Chloe Parker sat at the table, mascara streaking her damp cheeks. Lottie stalled at the door. Go in or run?

‘I’m sorry, Chloe,’ she said, entering the kitchen.

The girl ignored her, walked over to the bin, extracted the two-thirds empty vodka bottle, unscrewed the cap, emptied the remaining third down the sink, dumped the bottle back in the bin and ran up the stairs.

Lottie slumped into her chair. She’d have to talk to Chloe. Later.

She phoned her mother, knowing Rose would relish the fact that it was Lottie breaking their deadlock. She convinced herself that being in the throes of a raging hangover might help rather than hinder the forthcoming showdown.

It had taken less than ten minutes for Rose Fitzpatrick to drive across town. Now she stood at the ironing board, iron in hand, in the middle of the kitchen floor.

‘Lottie Parker, you should stay at home more often. Those poor children are always starving and they haven’t a stitch to wear,’ she said, folding Sean’s training jersey.

Lottie wanted to tell Rose that the sports top didn’t need ironing but held the thought. As she’d suspected she would, her mother had taken control the minute she entered the house, without question or enquiry. Following Adam’s death, Rose had tried to take his place in their lives. Interfering and controlling. Lottie suspected all this was grounded in love for her grandchildren and wrapped up in a protective streak which Rose nurtured. But everything had come to a head with their last row when Lottie had told her mother to take a hike, or words to that effect.

Standing tall, sweeping the iron over the clothes, Rose Fitzpatrick’s face was a map of smoothness with just a creeper of lines at her eyes, like wilting ivy. Her hair was short, sharp and silver. At one time a monthly hair colour woman, she’d abandoned this on turning seventy, five years ago, though she still went to the salon for a weekly wash and blow-dry.

‘Will I make a cup of tea?’ Lottie asked, politely.

‘It’s your kitchen,’ Rose said, running the iron along a pair of jeans, the denim like cardboard.

‘Would you like a cup?’ Lottie filled the kettle.

‘You take a shower.’ Rose folded the iron flex. ‘You smell, you know. Then you can ask me whatever it is you wanted me here for.’

Lottie stormed out of the kitchen. Her mother hadn’t even asked how she’d got her bruised face. She stripped off her clothes and stood under a stream of hot water until it stung her cuts. Her ribs were purple and her head ached but at least she felt clean. Pulling on a thermal vest and long-sleeved T-shirt over her jeans, she felt ready to face her.

Before going downstairs, she peered into Chloe’s room. Her daughter was lying on the bed, a massive set of earphones on her head. When she spotted Lottie, the girl purposefully turned to the wall.

Glancing into Katie’s room, she saw it was empty. She thought of asking Chloe where her sister was, but decided against it. Sean was in his room talking on an online PlayStation game. He’d probably been up all night.

In the kitchen, Rose was sitting at the table, holding a cup of tea. The ironing board was gone, clothes neatly piled, potatoes were hissing in a pot on the cooker, a chicken was roasting in the oven and it was not yet eight o’clock in the morning. Christmas Day. That was the last time they had a proper cooked dinner. Was this an orchestrated guilt trip by her mother? Lottie forced a smile.

‘Thanks for . . .’ Lottie directed her arm around the tidy kitchen.

‘Isn’t that what mothers are for?’ Rose said. ‘Cleaning up the mess their children leave behind.’

The smile died on Lottie’s lips.

‘So, what do you want with me?’ Rose asked.

‘Susan Sullivan,’ Lottie said, diving straight in. She poured herself a cup of tea.

‘The murdered woman? What about her?’

‘I spoke with Annabelle and she told me Susan contacted you.’

‘She did.’

‘And you met her?’

‘Yes. A few months ago. October, November maybe. I’m not sure when.’

‘Go on.’

‘She was trying to trace a child that was taken from her—’

‘What had that to do with you?’ Lottie interjected.

‘Do you want to hear or not?’

‘Sorry. Continue.’

‘Susan’s mother had refused to tell her anything about the baby. But on her deathbed, two years ago, she mentioned my name.’

‘And . . .’

‘She said I’d helped deliver the baby. Which wasn’t true, because I’d arrived shortly after the birth. I couldn’t help her back then, nor when she contacted me for information.’

Lottie twisted the spoon in her tea.

‘It must be more than twenty-five years since—’

‘I was a midwife? Yes, but this was way back. In the seventies. The girl was only aged about eleven or twelve. A child. Poor thing. Her name was Sally Stynes then.’

‘Really? Tell me more.’ Lottie stopped her idle stirring. Maybe now they could get something new with Susan’s old name.

‘Not much to tell.’

‘What happened to the baby?’

‘When she called to me, Susan stirred up old memories,’ Rose said, a frown creasing a line on her brow. ‘Her mother had called in a priest, the local curate. Apparently, he suggested placing the girl and her baby in St Angela’s. You know the old building not far from the graveyard? Closed down now.’

Lottie nodded. St Angela’s. How could she forget? They never spoke about it. But Rose was talking now.

‘It was originally an orphanage run by the nuns, then it combined into a home for unmarried girls. Obviously some of the unwanted babies grew up there. The nuns also took in wayward boys.’

‘A place to send wayward children,’ Lottie murmured. ‘That’s one way of putting it, Mother.’

Rose ignored Lottie’s remark.

‘Of course when she met me, Susan already knew about St Angela’s and the fact that the baby was probably adopted. She remembered spending time there. But she couldn’t get any information from the Church about her baby. Unfortunately I had nothing new to tell her,’ Rose said, with a steely resolve.

‘Did you know who fathered her baby?’

‘No idea. When I was in the house helping with the afterbirth, her mother was shouting at the girl, calling her a little tramp. It was very distressing, but if the girl was a tearaway, the father could’ve been anyone.’ Rose folded her arms tightly.

Lottie recoiled from her mother’s harshness and mulled over her revelations. Hopefully they would have more success finding out about Susan aka Sally Stynes. It was a coincidence that her mother had this information. Small-town people carry such secrets around with them all their lives. Coincidences were inevitable. And then again, her mother knew everyone and liked to think she knew everything. Lottie sipped her tea. A memory, deeply concealed, itched to be released.

‘Do you ever wonder about Eddie?’ Lottie asked, feeling brave enough to pose the question about her brother.

Rose stood up, rinsed her cup, dried it and put it in its rightful place in the cupboard.

‘Eddie is gone. Don’t talk about him,’ she said.

Denial, thought Lottie, but she persisted. ‘And Dad, can we talk about him?’

‘The chicken will be cooked in another half-hour. Watch the water doesn’t boil off the spuds.’ Rose pulled on her coat and hat. ‘You can heat everything up in the microwave for dinner this evening.’

‘I suppose we can’t talk about them, then,’ Lottie said, wryly.

‘You need a man in your life, Lottie Parker,’ Rose said, hand on the door.

‘What?’ asked Lottie, wrong-footed.

‘Boyd? Is that his name? The long, skinny one. Nice man.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know right well what I mean. And bring those kiddies to visit soon.’

Lottie wasn’t keeping them away – they had made the decision themselves that they’d had enough of their meddling grandmother.

On the doorstep, Rose said, ‘By the way, I saw your interview on the news.’

‘And?’

‘Not very impressive, madam.’ She drew her hat over her ears. ‘You could have masked those bruises with a touch of make-up.’

As always, her mother got in the last word.

Lottie slammed the door. She turned off the cooker, drained the potatoes and dumped them in the pedal bin. She threw out the chicken too. She was damned if she was going to eat anything prepared by her domineering mother. She would rather starve.

Her hangover was pulsating now, but she had to go to work.