‘That’s what?’ He looked nervous – worried, probably, that I was about to do something violent or unpredictable.

‘Go and get your laptop. We’re going to do some bloody work sitting on our arses.’

‘OK, what are we looking for?’

Baaz sat poised over his screen, veggie burger in one hand, fruit juice in the other. Although it was chilly on the terrace, it made a good office. I’d ordered a steak and another Scotch.

‘Title deeds. Is there any way you can see who owns the cottage in Donegal?’

‘Probably. Let’s see …’ He bit a mouthful out of the burger and started typing.

‘Anonymously.’

‘Thank goodness you reminded me. I was totally going to post this on Facebook,’ Baaz sighed. I ignored that and he tapped away. ‘OK, Citizens Information …’ He paused and clicked his tongue. ‘Property deeds …’ Another pause. ‘Land registry. OK. Here we go. What’s the address?’

‘It doesn’t have one; not an official one, anyway.’ I leaned in next to him and looked at the map he’d loaded. ‘Zoom in here, to Gortnalughoge. That’s where I did the recce from, the holiday park. Go east across the bay. Stop. There.’ I pointed at the screen. ‘That’s it.’

Baaz clicked on the oblong outline of the old cottage.

‘The property isn’t registered,’ he said. He chomped on the burger again and mumbled, ‘What next?’ But before I could answer, he’d loaded a new page. ‘Hang on.’ He typed and then swallowed. ‘This is going to cost five euros.’

‘Anonymous, remember?’

He gave me a sideways glance.

‘Right. No, nothing on the house. It’s going to be tricky to determine ownership.’

‘Great.’ I sat back and chewed a mouthful of steak. ‘It’s never bloody easy, is it?’

‘But the land it’s on,’ he continued, a grin spreading across his face, ‘is registered.’ He paused dramatically. ‘Drum roll, please.’

‘For fuck’s sake.’

‘OK! Registered … in the name of one Jacob Benjamin Israel Levy.’

‘Fuck.’

‘But you knew!’ For once he looked genuinely impressed. ‘How?’

‘The horses. Moshe said he met Rachel because she bought paintings from him, paintings of horses that reminded her of home. There was one on Moshe’s wall, in the storeroom. There’s one on her office wall, too. And another in Doc’s house, in the room where he stitched me up.’

‘And there was one in the cottage, too?’

‘Yeah, there was. And that’s not all. The painting, there,’ I pointed at his laptop, as if it were a magic portal back home, ‘the fourth horse. It was of a pale mare.’

‘So?’

‘So, look it up, clever clogs.’ He did, and his face dropped. ‘Let me see.’