“All of them. Any of them. Local or national. The delivery van couldn’t get through – or didn’t bother. One or the other. Anyway, I have no papers to sell. On a Saturday morning.”

“Oh.” I was genuinely disappointed. I’d been looking forward to the Saturday supplements, my first helping in a while, of the Irish ones at any rate.

Stoop shook his head, reading my expression. “You’re not the only one. Mary was in first thing. I thought she was going to cry – never misses her Indo, that woman. Mind you,” the newsagent brightened somewhat, “she has enough drama going on up at the guesthouse. You heard what happened out at Mamore last night?”

I nodded. “I did. Awful.”

“Snakebite,” Stoop said with satisfaction.

“What did you say?” I couldn’t have heard him right.

“That’s how the man died. He was bitten by a poisonous snake.” Stoop repeated each word as if I was deaf or dim or both, straightening himself to his full height, which legend indicated was about six foot four. “We’re all to be vigilant because there’s a snake on the loose.”

I was stunned. “Where did you hear that?”

He gestured towards an old transistor radio humming away on a shelf above the ice-cream machine. “Highland Radio had it, just five minutes gone. The guards released a statement to warn people to look out.” He scowled. “Someone must have been keeping the feckin’ wee thing as a pet. All sorts of lunatics out there.”

I kicked myself for not turning on the radio or asking the taxi driver to do it. Trust Stoop to be first with the news, even if he didn’t have any newspapers to sell.

He lowered his voice. “Isn’t that rare? A snake on the loose in Inishowen? So much for St Patrick driving them all out of Ireland.”

I made my way back to the Mini, still parked in the square where I’d left it the night before, remembering again Harry’s close examination of the dead man’s hand. Was that where he’d been bitten? Relieved when the car started the first time, after a bit of shudder, I decided to call into the Garda Station.

McFadden looked up from his computer, tired and red-eyed, when I pushed open the door. He couldn’t have had much sleep: the last time I’d seen him was at 5 a.m. and he still had several trips to make. It was now ten and he was back – or still – on duty.

I dispensed with all preliminaries. “Bob Jameson was killed by a snake?”

McFadden frowned. “Where did you hear that?”

“Stoop told me he heard it on Highland Radio.”