It was an unwritten rule that the really easy cases, the ones that looked most settleable, were the ones that ended up causing the trouble. And often the troublesome cases ended up being easy. But not always. And if the tough cases went wrong, they were the worst of all. So, over the years, I had learnt to expect the unexpected, to suck up whatever happened and move on, with the minimum of fuss and as few backward glances as I could manage. Which didn’t mean that I was relaxed, or anything like it. My default setting for court was anxiety, varying from low to high, and averaging out usually, like today, somewhere in the middle. And if I wasn’t worried, then I’d worry for sure, about losing my edge or what I wasn’t seeing. An older colleague had told me when I was starting out that being a solicitor was like being at war: days and weeks of dullness interspersed with moments of terror. He had had it right, I reckoned but, however I scanned them, today’s cases were routine, and I was glad. Immersing myself in other people’s problems had never been a more welcome prospect.

I dropped the photographs into Camera World and arrived outside the Family Court a little before ten for the 10.30 list. I had a few minutes to spare so I rang the Opera House and asked to speak to Marie Wade. But Marie had a day off so the search for the former festival education officer Daniel O’Brien would have to wait.

Inside the courthouse, I embarked on a hunt for my clients and the opposing solicitors. It was a small place but with two waiting rooms, a couple of possible hallway loitering zones and an exterior smoking area, it was often hard to find who you were looking for at the exact moment you needed to find them.

It was nearly a quarter past ten, with the callover of the judge’s list approaching at half past. I had managed to meet and have a preliminary word with both opposing solicitors, yet my clients still hadn’t appeared. I hung by the door and started to fret, imagining that I had given the clients the wrong court date by mistake. But, after another while, they had arrived, one of them complaining about parking problems, the other stinking of the previous night’s alcohol and saying little apart from a mumbled ‘Sorry about that, Finn’.

I dived into the morning’s work.

By twenty to one, I was done. I took the opportunity, in the quiet of the solicitors’ room, to google Deirdre’s old school. I rang the phone number on the St Finbarr’s University School website, which was light on other details, teachers’ names or the hours of the school day. I gave my name and profession but no other details to the secretary who answered.