The bishop’s house, built eight years ago on the edge of Ladystown Lake, six kilometres outside Ragmullin, defied local logic. How did he get planning permission in such a scenic area?

Lottie studied what she supposed might be a genuine Picasso painting hanging over a white marble fireplace. Money oozed. Whose money?

After an impatient ten-minute wait, she followed a silent young priest along a marbled hallway to a gold-handled door. He opened it and she stepped on to a deep-pile, cream wool carpet. The priest closed the door behind her.

‘Inspector Parker, is it?’ Bishop Connor spoke without raising his head of short black curly hair. Sitting at his desk, he wrote on a page, a gold pen clutched between long fingers. Did he dye his hair? she wondered. She presumed he was about sixty-five years old but he looked very healthy and fit, she noticed.

‘Yes.’ She stood with her hands in her pockets. He continued to write.

‘You may sit,’ he commanded. ‘Be with you in a moment.’

She sat and dug her short nails into the palm of her hand, to keep herself grounded.

He signed the page with a flourish and looked up at her from beneath piebald eyebrows.

‘I know your mother. Lovely woman.’ He turned over the page and placed his pen on top of it.

Lottie didn’t doubt this for a minute. Everyone knew Rose Fitzpatrick.

‘Unfortunate incident years ago with your father’s suicide—’

‘Yes, it was,’ interrupted Lottie.

‘Was it ever discovered why he—’

‘No.’

‘And your brother. Any news on that front?’

‘You wanted to see me?’ She ignored his inquisitive small chat. Her family’s dysfunctional history was no concern of his.

‘I play golf with Myles, Superintendent Corrigan. When weather permits.’

She remained silent. Was he trying to make conversation?

‘Thank you for coming by so promptly,’ he said.

‘Superintendent Corrigan said it was urgent. How can I help you?’

‘I’m afraid Father Angelotti is missing.’ His face was deadpan serious.

‘Who?’

‘A visiting priest.’

‘Visiting? From where?’

‘Rome. Arrived in December.’

‘And he’s missing?’

‘Yes, Inspector.’ He leaned back, folding his arms. ‘Missing.’

‘Can you explain the circumstances of this disappearance, please?’

‘There is not much to tell. He is not here any more and has not returned to Rome.’

‘When did you realise he might be missing?’ Wondering what this was all about, Lottie pulled her notebook from the depths of her jacket but couldn’t find a pen.

‘I have not seen him since before Christmas.’

Lottie raised an eyebrow. ‘And you’re only reporting it now?’

‘I did not know he was missing. One of the priests here became concerned after looking everywhere for him and took it on himself to inform the gardaí. I probably would not have done so. But what is done is done.’

‘You have a missing priest and weren’t going to report it?’

‘Father Angelotti’s disappearance has been a terrible shock for me.’

‘I’m not sure how much priority I can give to a missing person. We’re very busy at the moment.’ Logistics whirled through Lottie’s brain.

‘Myles will see that it gets the priority it requires,’ he emphasised.

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘I am sure you will. I appreciate this very much. Thank you, Inspector.’ He nodded to the door, dismissing her.

Lottie had no intention of leaving. She picked up his pen and wrote the missing priest’s name in her notebook.

‘I need to ask you something,’ she said.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Did you know Susan Sullivan?’

‘Who?’

‘The woman who was murdered in the cathedral.’

Bishop Connor paused, his eyes stony green marbles.

‘So tragic,’ he said. ‘Poor woman. No, Inspector, I did not know her. I run a large diocese. Ragmullin parish, as you no doubt know, has over fifteen thousand people. I only know a handful.’

A handful? Golf buddies?

‘I thought . . . maybe she played golf or something,’ Lottie said.

‘Really? Are you being smart with me?’ he asked.

‘Of course not,’ she lied. ‘I’m having difficulty finding people who knew her. She was killed in your cathedral and, as you now have a missing priest, it’s just occurred to me, maybe there’s a connection.’

