‘Did James smoke?’ Lottie asked, after routine introductions for the record. Maria Lynch sat demurely, notebook at the ready. James Brown’s lover, Derek Harte, sat straight in the chair opposite.

‘No, but I do,’ Harte said. ‘Marlboro Lights. I tried to quit. Definitely won’t be able to now.’

‘Are you willing to provide us with a sample of DNA?’

‘Why?’ he asked, sitting back.

‘To eliminate you from our enquiries. Standard procedure,’ Lottie said, hoping they might get a match with the two cigarette butts found beside the body in the garden.

Harte nodded like he didn’t have much choice. ‘I suppose so.’

‘You’ve told me previously that you and James were not at his house on Christmas Eve. Is that the truth?’

‘Of course it is. The snow came down like an avalanche. No one was going anywhere that night. What are you getting at?’

‘Do you think James might’ve been involved with anyone else?’

Harte laughed. ‘Is this to do with the body you’ve found?’

‘I’m asking the questions,’ Lottie said.

Harte shrugged. ‘No, Inspector, James was not involved with anyone else. He and I were committed to each other. And before you ask, I’ve no idea how a body came to be there.’

‘Did you ever hear him speaking about a Father Angelotti?’

‘No,’ he said, quickly.

‘You seem quite sure,’ Lottie said.

‘I’d remember a name like that.’ Harte leaned back further into the hard chair. His attitude was beginning to grate on Lottie’s nerves.

‘Why would a priest be at his house?’ she asked.

‘No idea.’

‘Did James ever say anything that might indicate his dealings with a priest?’ Trying to be as diplomatic as possible, Lottie felt like she was banging against the proverbial brick wall.

‘No.’

‘Anything to do with Susan Sullivan?’

‘No, but if I remember anything, I’ll let you know.’ He pushed the chair with the backs of his knees and stood up. ‘Is that all, Inspector?’

‘Detective Lynch will arrange your DNA swab, then you can go,’ Lottie said.

As he left, she knew he’d been economical with the truth. But he was willing to give a DNA sample, so what was he hiding?

She placed a mug of coffee beside Boyd’s computer.

‘What’s that for?’ he asked.

‘I think you’re meant to drink it.’

Lottie went to her desk to write up the Harte interview. Every spare moment throughout the day, she had re-read all the information they had on the murders and she was no nearer a motive or killer.

Boyd lifted the mug, wiped the damp ring from beneath it, and put down a memo pad before replacing the mug.

‘This Derek Harte guy comes across as genuine,’ she said, stirring her coffee with the end of a pen.

‘But?’

‘I don’t think he is.’

‘His lover is dead. We found the body of a missing priest in said lover’s garden. Cause enough for concern,’ said Boyd.

‘I want his background checked if it’s not done already. And why didn’t we get his DNA sample the first time he was here?’

‘We had no reason to,’ Lynch said. ‘We were treating Brown’s death as a suicide.’

‘I’m sure it’s murder made to look like suicide, so process the DNA as quickly as possible,’ Lottie said. ‘At this stage we can’t leave anything to chance.’

Kirby sauntered in with an armful of newspapers.

‘Any good news?’ enquired Lottie.

‘We’re the bad guys now, according to the press,’ he said. ‘Not doing enough, quickly enough, the investigation has stalled and is going nowhere and there’s a murderer at large.’

‘Did the DNA results come in yet on the cigarettes in Brown’s garden?’ she asked.

‘Nothing yet,’ Kirby said, flicking quickly through the papers. ‘You do know it could take—’

‘Weeks. Yes, I know,’ Lottie said, throwing up her arms. ‘Someone stood there long enough to smoke two cigarettes. What were they watching or waiting for?’

‘Presumably James Brown,’ Kirby said.

‘And he didn’t turn up because he was snowbound sixty kilometres away, in Athlone,’ Lottie said.

‘If Derek Harte can be believed,’ Boyd said.

‘Any other news, Kirby?’ Lottie asked.

He shoved the newspapers on to the floor and read from his screen.

‘As you already know, Susan Sullivan’s mother, Mrs Stynes, died two years ago in Dublin. Her husband died the year before. No other relatives, that we can find.’

Lottie sighed. ‘The father dies, the mother dies, then Susan moves back to Ragmullin. She dies. Dead end.’

Were they ever going to get past the brick wall? She checked her emails. Jane Dore’s preliminary post-mortem report on Father Angelotti was in.

‘I love you, Jane,’ Lottie shouted at the screen.

‘I knew it,’ Boyd said.

‘Shut it Boyd.’

‘So what’s the excitement about?’

‘Jane pulled in a massive favour. Ex-boyfriend in the forensics lab. Fast-tracked the DNA from the body,’ Lottie said, reading from the screen, ‘and it matches the brush hairs I took from Father Angelotti’s room.’

‘We’ve found our missing priest,’ Boyd said.

‘Are you sure it was his hairbrush?’ Kirby asked, without raising his head. His tobacco-stained fingers thumped his keypad. The current rumour circulating had his young actress lover high-tailing it back to Dublin on the late night train out of Ragmullin, leaving Kirby in a haze of cigar smoke and whiskey fumes.

‘Kirby,’ Lottie said, ‘what exactly are you doing?’

‘Nothing,’ Kirby said.

‘Just as I thought.’

‘Forensics can’t do anything with the smashed phone.’ Kirby looked up from his screen.

‘Typical,’ said Lottie.

She thought about Derek Harte. He’d been interviewed twice already and she couldn’t help feeling she’d missed something. Was he the murderer?

‘Good news at last,’ Lynch piped up. ‘Warrant granted to gain access to the victims’ bank accounts.’

‘We have their accounts,’ Lottie said, ‘but let’s see if we can use it to put the squeeze on weasel man.’

‘Diamonds are forever,’ Lottie whispered to Boyd.

O’Brien’s cufflink gems dazzled as he pulled up accounts on his computer.

‘And a girl’s best friend,’ Boyd said, from behind his hand.

The banker handed over a printout.

‘What’s this?’ Lottie asked, shaking flecks of dandruff from the paper.

The page contained a number with amounts of money. The identical figures they had seen on the Brown and Sullivan bank accounts.

‘That’s the account number,’ he said. ‘Registered to a bank in Jersey. Strict secrecy laws. So no names. Sorry.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ Lottie said.

‘Ah, come on, Mike,’ Boyd said. ‘You have to give us more than this.’

O’Brien shook his head. ‘That’s it. You can try the Jersey bank yourselves. But as you know, it’s virtually impossible to get information due to their banking laws.’

Lottie stood up, her skin bristling with rage. Another dead end. She glared down at the banker and spied a tiny indent in his ear.

‘You know, Mr O’Brien, a diamond is all sparkly on the outside but inside it’s just black carbon. So which are you?’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ O’Brien rubbed his ear self-consciously. ‘I think you should leave.’ He stood up, his head shedding dandruff on his shoulders as he moved.

‘We’re going,’ Boyd said, pushing Lottie through the door in front of him.

Out on the street, Boyd said, ‘Why do you have to piss everyone off?’

‘Comes with the badge,’ Lottie said.

‘Comes with you,’ Boyd said.

‘Jersey. Of all places.’ Lottie started to walk away from him. ‘I’ve to go to Cafferty’s.’

‘A bit early for drink,’ Boyd said, glancing at the time on his phone. ‘Can I come?’

But Lottie had turned the corner walking down Gaol Street, leaving him staring after her.