Lottie had swung a U-turn when she’d reached the main road, and headed to the Dead House in Tullamore. O’Dowd, whether intentionally or otherwise, had got her thinking about her father.

Jane Dore poured boiling water over a camomile tea bag.

‘So, what is it you want help with, Lottie?’

Lottie held the cup in her hand, letting the warmth thaw out her fingers.

‘The body that came in this morning. Have you carried out his PM yet?’

‘He’s on the table. Badly burned. But he didn’t die in the fire.’

‘What?’

‘I found a few nicks on his ribs. I’ve more tests to run, but in my opinion he was stabbed. No smoke in what’s left of the lungs, and that suggests he was dead before the fire.’

Lottie digested this information. Murdered. She had already suspected as much, seeing as the other victim had had his fingers hacked off.

‘Drug gangs,’ she said, half to herself. This would bring the GNDU – the Garda National Drugs Unit – to her district. ‘But it seems a bit extreme for a shedload of cannabis.’

‘I’ll email the preliminary results in the morning.’

‘How can we identify him?’

‘I’ve captured his dental impressions. Should have something for you later today or tomorrow morning.’

‘Thanks, Jane.’ Lottie sipped her tea, allowing it to relax her slightly. Only slightly.

‘Is there something else you want to discuss?’

‘It’s about my dad. You see, in 1975, he supposedly killed himself.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Jane eyed her quizzically. ‘You said supposedly.’

‘Over the last few months, I’ve been privately investigating the circumstances of his death. Following up with his former colleagues. Asking questions. Poking my nose into old people’s lives. Getting nowhere.’

‘Why are you doing that?’

‘I’m trying to figure out why Dad shot himself. I was only four, and my brother was ten.’

‘Was he suffering from depression? Stress at work?’

‘His colleagues, those still alive, say they can’t remember. It’s like they don’t want to talk about him. And my mother won’t tell my anything.’

‘Have you tried talking to her? Nicely?’

Lottie smiled. ‘Yes. I’d been trying to find out for years what happened, and a few months ago she handed over a box containing my father’s things.’

‘Did that give you any clues?’

‘I can’t pinpoint anything. A few newspaper cuttings. Notebooks. No suicide note. Mother says there wasn’t one.’

‘Was there an investigation at the time?’

‘An inquest. I suppose, because he was a serving garda sergeant, there doesn’t seem to have been too much of a fuss. Top brass probably wanted it all hushed up at the time.’

‘What was the verdict?’ Jane asked.

‘Suicide by lethal weapon. I’m surprised he even got a Catholic burial.’

‘Where did he get the gun?’

‘Took it from the weapons cabinet at the station. Stole the key and stole the gun.’

‘I’m assuming there was a post-mortem. Do you want me to check it out?’

‘Please. I have some photos and a death certificate. It’d be great if you could see what’s archived.’

Jane glanced at the certificate. ‘I’ll have a look.’

‘Thanks, Jane.’

‘I can’t promise anything.’

‘I know, but I thought that if you could examine the file, you might be able to tell me, one way or the other.’

‘Where did he do it?’ Cool and professional. Lottie winced at Jane’s aloofness.

‘In the tool shed at the bottom of the garden.’

‘In my experience, a police officer who commits suicide most often carries out the act at their place of work. Unusual that he would bring it on the family like that.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘I’m only speculating here, Lottie.’

‘I know, but anything you can give me is appreciated.’

‘You really want to know why he did it?’

‘If he did it,’ Lottie said.

‘I deal with facts and evidence. I’ll check our archives.’ Jane sipped her tea. ‘Who found his body?’

Lottie was silent for a moment. An image flitted across her eyes. A memory? No, she’d been too young then.

‘My brother Eddie. According to Mother, it changed his personality. He ended up in St Angela’s Institution, where he was murdered.’

‘Sad family history you have, Lottie.’

‘I know. Too sad that my mother won’t help me.’

‘I’m sure if you sit her down and tell her how it has affected you, she’ll talk to you.’

‘You don’t know my mother,’ Lottie said with a grim smile.

‘She gave you the box of memorabilia, didn’t she?’

‘After years of begging for answers, that’s all she offered. I still don’t know what prompted her to hand it over.’

‘Probably you discovering your brother’s bones.’ Jane picked up the two mugs. ‘Speak to her about the days and weeks leading up to your father’s death. If anyone can get her to talk, Lottie Parker, you can.’ She slipped down off the stool and put the mugs into a sink.

‘Thanks, Jane.’ Lottie clutched her bag.

‘I can’t promise anything on your father’s suicide, but I’ll have the prelims over to you in the morning.

‘Prelims?’ Lottie turned around, brows knitted together.

‘On the burned body.’

‘Oh, yes.’

Leaving Jane and the Dead House, Lottie headed out to the car park and was almost blown off her feet by the wind. The storm had arrived.