‘He and Mammy are going to go away for a while to his home in LA. He’s sorry that he’s going to miss Rhona’s funeral, though of course he’ll send flowers. Ireland has always been his home but he’s very upset by all this and blah blah blah.’

‘So as far as the Gardaí are concerned, Gill’s out of the picture for Rhona’s death? Are they not even going to talk to his security guy? What’s his name again?’

‘Pawel Zdziarski. Nope. Gill’s not on the radar. In fact, the edict from on high is that he’s to be left alone. All loose ends to be left unfollowed. Jeremy is absolutely not a suspect. Not now. Not ever. So we’re back to the mugging-gone-wrong theory. Though, to be honest, only that you were in Cork at the time, you’d be in the frame yourself.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah. They found your business card in Rhona’s kitchen and her mother told the investigation that you’d been looking to talk to Rhona the day before she got killed. And there’s what Gill said about you and all the Twitter stuff. You’re famous, and not in a good way, trust me. We’ve all been told to keep an eye on you. To watch for erratic behaviour.’

‘This is getting worse. I mean, it’s completely ridiculous.’

‘I know. Best to lie low all the same. Where are you, by the way? At home?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re in Dublin. Please don’t tell me that.’

‘Okay I won’t tell you so. Better you don’t know where I am, anyway. Don’t worry. I am lying low.’

‘Be careful,’ Sadie said.

At Connolly Station, I got a flat white from the kiosk and sat on a bench, waiting for the DART. The platform was bright, bustling with shoppers and suburban kids in town for the day. But normality felt distant. I was inhabiting a different space now, my reputation in tatters, in pursuit of a quarry who was a lot cleverer than I had given him credit for. I couldn’t attack him head-on. Rhona’s death had proved that beyond doubt. I needed to go around him, to head in a direction he mightn’t expect.

In this case, south. I got off the DART at Sydney Parade and made for the seafront.

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