Boyd sat in Lottie’s kitchen, spooning Pot Noodles into his mouth, with one hand on her iPad.

‘I wonder why she didn’t follow it up?’ he asked. ‘Or contact you at the station.’

‘It’s very odd. I want to know what information she had.’ Lottie leaned over Boyd’s shoulder. ‘Those noodles smell vile.’

‘It’s pure shite.’ Pushing the empty carton away from him, he said, ‘Did your mother say anything about this information Sullivan mentions?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe we should check if James Brown was also on Facebook.’

‘I did.’ Lottie patrolled her kitchen. ‘Do you realise how many people are called James Brown?’

‘Too many?’

‘Exactly.’

‘While you’re at it, check out the others,’ she said.

‘Who? Father Angelotti? The missing priest?’ He tapped in the name. Nothing again.

Lottie sat down next to him, took the iPad from his hand and asked, ‘Are you on it?’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said, ‘don’t you dare.’

‘I bet you keep track of your beautiful ex-wife Jackie and her boyfriend.’

‘He’s a criminal. And she is still legally my wife.’

‘You must still feel something for her if you haven’t divorced her yet. Why haven’t you?’

‘She was a party animal. I wasn’t. But I love her, I mean loved her. I suppose I just wasn’t what Jackie wanted.’

‘And she wanted Jamie McNally? The biggest scumbag in Ireland. Where are they now?’

‘Costa del Sol, last I heard.’

‘You’re keeping tabs on her then.’ Lottie patted his hand. He swatted her away.

‘I am not.’

‘It’s been years, Boyd. Forget about her.’

‘Don’t start.’

‘Okay,’ Lottie said, ‘I’ll try Mr Ferret.’

‘Mike O’Brien? Ah, stop. I know him.’

‘So?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘He undressed me with those sly eyes of his.’

‘Bet he didn’t get a view as good as I got last night.’

‘Shut up.’ She tapped in O’Brien’s name. ‘Nothing.’

‘I saw him at the gym this evening. He was all chat. You know he’s very fit for a man who doesn’t look it.’

‘You’ve planted an obscene image in my mind.’

‘What image?’

‘O’Brien in Lycra.’

‘Gross,’ said Boyd. ‘Try Tom Rickard?’

Lottie tapped in the name. ‘Too common a name. We’d be a week going through them trying to find our man.’

‘Rickard Construction?’

‘Yep. That’s here.’ She scrolled down the page. ‘Mainly advertising stuff. It’s his business page.’

‘Who liked it?’

‘Jesus, there’s hundreds of likes on it. He must’ve had a special offer on one of his ghost houses.’

She scrolled through the names.

‘I’ll kill her,’ Lottie said.

‘Who?’

‘Katie.’

‘Your Katie?’

‘Yes, my Katie.’ Lottie pointed to a photograph. ‘Jason Rickard.’

‘Ugly kid, isn’t he,’ Boyd said. ‘He must be son and heir. What’s he got to do with Katie?’

‘He is my beloved daughter’s boyfriend! That little pup was in my sitting room earlier this evening. Smoking weed.’

‘You’re having me on.’ Boyd raised a brow.

Lottie glared. ‘I’m not joking.’

‘Arrest the little fart.’

‘He’s not that little, and he is the son of one of our people of interest.’ She struggled with the idea of Katie in a relationship with Rickard’s offspring.

‘You’re always going on about small towns, Lottie. In the end everyone knows everyone else and they know each other’s business.’

She knew it was true, but she didn’t want her daughter in the middle of whatever they were in the middle of. ‘Why are we always last to know?’

‘Parents or the guards?’

‘Both.’

‘You’re tired. Leave this until tomorrow.’ Boyd stretched and yawned.

‘I don’t want to go to bed. My mind is hyper.’ She glanced up at him. ‘And no comment about how you can tire me out.’

‘We can investigate this further tomorrow.’

‘Stymied every way we turn.’

‘I’m going home,’ Boyd said. ‘Unless you want me to stay?’

‘Go,’ Lottie said.

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to see the ache in his eyes.

He pulled the front door softly behind him.

She returned to Susan Sullivan’s Facebook message.

‘What did you want to tell me?’ Lottie asked.

2nd January 1975

He watched from the window. The corridor air whispered a chill around him.

He saw the girl getting out of the car followed by a tall thin woman holding a small bundle in the crook of one arm. The girl looked pale and tired. He ducked his head as she glanced up at the white sash windows. Her eyes, veiled in a dark unseeing way, reminded him of a terrified boy he’d once seen, after suffering a beating. The girl looked just like that, walking in a stupor, pushed along by some invisible force. A man sat in the yellow Cortina, with the engine running.

Sister Immaculata hurried down the steps. She took the blanketed bundle and ushered the girl to walk beside her. Without a hug or kiss, the tall woman – he assumed she was her mother – rushed from the girl to the car and drove off quickly.

He stood there, listening to the wind, which used to frighten him before he came to realise there were more terrifying things in St Angela’s than blustery corridors. He wondered about the new girl and her bundle, her baby. He knew it was a baby; her baby.

He’d witnessed many such arrivals here, but this girl’s stunned eyes had unsettled him. Some remained only a short time. Not all though. Not like him. He thought he’d been here forever. He supposed that many years ago, he was like the wrapped-up bundle – a dark secret hidden deep in swaddling. Was his mother like this girl? He didn't usually allow himself such reflections but her face, painted with such uncertainty and fear, touched him. This was his home. He knew no different. Would this be her home now? What was her story and where would it end?

‘Patrick, get out of that window. How many times do I have to tell you? You’ll catch a cold,’ Sister Teresa said, as she passed by him.

He stretched his twelve-year-old legs to the floor and welcomed the pat on his head from her old hand. He liked her. Not the other nuns. They had changed when that last priest arrived. The one with the black eyes. No, Patrick did not like him at all and the nuns were wary. Afraid? He decided he didn't really care one way or the other as he walked along the black and white mosaics to the stone carved staircase. Sister Immaculata, coming from the nursery, stood in front of him.

‘Tea time, Patrick,’ she said, her forehead bulging beneath the wimple of her long black veil. He shrugged.

She walked ahead of him, down the stairs in a wave of black skirts. He smelled mothballs and followed in silence.

What would she look like at the bottom, if he tripped her? This was not the first time he’d wondered that. He smiled to himself and went to wash his hands before tea.