Lottie’s car miraculously started on the second turn of the key. Someone up there must love me, she told the dark, early morning sky. She needed a clear head, so she drove the long way to work.

Driving round by the Ardvale Road, she swung left at the roundabout, passing the once bustling tobacco factory with its smokeless chimneys. She remembered the pungent smell which used to hang in the air before the plant downsized to a distribution depot. She missed that whiff; it seemed to give definition to where she lived. It was gone now, like so much else.

Stopped at the traffic lights on the Dublin Bridge, she took in the panoramic view of her snow-covered town below, nestled in a valley between two marshy midland lakes, dominated by the twin-spired cathedral to the right and the single spire of the Protestant Church on the left. Cushioned between both stood a four-storey, planning deformity apartment block, out of keeping with its low-rise surroundings.

Historically, Ragmullin was a fortress town but now its idle army barracks was a breeding ground for vandalism and rumoured to be in line to become a centre for refugees and asylum seekers. It was constructed on the highest point of the town, up beyond the canal and railway. The eleventh-century monks who’d settled here would be proud that some streets still bore names in homage to these hooded men. There wasn’t much else to be proud of, Lottie thought.

Before the traffic lights changed, she scanned the horizon once again, her eyes focussing on the spires standing tall in their tree-lined surroundings. Her hands turned white as she clutched the steering wheel. She thought of the church’s dominance over the lives of the townspeople in the past and the effect its long-frocked men had bestowed on her own family. The cast iron bell, snared in one spire, clanged out the sixth hour of the morning and resonated through the rolled-up windows of her car. There was no escaping it. Church and State. Two thorns in the history of Ragmullin and in her own history.

Lottie took a few deep breaths and the shattered glass of the traffic light flashed to a cracked green. She stamped down the accelerator and the car skidded, almost stealing a strip of paint from the red Micra in front of her, the only other car around. She drove over the bridge and down the icy pot-holed, deserted street with shop windows dark and shaded. She wondered how many secrets lay hidden behind them, what mysteries waited to be uncovered and if in time there would be anyone left in Ragmullin to even bother trying to unearth them.

Thirty men and women were crowded into the small incident room.

Some sat on rickety chairs while others stood shoulder to shoulder, chatting loudly, body odours mingling with diverse perfumes, aftershaves and burned coffee. Lottie looked for somewhere to sit and, not finding anywhere vacant, leaned against the wall at the back of the room. She watched Corrigan fiddling with a handful of pages, standing in front of the assembled detectives. She should be up there.

Boyd caught her eye and smiled. She grinned back. His smile could do that to her sometimes, just when she intended to scowl. Looking as neat as ever, dressed in a grey suit, his only concession to the weather was a navy sweater over his shirt. Perhaps this could be a ‘be nice to Boyd day’. Maybe? Maybe not.

She gulped her black coffee, jolting energy into her tired mind. Corrigan nodded to her and she hurried to the front of the room before he changed his mind. She faced the team. Kirby’s eyes were red-rimmed, probably from a bout of whiskey drinking. Maria Lynch was bright and bubbly. Was she ever any other way? Boyd dropped his smile and donned his serious face. The team were on edge to get started. So was she.

‘Right,’ said Superintendent Corrigan, silencing the room. ‘Detective Inspector Parker will bring us up to date.’

The faces before her were full of expectation. Her team were good. They had confidence in themselves and in her. She had to deliver. And she would.

She placed her mug on the desk and, pulling down the cuffs of her long-sleeved T-shirt, a habit she couldn’t break, she briefed the waiting detectives on the events of the previous day and night, and delegated tasks.

When she was finished, chairs scuffed along the floor as a heave of bodies shuffled and stretched. The noise increased from a hum to a loud chatter.

‘All hands on deck,’ Corrigan shouted above the din.

Lottie could have sworn she heard Boyd mutter under his breath, ‘Aye, aye Captain.’ She shoved him out of the room in front of her, grabbed her jacket and took a walk over to the cathedral. She had a witness to interview.

Father Joe Burke was waiting for her at the gate. The sky was still moody and dark, and Lottie craved the end of winter.

Tumbling snow obscured the cathedral, now a cordoned-off crime scene. A few early morning onlookers were braving the weather to pause, bless themselves and leave flowers. The two gardaí standing in front of the crime scene tape stamped their feet. They looked frozen. Lottie felt the same.

Lottie shook hands with Father Joe through thick gloves.

‘Come on up to the house for a cup of tea,’ he said warmly.

‘That’d be great,’ said Lottie, glancing at the priest’s bright blue ski-jacket. He had a fur hat pulled down over his ears. ‘You look like something out of the KGB,’ she said, smiling.

He led her round the side of the cathedral, to the house.

It was warm inside the house. Old iron radiators gurgled airlocks into the silence. Tall, dark mahogany cabinets cast shadows up the walls of the tiled hallway through which Father Burke led Lottie.

‘Tea or coffee?’ he enquired, opening the door to a room with décor similar to the hall.

‘Tea, please.’ She needed to expunge the taste left in her mouth from the office coffee.

The priest spoke to a small nun who had appeared behind them. She shuffled off with a sigh, to boil a kettle somewhere in the depths of the house.

‘So, Inspector Parker, what can I do for you?’ he asked, sitting into a claw-footed armchair.

‘I want information, Father Burke,’ said Lottie, removing her jacket and taking a seat opposite him.

‘Call me Joe. We don’t need formality, do we?’

‘Okay. Then please call me Lottie.’

She knew she shouldn’t allow this familiarity. He was a suspect. Second on the scene, after Mrs Gavin, and he’d been in the cathedral at the time of the murder. Except, sometimes informality helped people drop their guard.

