‘Blunt-force trauma to the back of the skull.’ Jane Dore tore off her forensic suit and stuffed it into the paper bag held out for her by her assistant. At five foot nothing, the state pathologist made up in expertise what she lacked in height. ‘Find the weapon and I can match it to the wound.’

‘Any idea what the weapon might be?’ Lottie asked.

‘Something hard and rounded.’

‘Anything else you can tell us?’ Lottie tried not to plead. ‘We still have to identify her.’

‘Well, I’ve no idea who the victim is. I’ll schedule the post-mortem for eight in the morning. Maybe the body can tell us something. Come along and see for yourself.’

‘I will. Thanks.’ Lottie watched the pathologist walk out into the rain, her driver holding a wide umbrella over her head.

‘There’s a ladies’ raincoat hanging on the stair post. It’s damp,’ she said to Boyd as he stood outside the front door. He lit two cigarettes and handed her one.

‘So?’ he said.

She took a drag. She didn’t smoke. Not really. Only when Boyd gave her one. A double vodka would go down nicely, she thought. She had tried to give up alcohol, numerous times, but in the last few months she’d found herself slipping back into old habits. She took a double pull on the cigarette and coughed out the smoke.

‘Whoever she is, she called to visit and maybe disturbed a burglar. That must be her coat in there,’ Lottie said.

‘Brute of a night for social calls,’ Boyd said.

‘There’s no handbag. Nothing to tell us who she is.’

‘Someone will know her.’

‘Where’s Marian Russell? According to her daughter’s report, she was here when Emma left to go to her friend’s house.’

‘Where does the friend live?’

‘Next house down.’

‘That’s about a mile away,’ Boyd said.

‘More like five hundred metres,’ Lottie corrected him.

‘It’s dark and wet. Why would she let her child walk home?’

‘Emma Russell is seventeen years old.’ Lottie quenched the butt between her fingertips and handed it to Boyd. He placed both butts into the cigarette packet. She added, ‘We need to find Marian Russell.’

‘Kirby’s working on it.’

‘Let’s have a look around the back yard.’

‘I’ll get McGlynn to switch on the outside light.’ He headed inside.

The rain eased slightly but still Lottie found herself sloshing in and out of puddles as she made her way around the gable of the house. The building seemed to be a converted farmhouse, but the farm was long gone. A wide hedgerow provided the boundary as far as she could see, which in the dark wasn’t far.

As she stepped into the yard, the external wall light blinked on, filling the space with an amber hue.

‘Oh my God,’ she said.

Boyd came out of the back door. ‘What did you find?’

On the ground just outside the door lay a baseball bat, blood draining from it in the rain. Beside it was an old-fashioned black leather handbag, with an open brass clasp on top, its contents spilled out onto the paving stones.

‘The weapon,’ Boyd said. ‘Someone was in a hurry.’

‘And if this isn’t Marian’s handbag, it must belong to the victim inside.’

Lottie crouched down and with gloved fingers carefully turned over a plastic card lying on the saturated ground.

‘Blood donor card. Tessa Ball,’ she said. The name sparked a recognition nerve somewhere in her brain. But at the same time, she was convinced she had never met Tessa Ball.

‘What are you doing to my crime scene?’ McGlynn stood in the open doorway, towering over her. ‘Don’t touch a thing. I need everything photographed first.’ He shouted for a tent to be erected.

‘Okay, okay.’ Lottie stood up. ‘Keep your knickers on,’ she added in a whisper.

As McGlynn approached, she sidestepped him and followed Boyd back to the front of the house.

‘We need to speak to Emma,’ she said.

‘You need to slow down,’ Boyd replied.

‘I will, when I find whoever killed that old woman.’