Lottie pounded into her office and banged the door shut. She kicked off her boots, swung her feet up on the table and opened the Lynn O’Donnell file. As if she hadn’t enough to be doing! Cynthia Rhodes had crawled under her skin and was scratching like vermin trying to suck blood from her veins. She didn’t even know the woman and already she hated her.

Before starting on the file, she rooted around in a drawer for a pill. She needed something to slow down her angry heart. Something to ward off the demons of her past. What had Cynthia meant? Was she referring to the fact that Peter Fitzpatrick, Lottie’s dad, had been a bent guard? Did she think Lottie was the same? Surely not. Or was it to do with her biological mother? But no one knew about her. Did they? She found a pill and swallowed it dry, gagging at the chalky aftertaste. Was she turning into a replica of her addict mother? God, she hoped not.

Her memory of the file’s contents was hazy, the result of a combination of things from last night, including vodka. Shit. She sensed another headache. God help anyone who came in the door.

She focused her eyes on the photograph stapled to the inside cover. Auburn hair, curled around the shoulders. Sky-blue eyes full of life. Lips turned slightly upward in a mischievous smile. Lynn O’Donnell appeared younger than her twenty-five years, and Lottie wondered if it was a photograph taken some time before she vanished.

The file made for sombre reading. The last sighting of the young woman had been on the 5 p.m. Dublin to Ragmullin train. Jimmy Maguire, the station porter, had given a statement saying he came across her after she had disembarked. She had dropped her handbag and he helped her pick up her belongings. After that … nothing. She simply vanished. There were no CCTV cameras around the station ten years ago, and very few in the town, and even after an intensive investigation the gardaí still had nothing to go on. Lottie could see plenty of areas that hadn’t been explored at the time. Things that would be done differently today.

Superintendent Corrigan had written copious amounts of notes at the back of the file. As she scanned them, she remembered the cases of other young women who had disappeared over the years. Some of them had been found. Murdered. But there were still too many unaccounted for. Too many families without answers. Like the O’Donnells.

If there was a remote likelihood that the current cases were linked to Lynn, then Jimmy Maguire would have to be interviewed again. The O’Donnell family members were listed. Maybe she’d have a word with them also.

And as she reached for the phone, an uneasy shiver warned her that Mollie Hunter needed to be found soon.

Before she could lift the phone, it rang.

Jane Dore.

---

Lottie robed up and joined Jane in the mortuary.

‘Thanks for doing this so quickly, Jane,’ she said.

‘Slow day.’ The pathologist opened a file on her computer. ‘I have the prelims. A woman in her mid thirties. Extremely undernourished. Verging on malnutrition, I’d say. As you saw, her head had been shaved, but the follicles tell me her hair had turned grey. Blue eyes, and even though you wouldn’t think to look at her now, she was Caucasian.

‘She’d been wrapped in some kind of plastic, possibly heavy-duty bin bags. With that and decomposition, it’s difficult to pin down time of death. Plus, the use of bleach on the body doesn’t help. But the presence of flies and maggots in this cold weather makes me think she’s been dead at least a week. Possibly longer. And she may have been held indoors, somewhere warm. Too many unknown variables, I’m afraid. I’ve further analysis to do, so I may know more later today.’

‘Okay.’

‘I’ve taken samples of her DNA, which you should run through the national missing persons database. It might be the only means of identification.’

‘Did you do toxicology screens?’

‘Yes. On my initial analysis they came up negative, but I’ve sent them off for more detailed tests.’

‘Can you tell me how she died?’

‘As I said before, no visible wounds, apart from the obvious vermin activity. The body had been outdoors for around a week. You know I hate making assumptions until I’ve completed all the tests, but I’m inclined to go with natural causes.’

Lottie widened her eyes. ‘But she was wrapped in plastic and dumped in the woods.’

‘That suggests foul play after death. At the moment, I can only say that cause of death is inconclusive.’

‘Anything else?’ Lottie said. ‘I’m grasping at fast-disappearing straws now.’

‘She’d given birth.’

‘Recently?

‘No, I’d say five to ten years ago, if not more.’ Jane busied herself with a sheaf of paper.

‘Any hope of DNA?’

‘For the baby? No, but if you find the child, I may be able to match it to the mother.’

‘Thanks, Jane.’

‘I’ll let you have the full report as soon as.’

‘And you’ll call me if you find anything else?’

‘I will.’

Lottie was at the door when Jane said, ‘Oh, one other thing.’

Lottie turned around.

‘Almost forgot, as I was saving this bit for last. I found a silver Claddagh ring embedded in the junction between the oesophagus and the stomach.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. It had been lodged there for some time. Perhaps she swallowed it or it was forced down her throat. But she never passed it.’

‘That’s terrible. Any inscription?’

‘I’ll photograph it and send it to you.’

Lottie left Jane to her Dead House. On the drive back to Ragmullin, she wondered who this mystery victim was, and how someone who might have died of natural causes came to be left out in the woods by the lake. And why had she swallowed a ring? Where was her child? Alive or dead? Then another thought struck her. Why had the victim’s head been shaved?