Sandymount was popular with writers, perhaps because the suburb lies next to the beach where Stephen Dedalus had strolled. But it was popular with lawyers too and it hadn’t been hard for me to find out exactly where Christopher Dalton lived. I had seen him, and his house, in a Sunday newspaper magazine feature, and knew it was somewhere in Sandymount. Before leaving Cork, I had phoned Ronan Teehan, a gossipy senior counsel that I’d briefed a few times, who lived facing the strand. It was close to five on a Friday. Which meant, I calculated, that he had been for a late lunch and a bottle or two of very expensive red wine, and that he might be receptive to questions. He was. At the end of twelve minutes, I knew not only where Dalton lived, I knew the time he walked his dog and the breed. That was another thing about Sandymount. It was really popular with dog-owners.

I reached the seafront as Christopher Dalton was turning for home. He looked preoccupied, and I wasn’t surprised. By now, he would have heard about Rhona Macbride. He had to have known her. He had been friends with Gill back then, had worked on his short film too, co-wrote the script, and acted as ‘Best Boy’, according to the credits, whatever that meant. Another one of Gill’s little jokes, I assumed.

I fell into step beside Dalton.

‘You’ve a gorgeous dog,’ I said.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘A long-haired German shepherd, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah. It’s a she, though.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Brünhilde.’

‘Great name. What’s her temperament like? I’ve heard they’re aggressive.’

‘Not at all. A real family pet. I think they’ve bred out those traits.’

‘Good to know.’

‘I’m crossing here, so, em, nice talking to you,’ Dalton said.

‘I’m crossing too.’

‘You are?’

‘Yes, Mr Dalton, I’m sorry for bothering you. But it’s urgent.’

‘Excuse me, do I know you?’ Dalton asked.

‘No, you don’t. But I’m hoping you’ll talk to me about Jeremy Gill.’

Dalton took a step back.

‘I’m not talking about Gill to anyone, least of all you, whoever you are. That’s in the past. I’ve never spoken about it before and I’m not going to start now. What newspaper are you with? I’ll complain to your editor. This is completely out of order.’

‘No, Mr Dalton, you’ve got it wrong. I’m not a journalist. I’m a solicitor.’

‘Oh.’

I held out my business card. He bent his head to read it, but didn’t take it.

‘I know that name from somewhere.’

‘If you’re on Twitter, you probably know me as hashtag lawyerbitch.’

‘That’s it. You got into some spat with Jeremy down in Cork. I couldn’t quite get what it was about.’