The last train to Cork was as slow as a hearse and, as was usual for the last train, it had no dining car or tea trolley. Pre-prepared, I ate a bag of Tayto Cheese and Onion, bought on the platform, for main course, and chased it with a bag of Salt and Vinegar for dessert. I hadn’t bought a big enough bottle of water though, and thirst kept me half awake, and staring out the window into the blackness, as the train alternately hurtled through the dark countryside, then shunted in and out of every nowhere town and station until the announcement for Cork came at long last. Another fifteen minutes and I would be in my own bed. But my phone rang as I alighted on the platform at Kent Station at ten past midnight. No caller ID.

‘Am I speaking to Finn Fitzpatrick?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Bridewell Gardaí here,’ the voice said.

‘Is there news?’ I said, thinking of DI Lenihan and the Macbride case.

‘Are you the owner of motor vehicle 03C____?’

‘Yes, I am, is something wrong?’

‘Could you furnish me with the make of the vehicle, please?’

‘VW Golf. Please tell me what’s wrong.’

‘And the last known location, if you wouldn’t mind?’

‘Fort Street, Off Barrack Street. But what is it?’

‘Finn, I’m afraid I’ve bad news for you about your car. It’s after being set on fire.’

There were no taxis left at the rank, but I hailed one on the slope down into the city centre and was across town in minutes.

A swarm of passers-by and locals had gathered to view the inferno. I stood well back until the flames started to weaken, after they had been doused by the fire brigade, which took longer than I might have expected, if I had ever expected anything of the sort.

As the crowd started to thin, I made my way over to the firefighters and introduced myself to a man who looked like he was in charge: ruddy, big, and strong enough to carry most people of normal weight down staircases and through smoke and collapsing masonry.

‘Chief Wilson,’ he said and shook my hand. ‘This is unpleasant for you.’

‘Horrible,’ I said. ‘Though it could be worse.’

‘That’s true. Things could always be worse.’

Some folk memory or superstition meant that no matter how bad the circumstances, people were always giving thanks that they weren’t worse. Which annoyed me, usually.

‘Are you sure it was deliberate?’ I asked.

‘Definite. We’ll examine her properly tomorrow. But the way the flames spread, it looks like someone sprinkled an accelerant over the seats and threw in a lighter.’

‘A cigarette lighter?’

‘No, something burning, a rag, paper, even a match would have done it.’

‘Any idea who did it?’