Ridge was gay and then married an Anglo-Irish landowner with the imposing name of Anthony Hayden-Hemple.

He regarded me as a peasant. Their marriage was truly one of convenience. He had clout, played golf with my nemesis, Superintendent Clancy, and played bridge with the elite of the city. He needed a mother for his teenage daughter, Ridge wanted promotion.

Deal done.

Seemed to be holding.

Sort of.

She leant against the car, her face expressionless. I said,

“Think you may have missed the noon mass.”

She threw a brief glance at the church, said,

“Wouldn’t hurt you to go the odd time.”

I gave her my best smile, full of bullshite and malevolence, said,

“I’ve just been in the Abbey, lit some candles for all sinners.”

She seemed to have many replies to this but let it slide, said,

“You’ll have heard about Father Malachy.”

I said,

“I’ve an alibi.”

Now her annoyance surfaced, she spat,

“Don’t be such a thundering eejit.”

And a shadow of rage and compassion caressed her face as she said,

“And the other attack?”

“What?”

She looked at me, asked,

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

But the temporary feeling of whatever had fled and she snapped,

“What am I? Your private source of information? Buy a bloody paper.”

To needle her, I asked

“How is your husband?”

Leant heavily on the last word. She said,

“He’s away on business.”

I moved to go, said,

“Give him my love. I’m on my way to see Malachy. You think he’d prefer grapes or a pack of cigs?”

She shrugged, cautioned,

“This is Garda business, stay out of it.”

I loved that, the tone of authority, the sheer condescension. I said,