Before He Kills Again E-Book

Tadhg Coakley

• Herausgeber: Mercier Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

This tense crime novel, second in a series featuring former inter-county hurler now turned detective, Garda Tim Collins, finds a Cork city woman raped and murdered in her own home. Assigned to the case, Collins and new partner Deirdre Donnelly soon find out that there is a misogynistic apparatus, male dark forces at play with plans to attack and kill many more women. In a race against time and utter unacceptance of female degradation violence, Collins and Deirdre have to find the killer before he acts again. But can they? Donnelly and her competitive and previously famous sportsman partner hate to lose, but when one of Ireland's most dangerous criminals turns up in Collins' home turf, West Cork, old sparring partner Superintendent Buckley insists he move case. The West Cork investigation imploding and climaxing into a brutal killing, we quickly learn this utterly likeable detective cans sometimes be violent and ruthless. A respected professional, he is often perceived as a wild card amongst the Garda ranks. The witness of this murder in West Cork spurs him into battle. How far will he go to avenge that death? Will Collins become a killer, too? We are shown the dark realism of crime and the battles of will and intelligence that go on in the world policing. A strong sense of place combined with a shocking double climax makes this second installment of the Tim Collins series a thrilling read.

Leseprobe

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Landmarks

Cover

Also by Tadhg Coakley

Novels

The First Sunday in September

Whatever It Takes

Non-Fiction

Everything: the Autobiography of Denis Coughlan(co-author)

The Game: A Journey into the Heart of Sport

To the victims of domestic,

sexual and gender-based violence.

And to those who protect

and look after them.

MERCIER PRESS

3B Oak House, Bessboro Rd

Blackrock, Cork, Ireland.

www.mercierpress.ie

www.twitter.com/MercierBooks

www.facebook.com/mercier.press

© Tadhg Coakley, 2023

978-1-78117-825-6

978-1-78117-826-3 Ebook only

Cover design: Sarah O’Flaherty

A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library.

All characters and events in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, which may occur inadvertently, is completely unintentional.

TThis eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Part 1

Helen’s Eyes

Chapter 1

Collinsparked in the Supervalu car park beside St Mary’s on The Hill. It was one of those low sized almost circular modern churches of which he didn’t approve. Getting out of his car, he looked at the spire made from metal bars and a simple cross. The blue sky and sunshine seemed to mock the waste of a young life.

He took the funeral wreath from the boot of his car. The flowers were red and white, with the emblem of a liver bird in the centre circled by the words ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. He’d only found out the previous year she was a Liverpool supporter like him.

He gave the wreath to one of the undertakers beside the hearse on the Harbour View Road. The man said: ‘Thanks’.

Some of her friends were smoking near the front door of the church. He stopped and glared at them. Only one, Chloe, held his gaze. Her eyes looked lifeless.

As he stepped inside the church he heard the word ‘Pig’.

He walked on. Another funeral because of you.

Whenhe had phoned Jackie the previous week to check up on her, she picked up on the second ring.

‘If it isn’t Batman himself,’ she said. ‘The lone hero dedicated to saving Gotham City.’ There was too much gaiety in her voice, she was high on something.

‘Hi, Jackie, how’re things? Can we meet up?’

‘So you can point out the error of my ways? Give me a lecture? I amsotired of all that, Collins.’

‘No, I just wanted a chat, bit of a catch up.’

‘You’re some fucking liar.’

‘Come on. The hot chocolate is on me.’

‘Sherang you I suppose.’

‘Nobody rang me. I just called for a chat.’

‘You did in your hole.’

Collins wanted to avoid talking to her while she was high, there was no point.

‘Come on, Jackie, I can pick you up now, bring you to McDonalds. Where are you? I’ll be there in ten.’

‘Haha, nice try. See you around, Collins.’

‘I can get you back into Cuan Dé, Jackie,’ Collins said, but the line was dead.

He looked her up on the Garda PULSE system and saw a charge of soliciting against her. That confirmed it.Why hadn’t you kept a closer eye on her?

He tried to phone her back twice. He tried again the following day.

He went to her mother’s house. Jacqueline had moved to a small social housing development in Carrigtwohill.

There were steps up to the front door of the new red-bricked maisonette. In the sunshine children played on a green area nearby.

Collins pressed the bell and waited. Already the heat was pulsing down even though it was only June. Two baskets of flowers hung on either side of Jacqueline’s door. Thriving pots of flowers on the ground by the railings to either side – which he took as a good sign.

Kyle – Jacqueline’s son and Jackie’s brother – opened the door and slammed it in Collins’ face. He rang the bell again. This time Jacqueline did answer it. She looked healthy, she was clearly off the drink. Collins tried not to show his relief.