‘I cannot think of one reason to connect that murder with my missing priest.’

‘Tell me about Father Angelotti. Why was he here?’

‘He was sent over from Rome on a sabbatical. Personal problems.’

‘Problems?’

‘A crisis of identity or something. I was not privy to the details.’

‘Had he any prior connection with Ragmullin?’ She tapped the desk with the pen. With a name like Angelotti, probably not.

‘I do not know, Inspector.’

‘Why send him here then?’

‘Maybe the Pope stuck a pin in a map?’

Lottie stared at him, dipping her chin to her chest, widening her eyes.

‘I apologise,’ he said. ‘There was no need for that. Father Angelotti was entrusted to my care and now I cannot find him.’

‘I need his personal details and I’ll see what I can do.’

‘He is thirty-seven years old. Of Irish extraction, based in Rome, studying a doctorate at the Irish College. Apparently, in recent months, he began questioning his vocation, his sexuality. That sort of thing. His superiors felt he needed time out and sent him here.’

Lottie wrote quickly in her own shorthand, then looked up. ‘When did he arrive?’

‘December fifteenth.’

‘What frame of mind was he in?’

‘He said little. Stayed in his room most of the time, from what I gather.’

‘Can I have a look?’

‘Where?’

‘His room.’

‘What good will that do?’ The bishop’s eyes were alert, his brow creased.

‘Normal procedure in a missing persons case.’ Lottie noticed his changing expressions.

‘Do you have to do it now?’

‘No time like the present,’ she said.

He lifted his phone, punched one digit. The young priest entered.

‘Father Eoin, show Inspector Parker to Father Angelotti’s room.’

‘Thank you,’ Lottie said, rising from her chair.

‘Can you treat this investigation with the utmost discretion?’ Bishop Connor asked.

‘I am always professional in my work. You’ve no need for concern.’ Except when Cathal Moroney catches me on the hop, Lottie chided herself.

The bishop stood and shook her hand quickly. ‘I will be waiting anxiously for news.’

‘As soon as I know anything, I’m sure you will too,’ Lottie said, with a huge dose of sarcasm.

Father Angelotti’s room was sparse but functional; magnolia painted walls and a red lamp burning beneath a picture. A scowling Jesus with a burning heart.

Lottie pulled on latex gloves and scanned the room. A single bed with plain brown covers. A wardrobe and dressing table. En suite bathroom. Shaving bag, razor, toothbrush and paste, shower gel, shampoo and a hairbrush. One jacket, five black shirts, two sweaters and two trousers hung in the wardrobe. He hadn’t intended to stay long, she thought. The dressing table drawers contained underwear, plain and nondescript. A faint smell of stale tobacco smoke hung in the air. A laptop was the only item on the table. Powered off.

The young priest stood at the door. She felt his eyes following her moves.

‘Father Eoin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you know Father Angelotti?’ she asked, bagging the hairbrush. Might be needed for DNA. With all that had happened she couldn’t discount anything.

‘Not really. He didn’t say much. Kept to himself. Stayed in his room most of the time.’

‘Did he have a mobile phone?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s not here. When did you last see him?’

‘I’m not sure. He was excused duties. We were busy with the lead up to the Christmas ceremonies, so I hadn’t many dealings with him.’

‘You’ve no idea where he could be?’ Lottie pressed.

‘None whatsoever.’

‘Did you report him missing?’

His face coloured slightly.

‘I thought it odd,’ he said. ‘That’s all. I mentioned it to Bishop Connor. He didn’t appear concerned.’

‘Why were you, then?’

‘After that woman’s murder, Susan Sullivan . . . I wondered where he could be,’ he said, opening the door. ‘Are you finished? I’ve things to do.’

‘I think there’s something you want to tell me?’

‘I was anxious. Nothing else.’

Lottie picked up the laptop. ‘Can I take this?’

‘Sure,’ he said and ushered her out the door.