As the afternoon darkened, the thaw evaporated as quickly as it had arrived and a freezing fog descended, adding greyness to the already dull atmosphere.

Boyd began compiling the warrant documents and Lottie strode down to the shop at the end of the street. She bought the newspaper and a packet of crisps.

A grainy picture of herself accompanied the headline ‘Paedophile murdered?’

Moroney’s interview was redrafted for all who had missed the debacle on television. She’d refused to watch it but Boyd had filled her in on her five seconds of unwanted fame. A PR disaster was how Corrigan continued to describe it, between expletives. Boyd had also related that piece of information to her. All they’d found in James Brown’s house were pornographic photos and images on his laptop. Nothing to suggest paedophilia. So the most likely scenario was that Moroney had overheard idle speculation and twisted it to suit himself. Fuck him to hell, she thought.

She needed a breakthrough in the case. Something to wave as a peace offering in front of Corrigan. But what? Maybe Jane Dore had found something. She hoped so.

She got keys from the duty sergeant, took a car from the station yard and headed out into the fog.

At the Dead House, Jane Dore boiled a kettle and poured water over two camomile teabags.

‘Please tell me you have something significant,’ Lottie said, welcoming the tea’s warmth. The forty-kilometre drive to Tullamore had eased her temper but not the thumping in her head.

‘I haven’t carried out the post-mortem on the body from the garden yet. However, initial tests indicate that the fibre from the scene matches the rope found around James Brown’s neck.’

‘Great. Evidence to link the murders. Anything else?’

‘The word Pax is inscribed on the inside of the ring. Latin. Translates as “peace”.’

‘Is it a wedding ring?’

‘Wrong finger, but that doesn’t mean anything one way or the other.’

‘A wedding ring could have the word “love” on it or even the spouse’s name.’ Lottie twisted her own gold band with Adam’s name engraved on the inside. Her name was on his ring. In his coffin. She hadn’t thought of keeping it. Another regret.

Jane said, ‘I’ve never been married, so what do I know?’ She smiled wistfully. ‘Not for want of trying mind you. Never met anyone who could put up with my terrible working hours, not to mention my job.’

‘He’s probably our missing priest,’ Lottie said, putting the cup on the desk. She took out Angelotti’s photograph and showed it to the pathologist.

‘Same bone structure,’ Jane said and brought Lottie in to see the body. They compared the dead man’s bloated face with the young vibrant one in the photograph.

‘Could be him,’ Lottie said, turning away from the corpse.

‘I think you’ve found him,’ the pathologist said. ‘But that’s just my opinion.’

‘The priest’s hairbrush is gone to the lab. DNA should confirm it for us,’ Lottie said.

‘That will take a while but I’ll let you know once results are in.’

‘Any estimate on time of death?’

‘Going by weather reports and the preservation of the body, I estimate Christmas Eve or before. Not after, because that’s when the snow and ice began in earnest.’

‘It’s a starting point.’

Lottie held a hand to her rumbling stomach. ‘I have to get back to Ragmullin. And I need to eat.’

‘The only way to cure a hangover,’ the pathologist said, sipping her tea.

‘Do I look that bad?’

‘Yes,’ Jane said with a laugh. ‘I’d join you for food, but I have to start cutting. Your Superintendent Corrigan is chomping at the bit.’

‘And I’m trying to avoid him,’ Lottie said as she left the mortuary.

The fog had lifted and shadows swept down over the road as she drove back to Ragmullin. A silver frost glistened along the grass verges in the headlights. Once again, temperatures had plummeted below freezing.

Using her hands-free she called Bishop Connor.

‘I think I’ve found your missing priest,’ she said.

‘Thank God. Is he all right?’ the bishop enquired.

‘He’s dead,’ Lottie said, crossing her fingers on the steering wheel. A little white lie might rattle his cage.

‘What . . . that’s awful. Where . . . how?’

‘Do you have any idea why someone would want to murder Father Angelotti?’

‘Murder? What are you talking about?’

‘I thought you might enlighten me. Why was he really in Ireland?’

‘Inspector, this is a great shock. I do not appreciate insinuations that I have been economical with the truth.’

‘I didn’t insinuate anything.’ Lottie smiled to herself as she listened to the bishop’s voice rise. Was it panic?

‘Sounded like it to me,’ he said. ‘I will talk to your superintendent about you.’

‘Join the queue,’ Lottie said and disconnected the call.

Bishop Terence Connor closed his eyes and listened to the dial tone on his phone. He now had one hell of a mess to deal with.

Opening his eyes, he walked to the window and squinted into the darkness. A game of golf would be nice, but it could be weeks before the greens would be playable. Golf was his escape mechanism. To walk on the grass, hit the ball, lose himself in his strokes and putting averages. Then again, he could always drive up to the National Gallery to see the Turner exhibition. He treasured fine art. He appreciated delicate wine and gourmet food. He was a man of expensive tastes. He could afford it.

Angelotti was gone. His body had been found. That was a good thing. Wasn’t it? That priest had been trouble from the day he arrived. Bishop Connor knew Rome was meddling in his affairs. So much for smokescreens about the young priest 'finding himself'. He was no fool. Angelotti was sent on a mission.

Realisation dawned on him that, after all that happened over the last few days, Angelotti’s death could now give him more to worry about than dwindling parish funds and abuse compensation court cases. He could do without Inspector Lottie Parker unearthing things that didn’t concern her.

He needed to talk to Superintendent Corrigan.