‘Happy New Year to me,’ Lottie said as she raised the kitchen blinds.

With the darkness outside she stared at her bruised image reflected in the glass. She ran her fingers through her hair, thinking she needed to get it cut and coloured. The chestnut dye was growing out and a thin grey line was beginning to appear on the top of her head. But she had more to worry about than looking like a badger. Shit, she looked like she’d gone ten rounds with Ragmullin’s Olympic boxer.

Checking her phone, she read the night-time text from Father Joe Burke. She hadn’t replied. Just as well. He’s a suspect, she thought.

Busying herself tidying the kitchen, she squashed up empty Coke bottles and folded the pizza box into the recycling bin. Two nights in a row her children had eaten junk food. It wasn’t good enough. She had to go to the supermarket. She hoped Tesco would be open, it being New Year’s Day and all that shite. She opened cupboard doors making a mental note of what she needed. Everything.

Then she remembered she had no wallet, no cards, no nothing.

Placing the last two Weetabix in a bowl, she sat at the table thinking of her attacker. Could he be the one who murdered Sullivan and Brown? Was he trying to kill her? She shook off that notion. She had to think of her children.

Her children. Chloe was under pressure at school. Katie struggled with continuous college assignments and had locked her out mentally since Adam’s death. And Sean, spending all day long on his PlayStation. Lottie despaired. How could she cope with them and her job? Maybe she should ask her mother to look in on them. But their last row was still too raw.

Sighing, she poured coffee into a mug and milk on her cereal. It plopped out in thick lumps. Gagging at the sour smell, she sipped black coffee. A cigarette would be nice, she thought, as the pain in her head intensified. She searched a drawer for painkillers, found a Xanax, so she swallowed it instead. Hugging her aching sides, she wished her pain away.

Her children would probably sleep until midday. A rude awakening awaited them next week. Back to school.

For her – work.

By the time she reached the station, Lottie’s mood was as cold as the icy wind whipping her face on the walk into work.

‘Kirby. Lynch,’ she commanded, pulling off her jacket as she entered the cramped office.

The two twisted round in their chairs, looked at each other, then back at Lottie.

‘My office!’ Shit, this is my office now, she thought.

Boyd was sitting at his desk, chatting on the phone. He looked up at her, then at Kirby and Lynch standing to attention. Kirby tapped his pocket for a cigar he couldn’t smoke inside the building, his head looking like it was bulging with a hangover, and Lynch had pulled her hair into a sober ponytail. Lottie nodded at Boyd to disappear. He hurriedly finished his call.

‘Jesus, what happened to you?’ he enquired.

‘Nothing.’ Lottie threw her jacket on the back of her chair, avoiding his intense gaze.

‘Doesn’t look like nothing to me. Did you walk into a couple of ladders down the hall?’

‘I’ll tell you later.’

‘I wouldn’t like to see the other fellow.’

‘Give it up, Boyd. It was just some mugger in the industrial estate, down past the old grain store. Probably one of the railway junkies looking for money. Got my handbag.’

‘Are you all right? Did you report it?’ he asked. ‘Don’t suppose you did.’

‘It’s nothing to get uptight about.’

‘Tell me where it happened and I’ll get someone to take a look for your bag.’ Boyd sat on the edge of her desk.

Lottie relented. ‘Last night, I went to Susan Sullivan’s house to have another look around. That led to something I wish to discuss with these two. Walking home through the industrial estate, I was jumped.’

‘Why didn’t you report it?’

‘That’s what I’m doing now.’

She filled Boyd in on all the details she could recall, gave him the taxi driver’s card to follow up on anything he might have seen.

‘And check in with the uniforms who were guarding Susan Sullivan’s house in case they noticed anyone around last night.’

‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ Boyd said, getting his jacket.

A photocopier whined unattended, shooting out paper which was accumulating at an alarming rate. Lottie switched it off and turned her attention to Maria Lynch and Larry Kirby.

‘Those cuts look bad. You sure you’re okay?’ Lynch asked, concern etched in her eyes.

‘I’m fine.’ Lottie folded her arms, standing directly in front of them. ‘How well did you search Susan Sullivan’s house?’

‘Thoroughly,’ the two detectives replied in unison.

Lottie looked from one to the other.

‘Not thoroughly enough. Who checked the fridge freezer?’

‘I did,’ Kirby volunteered, a worry line furrowing a trough along his forehead. Last night’s whiskey was oozing perspiration bubbles into the ridges. His breath stank. Lottie took a step back.

Lynch’s shoulders dropped and her mouth creased into a straight line.

‘Guess what? No, don’t even try,’ Lottie said, as Kirby opened his mouth. ‘I found a bundle of money, quite a lot actually, frozen in a bag. In the freezer. What do you say about that?’

‘Someone must have put it there after we’d searched,’ said Kirby, struggling. ‘All I saw was ice cream.’

‘Did you look behind the ice cream? Did you take out the ice cream?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

Kirby traced an imaginary line on the floor with his black leather, unpolished shoe.

‘I’m disappointed in you,’ Lottie said. ‘Both of you.’

A sharp pain wrenched her ribs, forcing her to sit down. Her mood for anger subsided. She was too sore to be annoyed any longer.

‘In future I don’t want anything like this to happen. You don’t need me to tell you, botched searches are unacceptable.’

‘Yes, Inspector,’ Lynch said. She was biting her lip but her eyes were flaring anger.

Lottie knew Detective Lynch would not want this black mark against her impeccable record. It could spell trouble down the career line, but Lottie was the direct line manager and that meant reprimanding people for unacceptable work. There were more important things going on here than Maria Lynch’s ambitions.

Kirby said nothing, just hung his head with a hangdog expression. Lottie understood then how a twenty-something year old might fall for him – probably felt sorry for him. She dismissed them both and they scuttled off.

Boyd returned and threw a pharmacy paper bag on her desk.

‘Don’t take them all at once,’ he said. ‘You’re lucky Boots is open today.’ He switched on the photocopier before sitting at his desk.

‘You’re a lifesaver.’ She quickly swallowed three painkillers. ‘Haven’t you got work to be getting on with?’ she asked, logging on to her computer.

‘Indeed I have,’ he said and began noisily banging his keyboard.

Her chin resting on her hand, Lottie sat watching Boyd and listening to the photocopier in the otherwise quiet office. Suddenly, she felt the need for someone to hug her, to hold her tight, to soothe away her aches. She almost reached out to Boyd, but didn’t.