Her face was flushed and her hair was tied up. From the sports top, leggings and bare feet he guessed he had interrupted a yoga session.

‘Hi Jaqueline,’ he said, smiling. ‘How are you?’

She watched him closely without speaking. He hoped the smile had reassured her. She opened the door for him to enter.

‘The kitchen is straight ahead, there,’ she said. They went through. He stood awkwardly by the fridge.

‘Sit down, sit down, you’re making me nervous,’ she said. ‘Tea or coffee?’

‘Black tea, thanks.’

He sat down. She filled the kettle and switched it on. She sat at the table opposite him, her face a mask of worry.

‘Is it Jackie? Has something happened?’

‘I phoned her the other day, I was worried. Is she okay?’

Jaqueline shook her head and her eyes filled with tears.

‘No,’ she managed to say. Collins got up and removed two cups from the stand by the kettle. He took a tea bag from the tin. The kettle boiled.

She stood up and faced him.

‘What happened?’ she said. ‘And sit down, it’ll give me some- thing to do.’

‘I looked her up on the system the other day,’ he said. ‘I saw that there was a charge against her from a few weeks ago.’

‘What is it now?’ she said. Collins noticed her hands were shaking. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

‘I’m sorry to say it is soliciting,’ he said.

She shuddered and put a hand to her mouth. She looked out the window.

‘My therapist in rehab prepared me for this,’ she said. ‘You know what she told me?’

‘No.’

‘She told me that I can’t look after anybody else until I can look after myself.’

‘And how are you doing?’

She sniffled. ‘Some days I think I’m only hanging on. Other days I think I’ll be okay.’

‘But,’ she said and she turned to make the tea. ‘I know now that I can’t look after Jackie and look after myself too. And I’m no good to her or Kyle drunk.’

She placed the two cups of tea on the table and took a jug of milk from the fridge. She sat down and shrugged.

‘I can’t do it for her any more,’ she said and her voice was flat. ‘I just can’t.’

‘I was hoping if I could get to her, I might be able to do something. Do you know where she is?’

She shook her head. ‘No. She was living with her boyfriend somewhere near Douglas Street, but I think he threw her out when she started using again.’

‘I spoke to her last Tuesday,’ he said. ‘But I can’t get through to her since. I’ll try to trace her phone, we might get a location for her using that.’

‘I know I’m a bad mother,’ Jacqueline said, her voice breaking. ‘I should have stopped Dinny and I should have done better with Jackie. And now Kyle is hanging around with those pups.’

As if in response, the sound of the front door slamming quietened her.

‘I’ll find her,’ Collins said.

He never did. The call came through later that day when he was chatting with his new partner, Deirdre Donnelly, in the station. He looked at the phone before answering; it was a colleague, Aisling Crowley.

‘Collins?’ she said.

‘Hi Aisling, what’s up?’

‘I thought you’d want to know. We found the body of Jackie Buckley in a flat off Evergreen Road just now.’

Collins winced.Again. He closed his eyes.You useless fuck.

‘Collins? Are you there?’ Aisling said.

‘Yeah, sorry. Was it an overdose?’ he said.

‘Looks like it. There were two of them. The other is critical in CUH. There’s a very pure batch of heroin doing the rounds right now, there was another death last week.’

‘Definite ID?’

‘Definite, Collins. I’m sorry, I know you did your best for her.’

My best.

‘Thanks for letting me know, Aisling, I appreciate it,’ he said and hung up.

‘Bad news?’ Deirdre said.

‘Yeah, an overdose,’ he said, standing up. ‘I have to go to Carrigtwohill and tell the family.’

‘Want me to go with you?’

‘No thanks, girl. Appreciate the offer.’

Collinssat near the back of the church at the funeral. The usual platitudes from a young priest, although he did seem to be genuine. There was no eulogy and Collins was glad. Jackie would have hated it.

She was buried beside her brother Dinny in Curraghkippane Cemetery. The graveyard was on a hill with stunning views of the River Lee Valley and rising hills to the south. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. A blackbird sang throughout the entire ceremony from a nearby sycamore.

Collins stood at a distance from the grave but in a place where Jacqueline had a clear view of him. Kyle had grown tall since Collins had seen him last. He had given up his boxing and sold his dogs, Collins knew, and was dealing for the McMahons, who were steadily taking over the drug trade in Cork since Mickey had returned from Spain.

Collins had been moved from the Drugs and Organised Crime Unit after Dominic Molloy’s murder the previous winter, so he didn’t have much contact with the drug gangs in Cork any more. He was furious when he heard there was a new gang operating out of his home patch, West Cork, and he had made enquiries about who might be dealing the pure batch of heroin. Then he let it go, what would be the point?

