I went back to reception. By now the phone was charged up to 5 per cent, enough to keep me going till I reached the stationhouse. Before I left, I checked the waiting room. Of course, there was nothing and I told myself off for being silly. I probably just needed a good night’s sleep. Jet lag again.

Before I reached the front door, my phone buzzed in my hand and I jumped. It was a text from Molloy. He said he’d be later than he thought – in fact, he might not get back at all tonight. The floods were worse in some areas than others and he and McFadden were helping people move their belongings into accommodation that had been offered. I texted back, offering to go and help – although I wouldn’t have been able to drive after the wine – but he said they had enough helping hands, he just felt he should be there. Then my phone died again. I grabbed the charger and left the office, glad to be back out on the street again. The contact with Molloy had stilled my breathing and made me feel more normal.

The street was deserted as I walked the rest of the way down the hill. The sergeant’s house was behind the Garda Station, dark and unattended, temporarily redundant now that the Beacon Hall had become the emergency accommodation center and McFadden was off somewhere with Molloy. I hoped the station would become a hub of activity again in the morning if back-up finally arrived.

There was a laneway leading to the sergeant’s house, which went along the side of the station. It was unlit and dripping, but I took it, emerging at an ordinary, unassuming, three-bedroom detached house. It was intended to accommodate the local sergeant and his family, but Molloy had lived here alone, on and off, for the past ten years. I reached the door with relief, took the key from my pocket and let myself in.

In the hallway I felt around for a light switch, found one and made my way into the living room. Molloy had been back for the six months or so since Glendara’s Garda Station had reopened, but you’d never know it. There was no trace of him or his personality. The room held a sofa, two armchairs, some books on the shelves and an ancient television that I wondered if he ever watched. As I made my way back out into the hall, I wondered how much time he spent here. In the kitchen a mug and a plate lay on the draining board, washed but not dried or put away.