“Not to say there would have been bad blood or that class of thing. God, no. Just the usual family thing,” Hoey emphasized. Minogue heard the caution behind Hoey’s qualification: he was giving himself, not the Fines, the benefit of any doubt as to whether Jews were also mired in ‘the usual family thing’.

“I mean to say, look at the other two children in that family,” Hoey continued. “One a dentist, the daughter some type of a research scientist. Careers and families, the whole bit.”

Both policemen watched the taxi stopping in front of their own car. A middle-aged woman emerged hurriedly from the back seat, her eyes red from crying. She ran to the gate and pushed it open. A younger woman stayed to pay the taxi-man and then she too hurried up the steps to the door, which was already opening. Fine stood in the doorway, his arms by his side, the shock clear on his face now. Both women embraced him. It seemed to take an effort more than he could summon for him to embrace them in return. He stood with his eyes closed as they drew him back into the house between them.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Hoey whispered tersely. His fingers jabbed at the packet of Majors in his haste to get another cigarette. Minogue felt the stab of grief keener this time.

“For the love of Christ,” Hoey mumbled, his hands shaking with the lighted match wavering at the end of the cigarette. “Will this day never end?”

“That’s the sister-in-law he’s been waiting on, I’d say. He’ll be out in a minute,” Minogue said. His chest heaved once, twice. He wondered if Hoey felt the same ache of shame as he did, the same confusion after realizing that it was shame.

It was five minutes before Fine reappeared at the door. Johnny Cohen was with him and both men were wearing black hats with modest brims. Hoey was out of his seat and holding the back door open by the time the two men had walked to the gate. Fine was very pale now.