“Fair enough.” I checked my watch too. It was a quarter past five. “I’d better get going too. I need to try and catch the office before it closes.”

McFadden waved me off as a loudspeaker made an announcement that the truck with the bikes was about to leave. I walked across the square, stretching my arms. My back was aching after the long flight and drive, and I was looking forward to lighting the fire in my cottage and curling up with a glass of wine, but I knew I should call into the office first – we opened till half past five, so I should just about catch them.

I reached the bottom of the square, turned the corner and suddenly I was there, standing in front of the small terraced house that accommodated O’Keeffe & Co. Solicitors. My practice. I was back. I took a breath, pressed down the handle and pushed open the door, expecting it to give way since we kept it unlatched, but it didn’t move. I tried again, wondering if it was stuck – it did that sometimes but no, it was locked.

I checked my watch again. It was still only twenty past five and the sign in the window gave the same opening hours, but the office was closed. I stood for a few seconds wondering what to do. I looked in the windows but could see no sign of life. I had no key since I’d left mine at the cottage; there had been no point in bringing one to the States. I could ring Leah on her mobile, I thought, but I decided against it; they probably hadn’t been expecting me till the morning. Maybe it was just as well; I’d have a good night’s sleep tonight and call in first thing tomorrow.

Although it was a bloody strange sensation being locked out of your own office.

Chapter Four

I TURNED TO make my way back up the street. In the short time since I’d left, the square had cleared considerably. I assumed most of the visitors had decamped to Malin Head. The bikes were gone, along with many of the cars, and there were three free spaces in front of the courthouse where the large truck had been. McFadden would be happy, I thought, although there was no sign of him now either.

There was a brisk wind as I walked along the lower end of the square. Ahead of me, one of the remaining cyclists was on the footpath looking into a shop window. As I watched, he pulled off his cycling gloves and squatted down on his hunkers to get a closer look at whatever it was he was examining. When I got closer, I realized he was outside Phyllis Kettle’s bookshop and when I reached him, I stopped and followed his gaze.