Here, in this sprawling graveyard, a young mother was going to be finally laid to rest, thousands of miles from where she'd made her home.

In the nearby chapel, the body of Baiba Saulite was lying in state.

At the gates of the cemetery, mourners began to arrive, all carrying flowers and wreaths, all silent, all devastated. Baiba's parents . . .

Raitis and Ilze . . . and her brother, Karlis, arrived early to greet their friends and family.

They stood near the gates, shook hands and hugged and whispered, before moving in a slow procession towards the steps leading up to the chapel.

Baiba's two young children, Ali-Alexandra and Mohammed Rami, did not attend.

They are wards of the Irish state, now that their mother has been shot dead and their father is in prison. And so they remained in Ireland.

Standing slightly away from the crowd, under a tree, stood solicitor John Hennessy with his girlfriend. Alongside them stood Hennessy's protection, a large man in a trench coat, whose eyes never stopped scanning the crowds.

Baiba's family led the way into the small chapel. It was a round room, painted all in cream, with five simple stained-glass windows. Two sets of candles were the only other ornaments for this Lutheran ceremony. In the centre of the room was the coffin, in which the murdered woman lay. A white shroud was drawn up to her shoulders, her face still revealed . . .

almost unrecognisable now from the beautiful, vibrant face of the 28-year-old Latvian woman who was alive just over two weeks ago.

Baiba's family lined up next to the coffin, as mourners continued to pour into the chapel, until there was no more space and people stood outside. It was standing room only. Hennessy and his companions were among the last to enter, and they took up a place towards the back of the room.

As the chaplain began the sermon, Baiba's mother tucked her chin towards her chest, a black hat obscuring most of her features. With the door open, and the afternoon receding, the temperature continued to drop. Warm puffs of breath blew from Ilze's mouth, towards her daughter.

The chaplain spoke little about Baiba's life in Ireland or, indeed, about the circumstances leading up to her death. However, he spoke about people who believed that they could fix a problem by killing someone else, and how this belief was so obviously misplaced. He talked about Baiba's journey to God. He prayed for her and blessed her, and then he stood aside.

From the side of the chapel, a violinist played a haunting song, and Ilze's chin dipped further. Karlis used a crumpled handkerchief to wipe away his tears. Outside, the fog descended low upon the graves and the day turned to dark. It was time for the final goodbye.

Baiba's parents walked to the head of their daughter's coffin. Her father, Raitis, plucked at the shroud, fixing it, rearranging it. Her mother simply laid one hand on Baiba's forehead and dropped her head down to her daughter. Like this, they stayed, with the dignified desperation of those who know they must let go. Karlis followed. He placed his hands on either side of his sister's head, and gently kissed her hair, his tears running down to touch her. Finally, with an anguished grimace, Raitis and Ilze both lifted the shroud, and brought it up to cover their daughter's face.

The lid was placed on the coffin, with a hallow thump, an awful finality.

The funeral procession walked slowly to the grave, through the fog and dark to where some small candles had been beside the gaping hole in the earth.

More haunting music filled the air, as the chaplain again blessed and prayed for the soul of the 28-year-old mother of two who was killed well before her time. The coffin was lowered into the ground.

Baiba's family held each other for comfort. Mourners shuffled forward with their wreaths and their flowers and their devastation as the first sprinkles of soil were thrown into the grave.

The light was now gone, and a lonely darkness pervaded, as the people who loved her said their final goodbye to Baiba Saulite.

The young woman who loved life and loved her children, and in her last days, feared that both would be robbed from her.