Joe was brought up in a place like this. Joe, who loved his home comforts. Who’d stand with his back to the window, warming his calves on the radiator, saying it was heaven. Always ages in the bath, reading the paper, and talking about painting the ceiling again, getting a new kitchen put in. Whose job had been making interiors for other people’s houses. He’d spent most of the time on the caravan holiday in Dorset outside, smoking and scowling at it.

A dog suddenly came barrelling out of nowhere, black and white, its bark startling. Matty took a step backwards, but it was already alarmingly close, jumping up with a wide, maroon mouth. Paws scrabbling.

‘Get lost?’ A man in filthy overalls was walking over, wiping his hands on a rag. He abruptly called the dog, a word that sounded like feelin’. It ran to him and back over again, still barking.

‘Sorry. Just looking for someone.’

‘Not a journalist, then?’ An abrasive voice.

‘No.’

The man didn’t say anything, pressing one finger to a nostril, ejecting a quick globule of snot onto the ground. ‘All right. Who’s that you’re after?’

‘Maureen Maughan. Or Kevin Maughan.’

He spat out the dog’s name again, clicking his fingers by his knee. The dog stopped barking immediately and limped to the man’s feet. ‘Friends of yours?’

‘Relatives.’ It sounded alien to say it. ‘There’s Michael and Carly too.’

He raised his eyebrows as if far too much information was coming his way. ‘That right.’ He screwed up his face, a grin to himself, and looked over the field. ‘There a reason you’d think they’d be here?’

Matty swallowed. ‘Just – it’s … they’re travellers.’ Was that the right word? What would they call themselves?

The man had dark brown hair, gathered in a roll of curls above his forehead. A dark smudge of oil on his cheek above his goatee. He gazed at Matty, as behind him one of the caravan doors opened and a long-haired child, five or six, swung out, still holding onto the handle. ‘You’re a Maughan, are you?’

‘No. A Ronan. But from London.’

The child let the door swing back, disappearing, before it opened again, this time without her hanging onto it. Instead she peeked out, holding a small cat that might have been a soft toy.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘We don’t know everyone. Try up at Cavan. The ____ Pub. Or at the boxing club.’ He turned, calling the dog away with him.

26/11/99

LOUGH _______, Air 9°C, Water 9°C, 400m

There was a lough on the way, metal flashes of it once or twice on bends in the road. Matty turned off, parked up by the toilets. A guy with a rod was further up, far enough not to complain about the fish being disturbed.