I skirted the edge of the Quad – the abiding superstition was that to cross it would result in certain exam failure – and entered the stone corridor. Leaning against the wall opposite the door to W5, I could hear the lecturer’s voice. Though I was unable to make out the words, his timetable had told me that today he was talking about the philosopher George Berkeley who, two centuries or more before, had been bishop of Cloyne, half an hour east of the city.

Within a couple of minutes, the cold of the limestone had permeated my jacket. I stood out from the wall and shook myself warm as students began to file out of the lecture theatre. I went against the flow, not wanting to miss the elusive Dr Lucey. He was standing by the lectern, being subjected to the anxious attentions of two students. Presumably no older than his early thirties, Lorcan Lucey was prematurely grey, with tired-looking white rabbit eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. I waited until his glance fell on me.

‘Are you waiting for me?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘You are?’ he said, after the students had gone.

‘Finn Fitzpatrick. I left you a couple of voicemails.’

‘I don’t listen to them. Waste of time.’

There was no point mentioning the message left with the department secretary. Before I had a chance to speak again, Lucey fired another question.

‘You want to talk to me because …?’

‘It’s about a workshop that I think you did in 1998 at Cork Film Festival, with the film director Jeremy Gill. I represent the parents of one of the other participants, Deirdre Carney. Do you remember the workshop and do you remember her?’

‘I remember both,’ Lucey said. ‘Is that it? Are we done?’

‘No,’ I said, through gritted teeth. ‘If I can buy you a coffee I’ll explain.’

‘Well, as long as it doesn’t take too long, I suppose I could go for coffee. Though when I say coffee, I mean tea. Earl Grey, to be precise. Come along now. Let’s go to the staff common room. That’s our best bet at this time of day, methinks.’

Lorcan Lucey sped off like a beetle, his black gown billowing after him. He dodged around the corner into the north wing, under the stone arch, past the Ogham Stones and up the stone steps. I had to keep up a good pace to stay with him. By the time I got to the common room, he had already taken a seat at a window table. I loved this room, the vaulted ceilings and wood panelling, the views onto the wooded heights of Sunday’s Well. Lucey made no move to join me at the counter. It looked like he was used to being waited on. By his mother, presumably.

‘You’re fit,’ I said as I laid the tea things on the table in front of him.