Bea Walsh sat in the snug, inside the bar door, a hot whiskey on the table in front of her. Lottie ordered a coffee.

‘Sorry, I’m a bit late,’ Lottie said, checking her watch. It was quarter to six. Not too late, she thought.

‘Thanks for meeting me,’ Bea said.

‘No problem.’ Lottie sat down.

The scent of cloves and whiskey filled the air around Bea. The pub was dark and as far as Lottie could see there were only three other customers sitting at the bar. Darren Hegarty, the barman, brought over her coffee.

‘Any luck with catching your murderer?’ he asked.

‘Working on it,’ Lottie said and turned to Bea. Darren wiped down the table and returned to his lonely sentry duty behind the bar.

‘Ms Sullivan cried a lot,’ Bea said, wiping her nose with a crumpled tissue. ‘In secret, I mean, when she thought no one was looking. I knew something was troubling her.’

Bea began to whimper.

‘Are you all right?’ Lottie enquired.

‘Just sad.’ Bea dabbed her eyes. ‘About a month ago, I walked into the ladies’ toilets and Ms Sullivan was there. Crying. When she noticed me, she looked embarrassed. I asked if I could do anything to help. She said she was past the stage of help. Things are out of control. That’s what she said. Things are out of control.’ Bea closed her eyes.

‘Have you any idea what she meant?’

‘I asked her but she just wiped her eyes and told me to forget about it,’ Bea said and delicately sipped her drink. The smell of cloves wafted towards Lottie. ‘Ms Sullivan was under tremendous pressure at work.’

‘Anything in particular that I should know about?’

Bea hesitated, opened her mouth to speak, then clamped it shut.

‘What?’ pressured Lottie.

‘Nothing.’

‘Are you sure? I thought you were going to add something there.’

‘No, Inspector, I’ve nothing to add.’

Lottie decided to let it pass. For now.

‘Did Susan have a laptop?’

‘No. She said she didn’t need one.’

‘Had she a modern phone? With internet?’ Lottie wondered why she hadn’t asked this question on day one.

‘Yes. An iPhone, I think.’

‘Would you know where it is?’ Lottie crossed her fingers, hoping.

‘No, sorry.’

Lottie slumped. Susan’s phone remained elusive. But at this stage they should have the call logs from the service provider. Note to self: follow it up.

‘I noticed documents relating to “Ghost Estates” on her computer files. What was her role with them?’

Bea drank again, her pale cheeks now flushed from the warmth of the whiskey.

‘Mr Brown was more involved with those. It’s a crime the way those estates were left unfinished by developers. The staff were trying to get a handle on how to get them finished, rather than leave them half built and empty.’

Lottie liked this woman; she was well spoken despite appearing timid.

Bea continued, ‘What makes all this worse, Inspector, is these developers can walk away from their morgue-like developments and have the nerve to continue doing more of the same.’

‘Who’s responsible?’ Lottie asked, wishing she had been more diligent in following current affairs.

‘No one wants to take responsibility. It’s said planning permission should never have been granted in the first instance. I call it greed.’

Lottie thought for a moment. ‘Do you think there was any wrongdoing in relation to planning in Ragmullin?’

Bea hesitated, as if weighing up her reply. ‘After what happened to Ms Sullivan and Mr Brown, I’m not sure any more. Before this, I would have said everything was above board. Now? I wonder.’ Her voice trailed off like a starling escaping the winter.

‘Can you point me in the direction of any files in particular? We’ve very few leads and anything you tell me, no matter how insignificant you think it is, might help. I’m not saying their deaths are related to their work, but at the moment it’s all I have.’

At last, the little bird-like woman opened her mouth.

‘That’s the reason I asked to speak with you. I didn’t know what to do. My job is covered by confidentiality but in these circumstances I feel I have a duty to tell you.’ She paused and, teary-eyed, continued. ‘There’s a file missing. Ms Sullivan dealt with it and Mr Brown also. It’s on the database as being processed, awaiting signature. The decision is due in a few days. The thing is, I can’t find the file anywhere.’ The little woman sat back, exhausted.

‘Was it a contentious file?’ Lottie asked.

‘I think so. But my job is to check the database, make sure reports are on time and, if not, to follow up with the appropriate people. I track the files. I don’t read them. But I overheard that the property was bought for a song and it was subject to development plan controversy some months back.’

‘What file is it?’

‘I feel I can’t say it. Now that I’m here I feel foolish.’

Lottie rooted in her bag and pulled out a pen and notepad. She pushed them over to Bea. ‘Will you write the details down for me?’

Bea hesitated once again.

‘Please,’ Lottie said.

‘It may be nothing at all.’ Bea began to write.

It must be something, Lottie thought, otherwise Bea Walsh wouldn’t have gone out of her way to report it.

She read the woman’s words. At last. Something to dig into.

She looked up at Bea, questioning her silently.

The woman nodded her head in affirmation.

The property – St Angela’s. The developer – Tom Rickard.