressure.

Switching the shower to full power, Mike O’Brien allowed the hot water to pinch his skin. He stood in the cubicle feeling very small.

Demons crawled along the inside of his scarred epidermis, choking out gasps of panic. He willed them away. He didn’t like being reminded of the past. It was buried. For good. No one was going to resurrect it. No one. He scrubbed harder, his nails drawing red streaks along his arms and torso. He tried to drown the escalating rage that threatened to suffuse him.

He needed to escape the mental torment that was quickly overtaking his brain. Switching off the water, he allowed the bathroom air to cool his naked body.

There was only one way to calm his inner torment.

He dressed, fed his cat and went out into the night.

Bishop Terence Connor drove around for a while, then parked and sat for a long time. Going over and over his encounter with O’Brien.

He worried that he might have pushed too hard. Desperation was getting the better of him. Too many worms were escaping the can and he urgently needed to put a lid on it and nail it down tight. He didn’t need another loose cannon, plus he had to make sure Tom Rickard kept his part of the bargain. They were all in this together. Drastic times called for extreme measures. He wondered if they were all up for it.

He sat there for a long time looking through the sleet, out over the frozen lake, visualising a sunny day, playing golf on the new St Angela’s development. Yes, he thought, there were good days on the horizon.