The Ragmullin grapevine was wrapping itself into knots but Cathal Moroney, a journalist with RTE, the national television station, couldn’t find anything worth reporting. He flicked through his empty notebook. He was hungry for a new angle on the murder and suspected suicide.

He’d interviewed some of the victims’ colleagues but they knew nothing. He wanted the human-interest story; a story to awaken his tired audience. He wanted the scoop of a lifetime.

He kept asking himself the question everyone was asking. Were the deaths connected through planning? And was Brown murdered? If it turned out to be two murders, was there a serial killer stalking this tired midlands town? He began to sweat at the thought. Now that would be a story and a half.

Warming his hands around an early morning cup of coffee, he listened to the gossip in McDonald’s. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone was talking shite.

He noticed a huddle of gardaí at a table in a corner near the toilets. Everyone knew Cathal Moroney, but this group was so engrossed in their own conversation, they didn’t notice him. He slid into the dimly lit corner behind them and sipped his coffee. Listening. And he heard. Something new. It just might be the story he was waiting for. He just needed a formal comment.

He checked his phone and contacted his source.

Lottie planted her two feet on her desk and rested her head into her interlocked hands. The painkillers had eased her throbbing ribs and she’d stuck a plaster over the cut on her nose.

The preliminary technical reports did not offer much hope. DNA was found in the vicinity of Sullivan’s body. Masses of skin cells and hair. All logged, ready to be cross-referenced. And probably weeks before any results, if ever.

James Brown’s forensic reports were not in yet so she glanced through the preliminary autopsy reports. Maybe he did kill himself, she thought with a yawn, but what about the grazed fingers and contusion on the back of his head?

Her jaw ached and pain weakened her knees so she dragged her feet to the floor and stood up, attempting a stretch. She felt hungry. Maybe Kirby could get her a Happy Meal. She eyed the grumpy detective across the room. Maybe not.

Her phone rang.

‘Inspector?’

‘Yes, Don,’ Lottie answered the front desk sergeant.

‘Cathal Moroney from RTE is here for a statement. Superintendent Corrigan is delayed this morning but he said you’re to talk to him. He’s okayed it with the press office. I put Moroney in the conference room. Will you talk to him?’

No, I won’t, she wanted to say.

‘I’ll be right there,’ she sighed and headed down the stairs.

‘Inspector.’ Moroney flashed his megawatt TV smile. ‘I’m delighted you could give me a few moments of your precious time.’

‘A few minutes is all I have, Mr Moroney.’

‘Call me Cathal,’ he said, taking her hand in his, forcing a contact Lottie had not offered. The cameraman, standing behind Moroney, adjusted his lens and pointed it towards her.

‘What can I do for you?’ Lottie withdrew her hand as quickly as politeness allowed. She resisted wiping it against the leg of her jeans. Despite his disarming smile and hail-fellow-well-met act, there was something decidedly unpleasant about Moroney in the flesh, something she couldn’t put her finger on, but she felt it nonetheless.

‘Inspector Parker, what can you tell me about the rumours that James Brown was an active paedophile?’

Blindsided, Lottie blinked in confusion. ‘I . . . what are you talking about?’

‘That he was involved in some ritualistic, sadistic psycho-sexual—’

‘That’s enough,’ Lottie snapped. ‘You, turn that camera off. Now.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to comment on the large amount of money found in—’

‘Off. That’s an order.’

‘All right.’ The man lowered his camera.

‘I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here, Mister Moroney,’ Lottie jabbed a finger into Moroney’s smug face, ‘but from now on you can wait for a press office release like everyone else.’

She turned and made her way to the door.

‘Oh, Inspector?’

She paused, her fingers on the door knob.

‘What?’

‘Your face, you got any comment on that?’

‘Yes.’ Lottie turned to him. ‘You don’t want to see it any time soon. And you better believe me on that.’

She left the room and hurried down the corridor, furious with herself, Corrigan, Moroney and everyone else. Even though Moroney’s information was twisted and totally inaccurate, someone had said something they shouldn’t have. A rat, she thought, great. They had a bloody rat.