Lottie opened the door and stood back to let Boyd in.

‘The state of you. What do you look like?’ she laughed, then, seeing the serious lines etched on his face, she added, ‘Something wrong?’

‘I need a drink,’ he said.

‘You’re driving.’

‘One won’t kill me.’ He hung his jacket on top of a multitude of coats on the stair post.

She ushered him into the kitchen, filled the kettle and switched it on.

‘Wait here,’ she said.

‘Where are you going?’ He leaned against the refrigerator, and she noticed his eyes travelling the substantial length of her legs.

‘To put on some clothes.’

‘You don’t have to do that. The view is quite good as it is.’

She thumped his shoulder and made for the door, glad she’d only had the one drink. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’

She returned after a few minutes wearing a hoodie and pyjama bottoms, and carrying a sheaf of papers.

‘What’s all this?’ Boyd asked, handing her a mug of tea.

‘My father’s stuff. I want to show you something.’

They sat at the table and she passed over the notebook. ‘See that line there?’ She pointed.

‘Belfield and Ball, Solicitors. Right. Are you going to make a will?’

‘Belfield and Ball.’ Lottie emphasised each word. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’

‘Ball,’ he said. ‘Any relation to our Tessa?’

‘Well, my mother told me she used to be a solicitor.’ She put down her mug. ‘Why are you here anyway?’

Boyd sipped his tea. ‘Missed you.’

‘Don’t be an ass.’

‘If this Ball solicitor was Tessa, or someone related to her, has it any bearing on what happened to her, or to your father, seeing as the name is in his notebook?’

‘I don’t know, and answer the damn question. Why are you here?’ Seeing the look that crossed his face, Lottie wished she could take back her words.

‘I just wanted to have a chat with you, that’s all.’

Lottie bit the inside of her cheek. ‘What you mean is you wanted to check if I was drinking. Boyd, I don’t need a minder.’ She glanced up at her wedding photograph hanging on the wall. If Adam was still around, she wouldn’t be in this situation. She missed him, but she had to let him go. She could live with the memories but not with the ghost.

‘Sorry,’ Boyd said.

‘And while you’re being personal, you need to sort out your situation with Jackie.’

‘I don’t want to talk about my ex-wife.’

‘You have to proceed with the divorce.’

‘Enough. Back to these.’ Boyd looked at the post-mortem photographs Lottie had handed him. ‘He was definitely shot. How can you bear to look at these?’

‘Alcohol helps,’ she quipped.

‘Was there residue on his hands?’

She passed him another page.

‘Not very conclusive,’ he said, scanning the report.

‘I’d love to get my hands on the full PM file,’ she said.

‘Ask Jane Dore. I know it’s a long time ago, but there may be records somewhere in that Dead House of hers.’

‘Yeah, I thought of that.’ She scooped up the pages and stuffed them into a folder.

He took it from her and lined up the pages neatly before handing it back.

‘I always knew you were good for something,’ she said. ‘Do you want another cup of tea?’

‘I have to get home.’

‘You’re lonely.’

‘And you’re not?’

‘We both are.’

She wanted to reach across the table and hold him. He looked so lost. She caught a glimpse of the photograph hanging on the wall, and fought an urge to turn it round or take it down.

‘What are all these?’ Boyd held up a bundle of newspaper cuttings held together with a bulldog clip.

‘Court reports, sports reviews, usual stuff,’ she said. ‘All dated around a year before my dad died. I’ve gone through them like a hundred times.’

‘The Irish Press,’ Boyd said. ‘That’s a blast from the past. And the Midland Tribune. Bring them in tomorrow and we’ll photocopy them. Then we can go through them without damaging the originals.’

‘I can’t see what use they’ll be.’

‘You never know until you look. It might be an idea to check the archives of the local paper too,’ Boyd said. ‘See what, if anything, they reported about your father’s death.’

‘That’s an idea.’

‘Or talk to old Willie “The Buzz” Flynn. He used to work at the paper. Kirby knows him. He might have known your father.’

Lottie closed her eyes, trying to conjure up her father. But all she could see was the pathologist’s photographs. She heard Boyd moving. When she turned round, he was standing beside her chair. She scrutinised his face, searching for a sign. But he just looked serious.

‘Thanks for the tea. Thanks for the company.’ His hand slid around her shoulder. ‘You’re a good friend. And I appreciate it.’

A friend? Shite. She was the one who’d been keeping him at a distance, and now here she was acting like a needy teenager. Time to get a grip, Parker.

‘I have to go.’ He kissed her forehead chastely.

In that moment, she could have reached out and held him until morning. But she just sat there unmoving. Not even an eyelid fluttered until he walked away.

She heard him shuffling into his jacket and the door closing behind him with a soft thud.

Sitting in the kitchen, listening to the rain, the light reflecting off the dark windows, she sipped her cold tea, wishing it was alcohol, and sifted through the file on the table. When all the pages were messed up again, she felt a little more comfortable. Just a little bit.

And she knew she needed help.