Crossing over the bridge I walk to the police station on Pearse Street where Burke has arranged for me to meet a sketch artist. I’m making better progress than the cars on the road that are stuck in a tailback for as far as I can see. The trucks aren’t helping. Their heavy loads are making me nervous as I scurry past them as they try to manoeuvre around a tight corner. I reach the double doors of the station just as rain starts to fall. At least the clouds are on my side.

I check in at the counter and wait to be called. It doesn’t take long. Not long enough for me to check my phone.

A man who introduces himself as Martin Keegan takes me through a door. The corridor we walk down looks old and in need of a paint. I thought all these places were state of the art nowadays. I was wrong. This is a tip.

As if reading my mind, the guy, who’s about to draw my vision says, ‘Sorry, we’re stuck in the old part.’

He opens a door onto a small room. There’s a table, a few chairs, bare walls. Is this an interview room where baddies get questioned? I feel like a criminal.

‘Sally, we’ll run through what you saw, then I’ll make a few sketches.’

‘I’m not sure I can remember much. I remember the eyes but…’ We both sit down at the table.

‘Let me worry about that. You’ll be surprised what you remember when you try.’

Half an hour later I’m walking back to the salon with a sketch of the person I saw in the garden that night. Martin Keegan was right. He helped me focus on what I’d seen and I’m sure now it was a woman. Even though I only saw her image for a split second, it had been imprinted on my mind. The eyes, the hair, the bone structure. What surprised me most was the cross around her neck. The shape dangling at her bony throat was so clear and yet I hadn’t remembered it until now. I’m impressed. I’m also a bit nervous. If it’s the same woman that was looking in the window at the boys playing, I fear we’re in danger. Hopefully it’s not. I’ll know soon enough.

Back in the salon, I’m blow-drying fifty strands of dry grey hair trying to make it look like a thousand. Mrs Walsh really shouldn’t waste her money but she says she comes more for the experience than the hairdo. I get her. I know what she means. Her heavy blue coat hangs looser every time she leaves.

‘Thank you, see you next week,’ I say, wondering will I? Will next week be the week she doesn’t return. It’s coming soon.