And so dumb. Apart from the #lawyerbitch tweets, she didn’t do much on Twitter but there were some cross-posts from her Instagram account. I clicked through. Her profile was public and had an impressive 2,347 followers. It looked like her mocha comments were popular. Or maybe the recent controversy had boosted her numbers? Carmel’s profile revealed a trail of movements in a quest for coffee and chocolate beverage perfection over the previous eight months. There were almost daily posts and photographs, and a link to a blog (Carmela McMocha’s House of Mocha, 923 subscribers) where she provided tasting notes and star ratings for anywhere she’d been, on holidays and school trips as well as locally.

There weren’t that many places in Cork. Some of them she never returned to after scathing one or no star reviews. Others were more frequent haunts. I sat at the kitchen table with my laptop and a notebook and wrote down the names of the cafes she had visited more than once that were in walking distance of St Al’s. The rain was spilling down now. If she was going to go somewhere after school today, it would have to be close. I narrowed down the options to two places, pulled on my rain-jacket and ran out the door.

I had no luck at the first cafe, Tiramisu on Proby’s Quay, in the shadow of the cathedral. I headed down Sharman Crawford Street, past the Art College and St Al’s School, and crossed the bridge on to Lancaster Quay. By the time I got to Cafe Depeche, my leggings were stuck to my knees and shins, and the band of sweatshirt that hung below my jacket was flapping against my thighs like a wet flag. I had a black knitted cap on under my hood, and the front of it was soaked, but at least most of my hair was dry. I entered the cafe, peeled off the beanie, wiped my face and hands with it, and surveyed the room as best I could, head bent, from beneath my hood.

I heard them before I saw them, the unmistakable high-pitched squeal of a group of female teenagers. I looked up. There were a few tables of Pres boys but, at the far end of the counter, three girls coiled themselves on high stools. The middle one was Carmel. She looked well. She looked like nothing bad had happened to her. Not yet.

And she hadn’t noticed me yet either. Moving quickly to retain the element of surprise, I went up behind her and rapped her on the left shoulder.

‘You,’ I said. ‘We need to talk.’

I walked backwards and stood by a table, arms folded.

‘Here,’ I said. ‘Now.’

I watched Carmel register who I was. For a moment, she looked scared. But her expression changed fast.