‘I told him to check inside the shed before he shut the door, and he swore blind that he had. Jonesy likes to sneak in there whenever he gets the chance to look for mice. Well, I hope he’s found some because the poor blighter’s been in there for nearly two days now.’

Mildred couldn’t wait to get home and left in a flurry of thanks to Imelda and threats of what she was going to do to the unfortunate Malcolm. Once she had gone, Grisha reappeared from behind the curtain and came and rested his head on Imelda’s lap. They shared a moment’s peace before Grisha twitched his ears and his elegant tail began to wag slowly like a ship’s pennant fluttering in a sea breeze.

‘Is it safe to come in?’

That familiar voice – his voice – was a startling but welcome intrusion into the shadowy cocoon of the booth. Without waiting for an answer, Cillian Byrne sauntered in.

‘Are you alone?’ he asked.

Imelda smiled and then cursed under her breath.

Shunty-Mae followed him in. ‘Not anymore!’ There was a brief silence before she continued. ‘Imelda’s just about to take a break, so perhaps you’d like to take her for that drink you promised her?’

_______________________

They sat outside the café under the shade of one of the large umbrellas. Grisha leaned heavily against Cillian’s leg, slobbering over the ice cream cone that Cillian was feeding him. Diamond brought them their drinks and winked theatrically at Imelda as she whisked away the empty tray.

‘Well, this is very civil of you, Mr Byrne.’ Imelda raised her glass towards him.

‘It’s my pleasure, Imelda. I’m delighted that your mother has allowed you to accompany me unchaperoned. Why don’t you call me Cillian?’

Imelda met his gaze. ‘I’m still deciding whether I want to be that familiar,’ she teased. ‘After all, I don’t really know that much about you.’

Cillian leaned back in his chair. ‘Ask away!’

‘What makes you happy?’

‘Life.’

‘What makes you sad?’

‘Life.’

Imelda shook her head. ‘You don’t give much away, do you?’

‘But I’m an open book to you, Imelda. You can ask me anything.’

There was a clatter at the table next to them as a man in small round sunglasses wearing a trench coat over his T-shirt and shorts knocked over a chair in his attempt to sit down. It was MI5 Clive.

‘Good afternoon, Madame Burova, Tarot Reader, Palmist and Clairvoyant. Good afternoon, Grisha the Russian Dog Who Doesn’t Have Fleas.’ He paused for a moment and stared long and hard at Cillian before asking, ‘Who is your gentleman friend?’

Cillian doffed an imaginary cap in greeting. ‘Cillian Byrne. Wall of Death Rider.’

MI5 Clive nodded seriously to himself. ‘Good afternoon, Cillian Byrne Wall of Death Rider.’