I stood in the bay window. Outside, the sand stretched for mile after empty mile, and the tide ebbed silently. Behind, on Dalton’s writing desk, lay the sprawl of notes I had made of my meeting with him. I had expected to feel better, had hoped for a sense of achievement now that the truth had crawled its way to the surface. Instead, I felt like screaming. Dalton had confirmed that I was right about Gill. But the truth had come too late. Too late for Deirdre. Too late for Rhona. Too late for the nameless girl from New York State.

Now, I awaited Dalton’s decision. Unbelievably, the weasel was procrastinating still, in another room with his wife and his solicitor, mulling over how and when to make his disclosures about Gill, if ever. Dalton had known about Gill for twenty years. Now that he was finally thinking about speaking up, I had told him he needed independent legal advice, and that he had a duty to report Gill to the Gardaí, but he could do so in a way that minimised his own exposure. He had every entitlement to exercise the privilege against self-incrimination but, as far as I was concerned, he had to talk, and talk fast. Most of what he knew was background information and hearsay evidence that would be inadmissible in court. But it was no less valuable for all that. Corroborating what I already knew, it gave Gill a credible motive for murder.

I heard the door open, and turned. It was Richard Hawthorne, Dalton’s solicitor. I had met the man for the first time an hour and a half ago, when he’d swept up to the house in a Mercedes the size of a flatbed truck. A third generation commercial lawyer in his late fifties, Hawthorne wore tasselled Italian loafers and a Hugh Grant Four Weddings-era floppy hairstyle. He was going to fit right in down at the Garda station.

‘Finn, thank you so much for your patience,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Well, I’ve told Christopher that he’s under no reporting obligation here, none at all.’

‘I’d have to disagree with you on that one, Richard.’

Now wasn’t the time for the traditional ceremonial dance between opposing lawyers, where typical opening gambits required mutual disparagement of the other’s position.

‘Well, yes, indeed, I suppose there might be a moral argument to be made, and quite possibly even a legal one, but as it happens and in any event Christopher is most desirous of making a full and frank statement to the Gardaí. He is––’

‘Glad to hear it,’ I said, cutting him off. ‘I’ll make the call,’

I had already talked to Sadie O’Riordan and obtained from her the mobile number of the lead investigator in the Macbride murder. Sadie had said she would tell Detective Inspector Pat Lenihan to expect my call.