He opened the door and I got into the car as fast as I could. I needed the seat.

We drove west from the city, past the Lee Fields, out the Straight Road, where they used to run land speed record attempts back when people were interested in that kind of thing. Then, instead of continuing along the main route, Davy chose the narrow winding road that tracked the river, high above it, a shimmer of water visible intermittently through the hedgerows.

Once or twice I felt him looking at me, but he said nothing. He always knew when I wanted to talk and when I needed quiet. As we turned on to the mile-long tree-lined driveway to Muskerry Castle, the BMW earning us an effortless wave through gate security, I tried, with limited success, to drag my mind back to why I was here.

The hotel was as beautiful as I remembered: castellated limestone, carved oak and stone interiors, Turkish carpets, open fires, pastoral views from every window. It had been the landed estate, the ‘big house’, of the area, not burnt out as many like it had been in the 1920s, or demolished, or fallen into ruins, as others had been after their farms were compulsorily acquired by the Land Commission; death duties had crippled even more. Almost by default, the house had survived intact until one of the less useless members of the family, a daughter, had stopped yearning for a vanished Downton Abbey idyll that had never been, and turned the place into a hotel. She had done well. It was part-owned by an international group now, but the family was still involved in the running, and it was one of the few places in Cork that the recession didn’t seem to have affected, except to make hiring staff a lot easier.

‘Is it a special occasion, madam?’ the waitress asked as she led us to our table. Thrown momentarily, I looked to Davy for help.

‘It might be,’ he said and flashed a smile in her direction.

As we sat down, he asked ‘Why are we here anyway, Finn?’

‘It’s a work thing, Davy. I can’t tell you too much about it, you know, client confidentiality and all that. But I really appreciate you coming along.’

I watched his expression change and settle as I spoke, from curiosity to resignation, with a hint of disappointment somewhere in the middle.

‘Excellent,’ Davy said. ‘You know me, always up for a bit of legal work.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

But it felt like I was using him and, when they came, the perfect mini-sandwiches and cakes tasted like cardboard in my mouth. I had to salvage something from the afternoon, and got my chance when a florid, silver-haired man in Muskerry Castle livery, royal blue, for the kings of Munster, and red trim, for Cork, stopped at our table.

‘Davy Keenan, as I live and breathe, how are you?’ the man said.