Phyllis’s window was entirely taken up with cycling books: David Walsh’s Seven Deadly Sins, The Secret Race: Inside the Hidden World of the Tour de France by Daniel Coyle and Tyler Hamilton, and Bradley Wiggins’s autobiography among others. She’d even added a cycling helmet and gloves, although both looked as though they’d seen better days. And a vintage bicycle horn with a rubber bulb! I suppressed a smile, wondering where she had come across all that paraphernalia. It was hard to imagine the bookseller on a bike. Maybe her grandfather (who’d sold pots and pans in the square and was the source of her nickname) had used a High Nelly to get around? However she’d done it, I was impressed. She’d anticipated things well.

The man noticed my presence and twisted around, hand on one knee. It was the man who’d thrown the spider tie earlier on. “Quite a selection, for a small-town bookshop,” he remarked.

He’d pulled on a blue waterproof jacket since I’d seen him earlier, with the words Trans-Pyrenees Challenge 2015 across the back and front. He was tanned and lean, a grey goatee giving him a rather distinguished look, and his eyebrows were bushy, threaded with silver and black.

I grinned. “It’s quite a bookshop.”

“So, I see.” He stood up using the wall to steady himself and stretched his legs.

“You should have a look inside,” I said. “Phyllis can get you any book you want – new or second-hand. People buy books from her and when they’ve finished reading them, she buys them back and sells them some more.”

He flashed a smile and creases formed around his eyes. “What a great idea. A bit like a library, but if you like the books, you can keep them. Someone in Galway should catch on to that.”

I shrugged with a half-smile. “Maybe it only works in a small town.”

The man was very thin; an indent appeared in his cheeks when he smiled, showing the outline of his skull. He was in his fifties, I guessed, but I could see from his legs, muscles bulging at the thighs, that he was strong. He put his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Sorry for almost braining you earlier, by the way. I should be more careful. I could take someone’s eye out.”

I laughed. “You sound like my mother. Is Galway where you’re from?” I remembered McFadden’s assumption that all the newcomers were from Dublin.

He nodded.

“And you’re doing the race, I assume?”

“I am. Although it’s not supposed to be a race – it’s a charity cycle.” He gave me a wry look. “Not that you can tell some people that.”

“I can imagine. Seems like a good thing to do though.” I looked up at the banner, which was directly above where we stood.