Lottie didn’t utter a word on the short drive back to the station. Her temper simmered just below the surface of her indignation.

As Boyd swung the car onto Main Street, she said, ‘He could’ve chopped her up and fed her to the cows or his dog. You saw that scythe and that… that rotor machine thing. Jesus, Boyd, we need that warrant.’

‘Calm down.’

‘You’re telling me to calm down? After that… that excuse for a man threatened me?’ She struggled to spin her words together in a coherent sentence.

‘You were out of order. You shouldn’t have hit him and he was within his rights to tell us to get off his property.’

Arms folded tightly, chin buried to her chest, Lottie smouldered.

‘If you keep that up,’ Boyd said, ‘there’ll be smoke coming out of your ears.’

‘We need to get a full description of the bicycle from Natasha.’ Lottie fumbled in her bag for her phone, then stopped. ‘Better still, drive over to the Kellys’ house. I’ll talk to her myself.’

‘We have a description back at the station,’ he said. ‘And you have to delegate. It’s impossible to do everything yourself.’

‘Go to Kelly’s. I need to talk to Natasha,’ she said abruptly.

He swung the car around the roundabout and headed in the direction of Carnmore.

Lottie seethed for the rest of the short journey. She thought of her own children and how she’d felt when Sean, and then Chloe, had gone missing. There really wasn’t anyone left to miss Emma, except her dad, and he could be a murderer. She took out her phone and called home. Just to hear they were all okay, that was all, she told herself.

---

A dishevelled-looking Bernie Kelly opened the door. The make-up she’d worn so confidently the other day was now streaked, and her hair looked like it nested robins.

‘What now?’ she said.

‘I have to speak to Natasha,’ Lottie said.

‘It’s not a good time, and I’m getting mighty fed up with all this interference.’

Lottie moved past her along the hallway and into the kitchen. Natasha was leaning against the jamb of the open back door, puffing vigorously on a cigarette. The table evidenced the remains of a half-eaten dinner, and a plate lay in pieces on the floor, strings of spaghetti and sauce clinging to the legs of the table and congealing on the tiles.

‘What happened here?’ Lottie asked.

Natasha flicked the cigarette outside, then came in and closed the door. She faced Lottie, taunting her with a smirk.

‘None of your business,’ she said, folding her arms defiantly.

From behind her, Lottie heard Bernie say, ‘Just a family argument. Like she says, none of your business.’

‘We only want to have a chat,’ Boyd said.

Lottie had forgotten he was there. She turned to see him with his arm around Bernie Kelly’s trembling shoulders. The woman was clutching a black cardigan tight to her chest and her jeans were streaked with red sauce.

‘I really think you should leave,’ Bernie said. ‘I want to have a word with my daughter.’

‘Natasha,’ Lottie said, ‘sit down.’

‘I prefer to stand.’

‘I don’t care what went on between you and your mother. You can sort that out yourselves. I’m here to ask about your bicycle. What colour is it?’

‘My bike? I don’t know. It’s years since I used it.’

‘Is it black or white? Red or blue?’

‘Red. I think.’

Lottie looked up at Boyd, then to Bernie. ‘Do you have a serial number for it? On insurance documents maybe?’

Bernie shook her head.

Turning her attention back to Natasha, Lottie said, ‘The night Tessa Ball was murdered, can you tell me exactly what you and Emma did?’

‘Watched telly. Told you that already.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘That’s not my problem.’ She unfolded her arms and clenched her hands into fists by her sides.

Calling Boyd over, Lottie whispered in his ear. He headed out to the car, returning a few moments later with a large plastic evidence bag. He held it up.

‘Do you know who owns this?’

Natasha’s eyes widened, but she kept her lips sealed shut.

Bernie butted in, ‘You have one just like it, love.’

‘Maybe,’ Natasha said, her lips curving upwards. Slowly she drew her eyes back to Lottie. ‘Where’d you find it?’

‘Lorcan Brady’s house. Have you ever been there?’

‘I told you, he’s Emma’s boyfriend. She must be with him.’

‘No, she’s not. Lorcan is in hospital.’

‘Hospital?’ Bernie said. ‘I thought… Is he okay? What happened to him?’

‘Had a bit of an accident with a fire.’

‘Is he all right?’ Natasha asked, her teenage cockiness slipping.

‘Not really. No.’

‘Is he going to die?’ Bernie again.

‘I’m no doctor,’ Lottie said, ‘so I can’t answer that. Back to the hoodie. I need to determine ownership.’

Bernie studied it for a moment and said, ‘Emma was wearing Natasha’s clothes while she was here. If Lorcan’s in hospital, do you know where Emma is?’

‘I don’t know,’ Lottie admitted. ‘Do you know a Mick O’Dowd?’

Bernie shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think I recognise that name.’

Looking at the red mess decorating the kitchen, Lottie said, ‘Are you going to tell me what happened here?’

‘Just family stuff,’ Bernie said. ‘Isn’t that right, Natasha?’

Lottie watched as Natasha stood stock still, her face as unreadable as her mother’s. ‘Suppose so.’

‘If you remember anything about the hoodie or where you think Emma might be, let us know,’ Lottie said, and walked slowly behind Boyd as they left the house.

She wasn’t sure what she had witnessed here. But she was sure of one thing. There was no one better experienced than her to know how tumultuous the relationship could be between mothers and teenage children.