Once Annabelle had left, Lottie and Boyd returned to the incident room. No sign of McMahon.

Kirby said, ‘We got updated data from Emma’s phone. She made one call after she went missing.’

‘Just the one? To who?’

‘Whom,’ Boyd said.

‘Not now, Boyd. Who did she call?’

‘Natasha Kelly.’

‘Oh. I thought maybe it was someone we could pin her murder on. Looking for moral support, I suppose. Girl talk. When did she make the call?’

‘12.05 p.m. Lasted four minutes and three seconds.’

‘And no other calls? None to her father?’

‘Nope. That’s it. As we couldn’t track the phone before, I reckon she had taken the battery out.’

‘Figures, seeing as we found the SIM card and battery separate from the phone, in the kitchen.’ She thought for a moment. ‘What was so important that Natasha was the only person Emma felt safe enough to contact? We need to interview Natasha Kelly. Have you Emma’s phone data for the night of Tessa Ball’s murder?’

Kirby flicked through the pages. ‘Nothing until the 999 call. Jaysus, I thought youngsters were always on their phones.’

‘They very seldom ring or text any more,’ Lottie said, thinking of her own children. ‘Facebook, Snapchat and WhatsApp. Check out her social media accounts. See if that turns up anything.’

‘Right, boss,’ Kirby said, scratching his head.

Maria Lynch piped up. ‘I checked her Facebook already. Nothing unusual. She had no Twitter account.’

‘Did you check out Natasha’s accounts?’

‘No, but I will.’

Lottie said, ‘We have a development that might answer a few questions about Cathal and Lauren Moroney’s deaths.’

‘At last. Answers.’ Superintendent Corrigan marched in. ‘I’m sick of the media calling us headless chickens. These murders are like an aggressive cancer, spreading too fast. We need to halt it. And I mean today.’

He was gone almost as soon as he had arrived.

‘You heard the man,’ Lottie said. ‘And if Tessa’s murder had to do with land, figure out how much she was worth and who would benefit by wiping out her entire family.’

‘Besides, O’Dowd, Arthur Russell is the last man standing,’ Lynch said.

‘Well find them. Boyd, you come with me.’

‘Do we need backup?’

‘Let’s see who or what we’re dealing with first. Okay?’

Boyd shook his head. ‘Cian O’Shea. Who would believe it?’

Lottie said, ‘Not many, I’m sure. Let’s get to his house before he gets to a solicitor.’

---

The house looked grimmer today than Lottie remembered. She got out the key ready to put it in the door.

‘The alarm code. Do you have it ready?’ she asked.

‘In my head,’ Boyd said.

‘Annabelle wasn’t sure it would be activated, but if the keypad is beeping, it’s on.’

Lottie stuck the key in the door and turned it. They stepped onto the black and white diamond-shaped tiles and listened. No beep from the alarm. Not a sound. She crept into the kitchen, looked around quickly. No one. At the door to the utility room, she paused. No sound from the washing machine. She peered in. The door of the machine hung open. Empty.

‘Where did he put the clothes?’ she whispered.

Boyd was looking out at the back garden. ‘There’s a car in the garage. He must be here.’

As she turned to leave, Lottie spied a laundry basket on top of a counter. With protective gloves on her hands, she picked through the clothes. A man’s outer jacket, sweater, shirt, trousers and underwear. ‘Where did he leave his shoes? We’ll need to bag this lot once we’ve found him.’

Back in the hall, she wondered if maybe they should get a warrant. No. It’d be fine. At the top of the stairs, she saw the door with the keypad. Open. She raised an eyebrow at Boyd, questioning. But then she realised that Cian would have no need to lock his study during the day while his family was out.

With a nod of her head, she indicated for Boyd to follow her.

At the door, she kept her hand on her gun, unsure of how this was going to develop. With the tip of her boot, she edged the door inwards.

‘He’s not here,’ Boyd said, stating, as he usually did, the obvious.

‘All this equipment. It’s like something out of a Hollywood studio.’

‘You’re trespassing on my property.’

Lottie swung round, crashing into Boyd.

Standing on the landing, naked, was Cian O’Shea. And he looked feral.

‘Ah, the very man we’re looking for,’ Lottie said, winging it.

‘Get out of my house. Now.’

Visually assessing him, Lottie couldn’t see any obvious wounds on his body. She concentrated on the knife in his hand.

‘I think you should put down that weapon and get dressed, then we can have a chat.’

‘I said, get out!’

He moved into the study. Lottie stood unmoving. His eyes were predatory. Was this the same man who had been married to her friend for twenty years? She didn’t recognise him. His mouth drooped and his hair was wild.

As Cian advanced further, Boyd pounced. The knife fell to the floor, and before Lottie could react, Boyd had snapped handcuffs on the naked man. Cian crumbled and began to cry. ‘I didn’t mean to kill them. That wasn’t supposed to happen.’

‘Call SOCOs and get him out of here,’ Lottie said.

Boyd led the man to his bedroom, where he found a robe to hide his nakedness, before bringing him down the stairs, reading him his rights as he went. O’Shea had presented as a dangerous threat to two detectives, armed with a lethal weapon. They could probably hold him for twenty-four hours on that charge alone. He would likely retract the words he had just uttered. Lottie needed evidence to support Annabelle’s statement.

The study had multiple screens hanging on the wall. Wide screens. Flat screens. Two computer desktops and laptops. Wires were neatly pinned and secured along the walls. A set of headphones hung on a hook and the leather chair was situated in front of a desk full of technology.

With her finger still gloved, she hit the return button on one of the laptops. A screen burst into life.

‘Jesus Christ,’ she said, exhaling a long breath. What the hell was Cian O’Shea involved in?