First responders had strewn crime-scene tape across the gateway pillars at the front of the house. An ambulance was parked up behind a Ford Focus. In front of that, a people carrier.

Lottie glanced into the seven-seater. Two child seats were strapped in the back.

‘Is Moroney married?’ she asked Boyd, realising how little she knew about the reporter.

‘I’m sure we’re about to find out.’

The uniformed officer standing outside the front door held up his hand. ‘We’re waiting for SOCOs, Inspector.’

‘I have to see for myself,’ Lottie said. Boyd went back to the car for protective clothing. ‘What’s it like in there?’

‘Bad. Very bad.’

‘Who broke down the door?’

‘My colleague.’ He pointed to a man leaning against a tree, his face greener than any leaf that might have once adorned the branches. ‘He was in and out before I got further than the kitchen. We called for reinforcements and forensics, secured the site and waited.’

Lottie hurriedly pulled on overalls, overshoes, gloves and mouth mask. The garda stood to one side and she entered through the damaged front door.

The familiar metallic scent of blood wafted towards her. To her right, a staircase leading to the first floor; to her left, an open door. She peered inside. A family room. Fireplace with ashes, a floral suite, cushions scattered higgledy-piggledy. In the corner, a plastic box overflowing with toys.

‘I’ve a bad feeling about this, Lottie,’ Boyd said.

She was shaking. ‘Me too.’

They backed out of the room and made their way down the hall to the kitchen. Modern, open-plan, with an island in the centre. It was laid for breakfast. Orange juice carton. Smooth, no bits. Cereal boxes. Coco Pops, muesli. Two ceramic mugs. Two plastic beakers. One blue. One pink. Two plastic bowls. One blue. One pink.

Lying against the cupboard beneath the sink was a woman with long black hair matted to her scalp. Blood had ceased pouring. It streaked the side of her face and neck and saturated her white cotton nightie. Her eyes were closed. She looked like a doll that had been dropped by a careless child. Her legs were spread out; hands by her sides, palms upwards. Her blood had flowed towards the back door. This must be what the neighbour had witnessed seeping out onto the step.

‘Where are the kids, Boyd? Where’s Moroney?’ Lottie asked, knowing that the answer to one or both of those questions lay beyond the breakfast bar.

She took a step on to the satin-finish cream floor tiles.

‘McGlynn will have your guts for garters,’ Boyd said.

She continued around the side of the island, holding her breath, almost closing her eyes.

She exhaled loudly. ‘It’s Moroney.’

The man she had seen as her nemesis lay supine on the floor, a black-handled knife protruding from his stomach, still clutched in his hand. Had he been trying to extract it, or had he stabbed himself? His face was bruised and bloody. His mouth hung open, his once sparkling megawatt smile no more.

Boyd said, ‘Domestic drama?’

Lottie looked around wildly, clutched Boyd’s outstretched hand. ‘Where are the children?’

She rushed back to the garda at the front door. ‘Did you check upstairs?’

‘No, Inspector. Waiting for you lot and SOCOs.’

‘You didn’t check to see if the children were here? Good God!’ She turned and took two steps at a time up the stairs.

‘Lottie, wait!’ Boyd called.

‘They might be alive,’ she shouted over her shoulder.

A landing spread out in front of her. With gloved fingers she tapped the first door open. Bathroom.

‘There’s no blood trail,’ Boyd said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If Moroney went apeshit and killed his family before himself, there’d be blood everywhere.’

‘Shut up.’

The next door was wide open. Master bedroom. Duvet thrown back and sheets crumpled, as if the occupants had just jumped out of bed. They would never be getting back in, she thought.

The next door had the name JAKE in blue plastic lettering pinned to the door. Glancing across the landing, she saw a door with pink lettering. ANNIE.

‘Oh my God, Boyd. I can’t do it.’

She leaned back, took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Jake’s room was empty. She followed Boyd into the little girl’s room. Also empty.

‘Where are the children?’ she cried.

A whimper from the corner of the room alerted her.

‘The wardrobe!’

Running across the shaggy pink carpet, she pulled back the sliding door, tugged the hanging clothes apart and dropped to her knees.

‘Annie? Sweetheart, I’m a friend. You’re okay now. No one is going to hurt you.’ Stroking the arm of the curled-up trembling child, she pulled down her mask and hood, not wanting to terrorise the little girl further.

‘Mommy? Where’s m-m-my m-mommy?’

Lottie gently lifted Annie out of her refuge. Boyd leaned in to search further. He shook his head.

‘Annie darling, where’s your brother? Where’s Jake?’

The child in her arms screamed.

Boyd rushed across to the boy’s room. Lottie heard him pulling at doors and drawers. He returned. ‘He’s not in his room.’

The sound of commotion downstairs reached Lottie’s ears.

‘Let’s get this little one to an ambulance,’ she said.

At the bottom of the stairs she directed Jim McGlynn towards the kitchen. Boyd passed by and out of the front door, calling for a paramedic.

‘I want my mommy,’ Annie cried, clinging to Lottie’s neck.

‘Find the neighbour who reported this,’ Lottie instructed Boyd.

Sitting on the bottom stair, she pulled a fleece jacket from the banister to wrap around the child, then realised that she could compromise any evidence that might be on the girl. She waited. Had Moroney killed his wife and then himself, as Boyd had surmised? Hadn’t Moroney told her only yesterday that he’d been working for years on an organised crime story? Maybe he’d got too close to the truth and had to be taken out. But why kill his wife? Jesus, she didn’t even know the woman’s name, hadn’t even known Moroney was married with kids. She had him all wrong.

Boyd returned with a woman, tear-streaked cheeks, hair hanging untidily around her shoulders.

‘This is Dee White. Jake was having a sleepover with her son last night. She brought him home this morning and got no response at the front door. When she went round the back… she saw the blood.’

‘I had Jake with me. I just bundled him up in my arms and ran home to call the emergency services. I knew something was wrong.’

‘What age is Jake?’

‘He’s five. Annie is three. Will you come with me, sweetie?’

Lottie said, ‘Annie, I want you to go with Dee. You’ll see Jake soon. Would you like that?’

The little girl murmured and wriggled from Lottie’s grip. Dee took her in her arms and Boyd guided them to the ambulance. Lottie assigned a detective to remain with them at all times. Maybe the little girl had seen something. Heard something. They’d have to interview her at some stage. But she’s only three, Lottie thought, and turned back to the kitchen of death.