The Joyce Hotel had commanded the centre of Ragmullin for over one hundred and fifty years. Having undergone many facelifts and name changes, it was currently named after the Irish novelist who it was said had once stayed a night in the establishment. As Lottie entered the lounge bar, it took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dark interior.

‘Over here, Inspector.’

She squinted and turned on her heel. Cathal Moroney sat nestled in a red velour armchair nursing a pint of Guinness. A fake coal fire burned gas up a blocked-off chimney.

‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me. Will you have a drink?’ He wiped froth from his upper lip.

‘A cup of tea would be nice.’

As he beckoned to the barman, Lottie sat opposite the reporter, wishing she had asked for a double vodka. But she needed her wits about her where Moroney was concerned. She pulled off her jacket, folded it into a ball and squashed it between the iron legs of the small round table.

‘You intrigue me, Inspector.’

‘I can’t say the feeling is mutual.’ She shifted on the chair, dipping her head slightly to avoid his scrutiny.

‘Can we be friends?’ He held out a hand.

‘Not on your life.’ She folded her arms. This was going to be painful. The barman arrived with a pot of tea, and without waiting for it to brew, Lottie poured the weak liquid into a cup. At least it might warm up her hands. ‘What do you want to speak to me about?’

‘No time for chit-chat, then?’

‘Come on, Moroney, you know how busy I am. Out with it.’

He sipped his pint. Slowly. Lottie felt her patience tip over. She stood up.

‘I’m leaving.’

‘I think you’ll want to sit down,’ he said, slapping his glass onto the table. ‘It’s about the drug link to these murders you’re investigating. And possibly your private investigation into your father’s death.’

Lottie stopped, bent halfway under the table retrieving her jacket. Raising her head, she glared at the reporter. If he didn’t try so hard, she might even go so far as admitting he could be handsome. She supposed he flossed his teeth and dyed his hair. Even a little Botox on the forehead to help his television appearance. For all that, his green eyes were bloodshot, probably from drinking whiskey alone in a one-bedroom flat at night, and his belly strained against his shirt buttons.

She sat back down. ‘Go on.’

‘Nothing for nothing,’ he said, curling his lip in a knowing smirk.

‘Thought as much.’

‘I want the inside track on these drug-related deaths.’

‘What are you on about?’ She wasn’t giving him anything.

‘I believe there’s an organised-crime element involved in the Ball and Russell murders. I’ve been working on a story for years and I think this is the apex of it. I want in.’

‘You’re delusional.’ Lottie poured more tea, well brewed now.

A waiter arrived with a plate of food on a tray. ‘Mr Moroney, you ordered chicken, mash, veg and gravy. That right?’

‘Good lad. Put it right there.’ Moroney made room on the table for the plate of food. ‘Hungry, Inspector? Can I order anything for you?’

‘No thank you,’ Lottie said. Her stomach growled in protest.

She watched Moroney dig a fork into the chicken, stuff it into his mouth and chomp with his white veneers. She realised she had never met him outside of his confrontational reporting work. But he might have information to help her, so she’d have to put up with his disgusting eating, for a few minutes at least.

‘My father,’ she said. ‘What makes you think I’ve been looking into his death?’

He tapped the side of his nose with his fork, leaving a streak of gravy behind.

‘It’s my business to know these things. So what’s in it for me?’

Sipping the cup of tea, Lottie gripped the handle tightly. She had to find out what he had, if anything. She made her decision.

‘If you tell me what you know, I’ll try to give you first call on whatever we discover with regard to the murder investigations. Before any other media outlet is informed. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best.’

‘Not good enough.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Moroney.’ She clattered her cup to the saucer and made to get up again.

‘No… sit down.’ Moroney flapped the hand holding the knife. Reluctantly Lottie resumed her seat. Chewing, he said, ‘My father started out as a reporter on the local Tribune. Worked his fingers to the bone with black ink from the presses. Ended up owning the damn thing. Luckily, he didn’t live to see his life’s work taken over by a digital corporation.’

