A new day. Same old shit. Lottie’s head ached and her mouth felt like something had slept in it overnight. She spied the empty vodka bottle lying like a discarded doll on the bed beside her.

Dragging her weary limbs into the shower, she avoided looking at her face in the mirror. Confusing the direction of the dial, she felt her body being blasted with freezing water.

‘For feck’s sake!’

She twisted the switch the correct way and stood to one side in the small glass cubicle until she felt warmth come from the stream of water. Stepping under the flow, she closed her eyes and breathed out, blowing a soft spray of water up to her nose. Feeling slightly dizzy, she leaned with the palms of her hands against the slippery tiled wall and allowed the water to hammer her spine.

I so deserve this, she thought. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

When she had enough energy, she lathered shampoo and conditioner into her hair, rinsed off and stepped from the heated cube to the cold bathroom.

No towel.

Rushing to get one from her room, she banged her toe against the door jamb.

And so her day began.

---

Pulling down her hood at the door to the mortuary, which everyone called the Dead House, Lottie ran her fingers through her hair. Her head thumped like mad. Seriously, though, she had to get her act together. She knew how an isolated slip-up turned into a downward spiral. Did she really want to go down that rabbit hole again? No. But one swig could ease the pain. Or a pill, if she had one.

The rain had continued unabated during the night, and it had crashed against the windscreen as she’d driven the forty kilometres to Tullamore, where the state pathologist was located. Buzzed in, she hurried down the icy corridor with its antiseptic smell masking the underlying pungent scent of death.

Jane Dore had already started the post-mortem and was walking around the steel table that held the seventy-plus-year-old body of Tessa Ball.

‘Good morning, Detective Inspector.’ The pathologist’s voice was sharp and professional. ‘I’ll continue, if you don’t mind.’

‘Fire ahead,’ Lottie said, suiting up and perching herself on a high stool beside a stainless-steel counter. Jane Dore and her team worked to a set routine. Viewing, touching, poking, sampling, recording.

The room seemed to be tipping on its axis as Lottie said impatiently, ‘Any definitive cause of death? I’m assuming it is murder.’

Jane Dore turned and stared. ‘You and I know that in my business I don’t assume anything. I let the body tell me its story. And that is all I can work with.’

‘I know, but I’m kind of busy and I’ve a team meeting to get to, so it would help if you…’ Lottie’s voice trailed off; she was aware she was slurring her words. Jane Dore’s glare bored through her.

‘Go, if you wish. I’ll email my findings.’ She turned back and continued her examination.

‘Blunt-force trauma?’ Lottie offered. ‘That’s what you said last night.’

With a sigh, Jane walked over. ‘Okay. I can see your mind is elsewhere. I understand how busy you are, but I can’t be rushed. As it stands, I’ve prioritised Mrs Ball’s PM so that you’ll have something to work with.’

‘Thanks, Jane. Honestly, I appreciate it, but I don’t feel the best and—’

‘Cause of death will most likely be blunt-force trauma to the head. Satisfied?’

‘Thank you. Any indication of the type of weapon used?’

‘As I surmised last night, something hard and rounded, applied with great force. One strike. It either killed her or caused a massive stroke. I’ll know more later.’

‘Could it be the baseball bat we found at the scene?’

Jane stared. Lottie knew she couldn’t alienate the state pathologist. She needed Jane to do something for her. Off the books, so to speak. And if she stayed here while Jane was cutting up the body, she would contaminate more than their friendship. Her stomach contents were already settling into her throat.

‘Thank you,’ she said and made for the door. ‘One more thing. Sexual assault?’

‘I’ll take swabs, but I don’t think it likely. You’ll have my preliminary report this afternoon.’

With a final glance at the jaundiced-looking corpse, Lottie rushed from the autopsy room. The only consolation, as the rain drummed down, was that she hadn’t vomited all over the shiny stainless-steel counter or the white-tiled floor. No, she’d waited until she reached the car park to spew up between two parked vehicles.

No more drink.