As the taxi circled the village, I could see what darkness had cloaked the night before: the green was saturated, park benches and trees emerging from it as if from a swamp. And on the way into town, I saw that Marina was right, the entire route was awash, rain running off the roads in streams and rivulets, the fields below waterlogged, sheep standing mournfully on any patches of higher ground.

At McSheffrey’s Bridge, the turn off for Culdaff, there was a wide junction with a slight dip where a huge amount of water had gathered. Without the wall it would have been hard to distinguish between rainwater and sea.

Jack, the taxi driver, drove through it at a snail’s pace, clicking his teeth as he did so. “We’re going to have trouble. This water isn’t going anywhere.”

I looked at his concerned face from the passenger seat. “Surely it’ll clear eventually?”

He shook his head. “There’s nowhere for it to go. There’s been too much of it. All night it’s been raining in those heavy blasts. It’s dangerous to drive in, so it is.”

We emerged from the flood and he changed gear, causing a cigarette lighter he’d left on the dashboard to skitter across when he speeded up. “I hear one of the visitors died last night.”

I nodded. “So I gather.”

“Heart attack, was it?”

So, the full story wasn’t out yet, I thought. I responded, “No idea.”

Jack drummed his yellowed fingers on the steering wheel. “I drove that man back to Mary’s last night. He looked like a heart attack waiting to happen, to be honest …”

I leaned forward with interest. “Why do you say that?”

He shrugged. “Ach, carrying a fierce pile of weight so he was … big pink face on him.”

“Was he on his own?”

“No. His wife was with him and another man. Thinner fella with a limp.”

I made a mental note to pass this information on to Molloy. As I did, Jack frowned as if something had just occurred to him.

“What the hell was he doing out by Mamore Gap?”

Glendara hadn’t fared any better than Malin. It was sodden. The footpaths were slick; water dripped heavily from the drainpipes and guttering and ran in gullies down the street. Unusually for a Saturday morning, the square was deserted. People had obviously decided to prop their sopping feet in front of their warm fires, those with sense at any rate. I, on the other hand, picked my way, slipping and sliding along the footpath, and into Stoop’s newsagent.

Stoop himself was leaning with his elbows on the counter staring glumly at the door, his expression unchanged when he saw me. And before I even had a chance to say good morning, he said, “No papers. No delivery this morning.”

“Which papers?” I asked.