Davy had that easy way about him and, with him as my wingman, the laser was off me. I batted away questions about my job easily enough, and slipped in the burnt car as something that was conceivably accidental or, at worst, the work of a serial arsonist. Having Davy there also meant that I could defer telling my parents about Deirdre. And I could defer asking them the question that had been gnawing at me since I’d found out about her: had they known that I had a sister? I had been in the care of the Health Board. It was inconceivable that the social worker responsible for me didn’t know that my birth mother had had another baby. But had she told my parents – my foster parents, as they then were? And, if she had, why had they never told me? I didn’t want to think about what the answer to that question might be.

Like I didn’t want to think about what I was going to do with the information the DNA test would throw up on whether Deirdre and I shared a father.

The same way I didn’t want to think about what had been happening between Davy and me, and how feeble my ‘we’re not in a relationship’ protests had started to sound.

I didn’t have the headspace to think about any of that. And I didn’t have the time.

At around four, Davy drove me into Coughlan’s Quay Garda Station. Mainly I wanted to meet Sadie, if I could, but it was also a good opportunity to get my car insurance claim form signed and stamped by the duty Garda.

I didn’t say much to Davy on the trip in, but I had a lot on my mind. For all my bravado, the arson attack had left me seriously rattled. And, along with the fears for my own safety, I had money worries. Between the cost of the DNA tests, and getting a new car, and my various trips to Dublin, I was going to be flat broke unless I managed to persuade Gabriel and the rest of the partners that I was safe to let back to work. And tonight was the Film Festival closing ceremony, the first time in years that I wouldn’t be there. Knowing I wouldn’t be welcome made me sad. But I felt worse about the loss of my friendship with Alice. I hadn’t heard a word from her since our fraught encounter after the Jeremy Gill workshop. I would send her an email, try to mend fences.

Grumbling along underneath everything was the guilt I felt about Rhona’s death. No matter how often I told myself that Gill was the perpetrator, that he carried all the blame, I was certain that, if it hadn’t been for my investigation, Rhona would still be alive.

‘I’ll wait for you,’ Davy said.