The man in front of her didn’t look anything like his photograph. For a start, he looked much older. Despite black rings beneath red-rimmed eyes, there was a certain smugness to his demeanour. Well, Mr Mullin, we’ll see how long that lasts.

Without preamble, Lottie placed Elizabeth’s photograph in front of him. The death-mask one. He recoiled instantly. That worked nicely, she thought.

‘Was breaking up with Elizabeth a recipe for murder?’ she said.

‘What are you talking about? I never laid a hand on her.’

‘Expect me to believe that? Mr Mullin, I’m in no mood for games. I’ve had a bitch of a day. Start talking.’

‘Talk? About what? I didn’t kill Elizabeth. I loved her. I miss her so much. I can’t believe she’s dead.’

Lottie showed him a photograph of the chain and ring she’d found.

He looked up at her with a raised eyebrow. ‘Was that Elizabeth’s?’

‘Was it Elizabeth’s?’ Lottie mocked. ‘You gave it to her, didn’t you?’

‘Honest to God, I never did. I never saw it before.’

‘You think I’m going to believe that?’

‘It’s the truth.’ He bared his teeth, gnawing his bottom lip.

‘When did you last see her? And don’t tell me it was a year ago, because guess what? I won’t believe it.’

He sighed. Considering. ‘I found the break-up hard. Once I was in Germany, I knew I’d made a mistake. But she wouldn’t listen to me. Blocked my number. Wouldn’t talk. It made me ill.’

Was this guy for real? Lottie rolled her eyes and felt Lynch nudge her knee.

‘Go on.’

‘I got so depressed, I couldn’t work and came home to Mum.’

‘A thirty-five-year-old banker, jacking in his job and running home to Mummy. Priceless.’

‘You’re a bit of a bitch, aren’t you?’

‘Ah, now I’m getting to hear the real Matt Mullin. So you came home. When?’

‘Early December.’

‘And you met Elizabeth?’

‘No. I told you, she wouldn’t meet or talk or anything. So I started following her. On the train.’

Lottie let out a low whistle. Stalker popped into her mind, quickly followed by murderer.

‘Did she see you?’

‘Probably. But she ignored me. Some days she was sitting beside that other girl.’

‘What other girl?’

‘The one that’s missing. Mollie Hunter.’

Lottie sat up straight. ‘You saw Elizabeth sitting on the train with Mollie Hunter?’

‘Yeah. Not every day, though. Not like they were friends, just companions.’

‘So you killed Elizabeth and then abducted Mollie.’

‘I did not.’ He looked wildly around the room. ‘Am I entitled to a solicitor?’

‘If you want one. Might make you look like you have something to hide, though.’

‘That’s bollocks and you know it.’

‘Did you follow Elizabeth out at Rochfort Gardens?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Running. Jogging. At weekends.’

‘No. I didn’t. Just on the train.’

‘And what did you do all day in Dublin while she was at work?’

‘Walked around. Had a coffee at the station and waited.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘There’s nothing to tell. Elizabeth didn’t show up on the train on Tuesday or Wednesday and then I heard what happened to her. On the news. Oh God, I can’t believe it.’ He began to sob.

‘What did you do on those days when Elizabeth wasn’t on the train?’

‘I … I tried to talk to that Mollie girl. But she wouldn’t engage with me. Moved off to sit with some nervy young one.’

Wheels clicked in Lottie’s brain. Grace!

Could this idiot be telling the truth? She looked to Lynch for some idea of what the detective was thinking, but Lynch was staring at the wall, her face a dreadful shade of grey. That was all she needed, for her detective to puke on a suspect.

Matt stood up, ‘I want my solicitor now. Or let me go.’

She really didn’t have anything to hold him on. She needed evidence.

‘Will you consent to giving a sample of DNA?’

‘Get a warrant.’

Christ, he wasn’t going to make life any easier for her. ‘Okay, I will. You can go, but I want you back here at ten in the morning. With or without your solicitor. Are you agreeable to that?’

He shrugged and left.

‘I think I’ll join you for that coffee now, Lynch.’

In the hallway, she met Boyd, running.

‘Oh, Boyd. The very man. Can you call your mother and get Grace on the phone? She might have seen that Mullin fellow on the train with Mollie.’

‘Lottie. The canteen. Now.’ He was breathless.

‘That’s where I’m headed. I’m badly in need of a coffee.’

He was shaking his head. ‘You might need something stronger after you see this.’

