Winding my scarf more tightly, I walked quickly towards the car. Though she wouldn’t be home for another hour at least, I wanted to locate Rhona Macbride’s house before dark. The day was dark enough already. Cars had their lights on, and it had started raining again, a drenching downpour that might never stop. The wet and the heavy traffic made driving almost unbearable. And dangerous.

I turned off Skreen Road and drove south in the shadow of the walls of the Phoenix Park and, further on, McKee Barracks. Rhona lived on Rossbeigh, a few turn-offs shy of the North Circular. I pulled in across the road from the small development. I conceded that you could just about see the tops of the trees from Park View Mews, but calling it a view was pushing it. More significantly, there was a locked gate and an intercom and a coded keypad. Maybe that was the reason Mrs Macbride had given out the address so easily: I wouldn’t be able to gain access to the front door unless Rhona agreed to press the buzzer.

Before I did any more, I needed to go to the loo. I wanted to catch Rhona soon after she came in from work, before she settled in for the night or went out again. And if she did agree to see me, I didn’t want ‘where’s the bathroom?’ to be my first question. I pulled off and drove around until I saw a coffee shop. Then I ran in, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and left it on the counter with the assistant, saying I’d be back to pay in a moment.

But sometimes you can move too fast. On the way out the door, I collided with a heavy-set man in a suit, pulling a copy of The Herald out of an inside pocket.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t see you. The glass, it’s all steamed up.’

Ignoring my apology, he muscled past me, brushing the rain off his jacket. He marched straight to a table, sat and opened his paper with a snap. By now, I was the aggrieved one. Didn’t people say Dubliners were friendly, that Corkonians were supposed to be standoffish? I shrugged and left. Then I did a U-turn and headed back towards Rhona’s place. She should definitely be home by now, according to what her mother had said.

I rang the buzzer.

‘Yes, who is it?’

I started at the voice from the intercom.

‘My name is Finn Fitzpatrick. I’m a solicitor. I’ve come up from Cork today. If it’s all right, I’d like to talk to you.’

Silence.

‘How did you get my address?’

‘Please can I talk to you, Ms Macbride? It’s about …’

‘I know what it’s about. And I don’t want to talk to you.’