‘I notice you have CCTV cameras inside and outside the cathedral. I need access to the discs.’

‘Of course, but I don’t think they’ll be of any use to you. The external cameras haven’t worked since the drastic fall in temperatures before Christmas and the internal ones are trained on the confessionals.’

‘Why so?’ asked Lottie, inwardly cursing a potential dead end.

‘Bishop Connor organised it, so we priests can see who is about to enter. In case we get attacked.’

‘Bit ironic, isn’t it?’ She looked up as the nun reappeared with crockery rattling on a silver tray.

‘And the web cam wasn’t working either. It usually gives a live feed from the altar via the parish website. With the holidays, we couldn’t get anyone to come fix it.’

Another piece of useless information, Lottie thought.

Taking the tray to the table, Father Joe thanked the nun. She disappeared without answer. He poured the tea and Lottie poured the milk. They both sipped from delicate china cups.

‘I need to ask you a few questions about yesterday,’ Lottie said, hurriedly shrugging herself into work mode.

‘Is this a formal interview? Do I need my solicitor present?’ he asked.

She was taken aback but noticed he was smiling.

‘I don’t think a solicitor is necessary at this stage of the investigation, Father . . . em . . . Joe,’ she stumbled over her words. ‘I’m trying to establish a few facts.’

‘Go ahead. I’m all yours.’

Lottie felt her cheeks redden. Was he flirting with her? Surely not.

He said, ‘I did ten o’clock Mass, cleared the altar, locked the chalices and Holy Communion into the tabernacle. The cathedral was empty by then. Normally a few people stay on to pray, but I think the cold weather won out over religion. The sacristan finished up around ten forty-five and he went home. I came over here for a cuppa, then went back to the sacristy after about an hour, to write up next Sunday’s sermon. Mrs Gavin arrived shortly after that and began her cleaning routine. I’d just said the Angelus when I heard her scream, so it must have been after twelve noon.’ The priest paused as if praying.

‘What did you do then?’ Lottie asked. She made a mental note for someone to interview the sacristan. Probably another useless exercise, seeing as he had left before the murder.

‘I rushed out to see what the commotion was about and ran straight into Mrs Gavin. Poor woman, she was hysterical. She grabbed me by the hand and dragged me down to the front pew. I saw the body . . . the woman . . . slumped there. I leaned over and listened for a breath but I could tell she was dead. I said an act of contrition and blessed her. Then I called the emergency services and brought Mrs Gavin up to the altar where we sat until the gardaí arrived.’

His face was pale against the black of his sweater.

‘Did you touch anything around the victim? In fact, did you touch her?’ she asked.

‘Of course not. I thought of feeling for a pulse but I knew by looking at her she was dead.’

‘Even so, you’ll have to call over to the station to provide a sample for DNA analysis.’ She added, ‘To rule you in or out of our investigations.’

‘I am a suspect then.’ He locked his long fingers together in a steeple beneath his chin.

‘Everyone is a suspect until we determine otherwise.’ Lottie tried but couldn’t read anything in his eyes. ‘Did you know Susan Sullivan?’ She watched for his reaction.

‘Was she the victim?’

She nodded. His face was serene.

‘No, I don’t remember seeing her before.’ He thought for a moment. ‘There are lots of people who come to the cathedral but don’t go to Mass. They might drop in to pray or light a candle. Ragmullin parish has over fifteen thousand people, you know.’

‘Do you do house calls?’

‘Not unless someone is sick and requests a priest. I visit the hospitals. I’m also the chaplain for the girls’ secondary school. We say Mass and hear confessions, though not many go to confessions any more.’ He shook his head. ‘Baptisms, weddings, funerals, communions and confirmation.’

‘Is that a lot of work?’

‘Which part, or all of it?’ His face opened up with a smile.

Lottie was silent. She recalled a priest coming to her house to administer the blessing of the sick for Adam. She’d have remembered if it was Father Joe Burke. Then again, Adam was so ill at that stage, she might not have noticed him. Unlike now.

‘Can I ask what you did for the remainder of yesterday afternoon?’

‘I accompanied Mrs Gavin home and waited until her husband arrived. Then I returned and read in my room for the night. I’ve never seen such a snowstorm in all my life.’

‘So you didn’t venture out in it, then?’

‘No, Inspector, I didn’t. Why all the questions?’

Lottie contemplated what she would say then decided on honesty. ‘We have another suspicious death on our hands. It could be suicide but we’re not totally sure.’

‘I wasn’t on duty last night and didn’t attend any emergency. What happened? Should I know who it was?’

‘James Brown. He worked with Susan Sullivan.’

‘Don’t know him. God help his poor family.’ Father Joe joined his hands and bowed his head.

‘We haven’t been able to trace any next of kin as yet. Just like Susan. It’s as if they were both plucked from thin air and dropped into Ragmullin.’

‘I’ll ask around. Someone must be related to them.’

‘Thanks, I appreciate that.’ Lottie sighed and, unable to think of anything else to delay her stay, she stood up. ‘I’ll send someone to collect the CCTV discs. Call over to the station today. We’ll take a buccal swab and fingerprints. As the investigation progresses, I’ll be back to talk to you again.’

She pulled on her jacket.

‘I look forward it,’ he said, helping slip her arm into the sleeve. This time she saw a definite twinkle in his eye.

Handing him her card, she said, ‘In case you remember anything else, that’s my mobile number.’

‘It was lovely chatting with you. Pity about the circumstances.’

‘Thanks for the tea.’ She pulled her hood up against the swirling snow.

When he closed the door, Lottie stood for a moment, blinded by the whiteness after the dull interior, and attempted to wrap her mind around just what had gone on between her and Father Joe Burke.