I hate having wet feet, and my way too expensive leather-soled work shoes were going to die in the rain.

They would have to do. Shrugging on my charcoal raincoat, I tied back my hair with an elastic band grabbed from my desk. Not ideal, but better than having a thick dark curtain blowing over my eyes and blocking my view as I walked. I pulled on black leather gloves as I ran down the four flights of stairs to the street door, the one we use at night when the main entrance is closed.

‘Everyone gone?’ I shouted.

The echoing silence told me I was alone. Mostly, I like this place better when it’s empty and dark and cold. But I was feeling shaky that night. A flood warning will do that to you, will fool you into thinking there might be safety in numbers.

I keyed in the alarm code, hauled the flood barrier out of the ground floor cupboard and wedged it into the steel grooves on the door frame. The council had made a sandbag delivery. I heaved three in front of the door. Lastly, I hit the button on the shutter remote control, pulled up my hood and walked away, towards Barrack Street and higher ground. It was too late to take the low footbridge from the Grand Parade, so I made for the South Gate, built high enough from the water to withstand the tidal surge. It was only ten past six. I had enough time. If the wind didn’t blow me away first.

Glancing back to check on the shutter’s progress, I saw a short, portly figure in a flat cap and an old-man rain jacket standing in front of the office, staring up at the unlit windows. Just then, he looked in my direction. He shouted something I couldn’t hear, and rushed towards me, and grabbed my hand like he wasn’t planning on letting go.

‘Miss Fitzpatrick, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I need to talk to you. It’s an emergency.’

Mid-sixties or older, the man’s accent was local, but he was a stranger. If he knew who I was, it was thanks to the firm’s website. I’ve been a solicitor long enough to know that new clients who come to the office without an appointment late on a Friday, any Friday, and especially wet Fridays in November, are to be avoided at all costs. Normally, I give them a business card, suggest a meeting the following week and, usually, the so-called urgent business evaporates over the weekend.

‘Sorry. Not now,’ I said. ‘I’m finished for the day. And it’ll be high tide in less than half an hour. Come back Monday?’

‘It has to be now, Miss Fitzpatrick,’ the man said. ‘Finola. Please.’