---

The canteen had a wall-mounted television, which was usually muted with subtitles. Now, the sound was turned up.

Lottie sat down on one of the new red plastic chairs, open-mouthed.

‘This is Cynthia Rhodes reporting from Ragmullin, in the midlands. A town that has seen its fair share of tragedy and murder over the last few years. But now locals are accusing the local Garda Síochána of incompetence.’

‘What the hell? Bitch!’ Lottie jumped up, rage spiking in her chest.

‘The most tragic event to strike the town of Ragmullin concerns the O’Donnell family, who just a few weeks ago buried their wife and mother. Maura O’Donnell battled cancer, but those who knew her say she died of a broken heart. She went to her grave not knowing where her daughter, Lynn O’Donnell, vanished to ten years ago. The gardaí believed Lynn to be dead, possibly buried at an unidentified location in the Dublin mountains, information I got from a detective inspector at Ragmullin garda station.’

‘Liar. She’s misquoting me.’

‘You said that? Out loud?’ Boyd asked.

‘Kind of.’

‘God, Lottie, wait till McMahon finds out.’

‘I know.’ McMahon’s voice boomed out behind her.

‘Creep,’ Lottie muttered. He had an annoying habit of appearing out of nowhere, silent and sneaky. Or perhaps it was her suspicious mind at work.

‘Shh.’ Boyd turned the sound up further.

‘Turn it down,’ Lottie shrieked. ‘We can read the subtitles.’

‘Turn it up. I want to hear it so I can decide on damage control.’ McMahon pulled out a chair, and the plastic squeaked as he sat.

Cynthia was standing outside Donal O’Donnell’s home.

‘Yesterday I interviewed this heartbroken family. They asked me to highlight the ineptitude of the gardaí and to appeal for information on Lynn’s whereabouts. Sadly, I learned today that the body of Ms O’Donnell has been found. And not in the Dublin mountains, but at Ladystown lake, just a few short miles outside Ragmullin.’

A photograph of Lynn appeared on the left-hand side of the screen, with the right-hand side showing the road leading to Barren Point.

‘What is more disturbing, my sources tell me that Lynn O’Donnell had not been dead for ten years. She was alive up until a week or two ago. That begs the question, how did local gardaí fail in their efforts to find this beautiful young woman? And where has she been for the last decade? Was she free all that time, or was she the victim of an abduction, held against her will? A short while ago, I attempted to speak with Detective Inspector Parker of Ragmullin garda station.’

The screen cut to the steps of the station, rain spilling down in sheets and Rhodes standing with her microphone in hand. Lottie appeared from the right running up the steps, pulling her coat off.

‘Turn it off,’ she cried. ‘I know where this is leading.’

‘What did you say to her?’ Boyd whispered. ‘Oh God, I hope it isn’t anything they can crucify you with.’

‘I can’t watch this.’ She bolted out of her chair, but paused at the door, waiting for the humiliation she was about to suffer on national television.

Cynthia’s voice boomed through the canteen. ‘DI Parker, can I have a comment about the discovery of Lynn O’Donnell’s body two days ago?’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘Why did it take so long to inform her family?’

‘None of your business.’

Lottie cringed. Shit, this was worse than she’d feared. She saw McMahon turn his head to face her. Was that a sly smirk snaking across his face?

‘I think it is the nation’s business, Inspector. Was she badly decomposed? Was that the reason for the delay?’

‘Why don’t you piss off back to Dublin.’

The image showed Lottie shoving her way past Rhodes. Then the shot returned to a bemused-looking, very damp Cynthia.

‘And that is DI Parker, who is heading up two murder investigations and the case of Mollie Hunter, who has been missing since Wednesday.’

Lottie groaned. ‘Jesus, if you’re going to hang me out to dry, at least get your fucking facts right.’

‘What facts?’ McMahon rose from his chair as Boyd muted the television.

‘Lynn wasn’t murdered, she died of natural causes.’

‘That, Inspector, is beside the point. Where was she for ten years? If she was being held captive somewhere, don’t you think that was a contributing factor to her death?’

‘Yeah, well, what do you know?’ She leaned back against the door frame and closed her eyes. The day couldn’t get any worse, could it?

‘My office.’ McMahon stormed past her, leaving a trail of sickly aftershave in his wake.

‘Will you come with me, Boyd?’ she said.

‘I think you’ve dug your own grave on this one, Lottie.’

‘Okay. A favour, though, before I throw myself under McMahon’s bus. I need you with me while I interview Paddy McWard.’