‘It makes sense only if you know the truth about Jeremy Gill. That’s why I’d really like to talk to you. I think you know the truth.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I think you know exactly what I mean.’

‘What are you trying to do, subpoena me for something?’

‘If you talk to me now, maybe I won’t have to subpoena you.’

‘Talk on or off the record?’

‘Off the record, until you say otherwise.’

‘I don’t know,’ Dalton said.

‘Please,’ I said. ‘For Rhona’s sake.’

At the mention of her name, Dalton winced and shut his eyes. When he opened his eyes again, he nodded.

We crossed the road together in silence.

Christopher Dalton’s house was an estate agent’s dream: a recently decorated double-fronted, double-bay period house in mint condition with a sea view and off-street parking. I hadn’t had any idea that writing paid quite this well.

‘Fabulous house,’ I said.

‘I have Jeremy to thank for it, actually,’ Dalton said. ‘He gave me a percentage of the back-end of his second movie, the one that really broke him into the big time.’

‘59 Seconds.’

‘Yeah, that one. I bought the house with the payout. I’m still making money out of it, in fact. And meanwhile, the writing’s gone all right as well. So we’re doing okay.’

We were sitting in Dalton’s study, a downstairs room that opened into the left front bay window. Muffled noise was barely audible from the rest of the house and I wondered if the room had been soundproofed.

Dalton handed me a coffee from a Nespresso that he kept on a marble-topped antique side table, within reach of his writing desk.

‘Black okay?’

‘Perfect.’

I didn’t want to give him an excuse to leave in search of milk.

‘Me too,’ he said.

‘Lovely place to work.’

‘Why are you here and what do you want to know? Saturday is family time, the kids off school and all.’

I knew that Christopher Dalton and Jeremy Gill had been contemporaries at UCD, that they’d collaborated artistically for a while, but had had an oft-reported, though mysterious, falling-out and had never worked together again. Dalton was rich and, by the look of his house, he enjoyed a lifestyle out of reach to most. But it didn’t sit well with him. He had a pot belly, and despite daily dog-walking, he didn’t look fit. His hair was thin, in need of a wash and he was sickly-looking, pale except for a few red patches of psoriasis on his face and another few on his arms that he scratched every so often. For all his wealth, he looked like a man under severe stress.