‘And what has that got to do with—’

‘My father was a meticulous reporter. Never lost the skill, even when he was managing a shitload of trouble at the paper. Kept files on everything and anything.’

‘And it’s all digitised now?’

‘Mostly, but not what I’m referring to.’

‘I don’t follow you, Mr Moroney.’

‘Cathal, please. Can I call you Lottie?’

‘No way, Mister Moroney.’

‘Jaysus, but you’re very contrary.’ He pulled his drink towards him and drained it to the dregs. Signalled the barman for another, sat back and folded his arms. He’d left the knife and fork resting on either side of the plate. Boyd would lose it if he saw that, Lottie thought, and smiled.

‘Nice smile,’ he said.

She dropped it and frowned.

‘Now where was I?’ he said.

‘Your father and his files.’

‘When I was growing up, he was always talking about this one story he had uncovered but couldn’t print. As a young boy I remember him being very angry about it. My mother used to shush him to stop him talking about it in front of me. He smoked a pipe and he would be sucking and pulling frantically on it, slamming papers around the desk he had built in the corner of the living room. Once I overhead him talking about two children. His words chilled me.’

‘What did he say?’ Lottie wasn’t sure there was any merit in listening to Moroney and his childhood recollections, but something was telling her to give him another few minutes. Especially as what he’d said so far resonated with what Buzz had told her.

‘He said, “Those little children didn’t deserve what happened to them, and neither did Sergeant Fitzpatrick.” I heard him say those words many times.’

Lottie moved to the edge of her chair, hands gripping the armrests. ‘What children? Who were they?’

‘I didn’t know then, but I do now.’

‘And they had something to do with my father?’

‘He mentioned them in the same sentence.’

‘How can you recall that? Surely you were just a child yourself?’

‘I knew you’d ask. That’s why you need to see the file I found among my father’s things. He ended up with dementia; died five years ago. A heart attack took him in the end. But even in his ramblings, these children were always mentioned in some context. And he was never allowed to print the story.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I have his original report in my possession. Attached to it is a formal letter from the garda commissioner threatening to close down the newspaper if the story saw the light of day.’

‘Jesus!’ Lottie sat back in her chair and ran a hand through her hair. ‘Was the story to do with these children or my father’s suicide?’

‘Both.’

‘Do you realise what you have in your possession, Mr Moroney?’

‘I do. And I think you suspect your father didn’t kill himself. At least not voluntarily.’

The barman arrived with Moroney’s drink and cleared away the plate and cutlery.

‘What do you mean?’ Lottie said, when he’d gone.

‘Do we have a deal?’ Moroney said.

She sat still, eyeing the reporter as he paused with his pint halfway to his lips. Could she really risk her job by going behind Superintendent Corrigan’s back? Perhaps she could feed Moroney inconsequential information. Something that was ready to be released anyway.

‘And I don’t want any shite from you,’ he said, as if he had read her mind.

‘Deal.’ She could get fired for this, but she had spent all her life trying to figure out why her father had killed himself, and the last four months actively pursuing it, getting nowhere. And today everything seemed to be flowing towards her like molten lava. ‘When can I see the file? Do you have it with you?’

‘You may think I’m stupid, but don’t underestimate me. I’ve spent years on this drug story; what can you give me on the murders?’

Thinking frantically, Lottie wondered how much information she could realistically release to a television reporter without the leak being attributed to her. Not much. She’d have to bluff Moroney.

‘I’ll pull together what I have and prepare a document for you,’ she said.

He took a notebook and pen from his breast pocket. Scribbled, then tore out a page. ‘This is my home address. Call to me tomorrow night. Say around eight. That will give me enough time to make a copy of my father’s file. If you don’t arrive with solid information, something concrete I can use, our deal is off. Is that clear?’

‘Clear,’ Lottie said, wishing she had Boyd with her to bestow reassurance that she was doing the right thing.

Somehow she knew what he would say: ‘Career suicide.’