She pulled her case from the boot of the taxi, smiled at the doorman and walked into the lobby, where Ewan was seated, flicking casually through his phone. She was just wondering how she could attract his attention when he lifted his head and looked at her, his face breaking into a warm smile.

‘You came!’ he declared, standing up and pulling himself to his full six-foot-four height. ‘I wondered if you might decide it was all a bad idea or worry that I might be an actual serial killer rather than someone who just writes about them.’

Jo laughed. The thought that he might murder her and leave her body halfway up a hill in Donegal hadn’t crossed her mind before now. She was fairly sure he was joking. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Although you should know that my mum is following my movements via my phone and if I go off-grid at all, she’ll be calling the cops.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Ewan said. ‘And make sure that you leave your phone in the hotel, if I do decide to take you to an isolated spot for some light murder.’ He laughed, his weather-worn face lined and sun-kissed. God, he really did look George Clooney in his younger years. It was enough to make a person want to swoon.

No sooner had that thought entered her head than she shook it away. No. She would not think about Ewan like that. No good could come of it and she was determined that this would be an entirely professional relationship. She wouldn’t give Lorcan, or anyone else, the chance to say she’d been taken advantage of. No. This was work. Very important work. Even if he did look a little like a Hollywood hunk. All sinewy and square of jaw. Goodness, she thought, she really needed to get a grip. Especially if she was to get through the next few days with him. She couldn’t be mooning over him like a schoolgirl. No, she was a professional writer (the newly penned affirmation on her dressing table mirror said so), and she had to act like one.

‘Yes, hiding my phone before you murder me would be a wise course of action. Maybe destroy the SIM, just to be sure? Unless you want to deal with my mother that is. But I’ll warn you now, if you do end up on her wrong side, you’ll end up wishing it was you who had been murdered on a dark back road. In fact, you may well end up exactly like that.’

She noticed that their conversation, and its rather disturbing content, was attracting the attention of a tourist checking out of the hotel. The woman, perhaps in her fifties, with exceptionally big, lacquered and bleached hair, stood, her mouth agape.