Boyd retrieved a plastic evidence bag from the car and Lottie carefully slid the folder inside. Time. She would need time and peace to go through it. But the title scripted on the front told her enough. This was Moroney’s bargaining chip. But was it what the killer had been after, or was that something else entirely?

Tiredness creased her legs as she hobbled towards the car, nodding goodnight to the officer manning the crime-scene tape at the gate.

‘Will I drop you at yours or do you want to pick up your car at the station?’ Boyd asked.

‘I’d best get home and sort out the war.’ Lottie clicked on her seat belt.

‘Care to tell me why that file has your father’s name on it?’

‘Not now. I can’t think straight.’

But she was thinking. Thinking how her father’s post-mortem file had gone missing from the Dead House. How Cathal Moroney and his wife had been murdered in their own home. How this file had lain hidden among his children’s toys. She wouldn’t sleep tonight. Her mind was in overdrive.

As Boyd idled the engine outside her house, she saw that all the lights were blazing.

‘Your kids still up?’ he asked.

‘Probably killing each other. Thanks for the lift.’ She put her hand out to open the car door, but felt Boyd tug at her sleeve.

‘You need to be careful,’ he said, his voice as soft as the rain pitter-pattering against the windscreen.

Twisting to face him, Lottie smiled. ‘You know me, I’m always careful.’

She leaned over to peck his cheek, but he turned his head and their lips met, fleetingly. A warm sensation travelled the length of her body and settled nicely in the pit of her stomach. She wanted more. Now. To help warm the chill that had slipped over her body like a coat.

The moment was broken when he drew back and faced towards the rain falling outside. With a sigh, she stepped out onto the pavement and watched him drive off. Clutching the file tight to her chest, she walked towards her front door.

---

She sensed nothing until the shock of the whack to the back of her neck caused her to lunge towards the door, cracking her head against the weather-beaten timber. The file in its plastic covering slipped from her fingers to the ground. She fell to her knees, blood pouring from a gash in her forehead. The second punch landed in her ribs. As a gloved hand whipped up the file, Lottie grabbed for the ankle beside her. What if he got into her house? To her children. Her grandson. No!

She turned over and glanced around wildly. Alone. Staggered to her feet. Where had he gone? No car speeding away. Had he escaped on foot? She dragged herself down the path, veering onto the grass patch, blinded by her own blood. Glimpsing a shadow vaulting her neighbour’s wall, she felt adrenaline kick in and took off after him, shedding her bag and jacket as she ran. Would Boyd have heard anything as he left? Her feet were moving quicker than her brain. She swiped away the blood now streaming down her face. As long as the assailant was ahead of her, her children were safe.

Over the wall. Around the side of the house. Where had he gone? A bat-like figure was scrambling up the embankment at the end of the garden. The train tracks. He was heading for the railway. She had no idea which way he would go. She followed.

Grasping at bushes and shrubs, she made her way upwards, slipping and sliding, until eventually she was standing on the tracks. The bells in one of the cathedral spires rang out the half-hour. Rain pelted down on top of her and the wind roared around her. She couldn’t see him anywhere.

‘Scumbag! Come back. Come back here!’ she yelled at the top of her voice, but her words were carried away on the wind.

Swinging round, trying to see where he could have gone, she lost her footing on the wet steel girders and tumbled head over heels down the opposite embankment. Crashing into long grass, she yelped in pain. Blackness all around. The amber glow from street lights, distorted by the wind and rain, flitted in and out of focus. Grabbing the branch of a bramble bush, oblivious to the thorns piercing her skin, she pulled herself upright. Pain shot from her ankle and she stumbled. Attempting a step forward, she tried to think what Boyd would do in this situation. Head back and check on her family? Call for reinforcements? Or continue her quest? Damn it, there wasn’t much she could do with tears of blood blinding her more than the driving rain. She couldn’t go back up the slope, so the only way was forward to the road, then she could limp back to the house and call for backup.

As she began to walk, dragging her leg, a figure stepped up out of the long grass, silhouetted by the warped lights in the distance. Lean, not too tall, clothed from head to toe in black. Waving the plastic evidence bag containing Moroney’s file.

‘Who are you?’ Lottie shouted. ‘I want that file.’

Silence. The figure advanced. One step at a time.

Hightail it the hell out of here? Or stand her ground? The reverberation of little Louis crying and the memory of Chloe’s anxious phone call reminded her that she needed to get home. But she also wanted to know the truth. The truth Cathal Moroney’s father had been prevented from publishing in his newspaper all those years ago. The truth Cathal Moroney had been murdered for. And was it this truth that had wiped out Tessa Ball and her family?

Tugged by indecision, she heard the wind kick up as the rain washed blood from her forehead into her eyes. Refocusing her vision, she saw that the figure was not alone. Another person was skidding down the embankment, coming to a standing stop in front of her. Images of her children, alone without a mother or father, flashed and died in her mind. She would never see little Louis grow up. Her mother was right. Irresponsible was her middle name.

This time the blow to the side of her head smashed the light out of her eyes like an exploding bulb. As she fell into the darkness of the night, she glimpsed the glint of a knife before her knees hit the swampy grass. She had one last thought before she fell unconscious – she knew exactly who they were.