After the prayers had ended, two young women stepped forward and sang the hymn ‘I’ll Fly Away’, which Collins knew from the filmO Brother, Where Art Thou?They were obviously sisters, probably twins. They were both small. One wore a blue summer dress and black Doc Marten boots. Her hair, in a bob, had been dyed purple and grey and her long drop feather earrings were the colours of a rainbow. The other singer had her hair in the same bob but it was jet black. She wore a Nirvana t-shirt and baggy khaki pants. Their singing and their harmonies were clear and slow and beautiful and soft.

At the final chorus Collins lowered his eyes and looked at the ground. When he realised there would be no other songs, he joined the queue before the family and shook hands with Kyle, saying: ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Kyle, I was very fond of her.’ Kyle looked at him and blinked once but did not speak.

‘Jacqueline,’ Collins said and held out his hand. She embraced him; she was surprisingly strong.

‘I’m sober thanks to you, Collins,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘And I know how much you did for Jackie, and Dinny too. I’ll never forget it.’

She released him.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said and he laid his hand on her arm. He turned away.

‘I know,’ she said quietly.

After the funeral, he drove to Bandon to visit his mother, who had tripped over her new dog and broken her hip. Being infirm didn’t suit her and she hated the walking aid she had to use around the supermarket. She hated having to explain to friends and neighbours how she had fallen, so she never mentioned the dog to people.

He had dinner with her and left when the home help arrived.

Just outside Cork, Deirdre phoned him on a station number.

‘Where are you?’ she said. ‘There’s been a murder in Blackrock.’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘I’ll meet you out front.’

Chapter 2

DetectiveSergeant Deirdre Donnelly glanced at the clock on the Audi’s dashboard: 21:15, but it still wasn’t anywhere close to being dark. She looked in her mirror as the car headed out the Blackrock Road. The beginnings of a blazing sunset had begun in the western sky behind.

She glanced at her new partner, Tim Collins, in the passenger seat. He was pale. She’d heard about his squeamishness around dead bodies but she hadn’t believed it. There were so many rumours and myths built around Collins she didn’t know what to believe. Her first month in Cork with him had been uneventful, which was disappointing. She was almost glad when word had just come through of a body being found in Ardlea Drive, an estate off the Blackrock Road in the south-eastern part of the city.

‘Do you know where this place is?’ she said. It was her first stationing in Cork and she hadn’t yet gotten her bearings. She knew Páirc Uí Chaoimh was nearby, but that wasn’t much help.

‘You’ll be taking a left in a few hundred metres,’ Collins said. ‘I’ll tell you when we get there.’ His phone rang and he held the screen out at arm’s length to check the caller. That was another thing: he looked so old. She’d expected somebody … well, hotter, for starters. He looked more like her father than her boyfriend Jake. All in all, she felt let down. When Superintendent Frank O’Rourke told her she would be partnering Collins and that he wanted her to rein him in and to report anything ‘dodgy’, she’d been expecting fireworks, fighting gangland crime at the coalface. Collins seemed to be more interested in his precious coffees or sitting at his desk than being out there on the streets in the battle ground.

Collins answered the call.

‘We’ll be there in one minute, superintendent,’ he said. ‘I understand, superintendent.’ He hung up.

‘O’Rourke?’ Deirdre said.

‘Yes. Next left here, after the trees.’

‘What did he want?’ Deirdre said and resented having to ask. That was another thing about Collins, she could hardly get two words out of him.

‘He said he wants this investigation handled with “kid gloves” and “by the book”,’ Collins said and grimaced when he saw the mass of blazing lights ahead. Vehicles and people were blocking the entrance of the well-to-do looking estate.

She pulled the Audi up on a footpath. Much quicker to walk. Somebody at the station had clearly leaked the news of a body to the media, there were two camera crews setting up with two well-known local broadcasters, Amy Geary and Martin Smyth.

‘Collins! Collins!’ they called out simultaneously and headed straight for the detectives.

‘Collins, has the woman been identified? Is it murder?’ Smyth asked, sticking a microphone in front of Collins’ face.

‘Collins, is the husband suspected?’ Smyth said.

Other reporters also held out phones, trying to get a quote. Collins walked past them all without an acknowledgement. A press photographer took a photo. Deirdre wondered if she resented the focus being exclusively on him.

A huddle of neighbours stood on a lawn across from the house which was now cordoned off. Collins looked closely at them and a few other people standing around. He approached the first two gardaí in uniform in front of the yellow and black incident tape.

‘Donal, can you get a video of all the people around, including the media? Theresa, can you organise somebody to go around and get everybody’s name and details, please? Straight away, before they disperse? Thanks.’

Collins held up the tape for Deirdre to go under. She felt she was being too passive. She had investigated several murders in her time in Pearse Street in Dublin; she wasn’t some rookie thrown in at the deep end.

‘Dr Gubbins,’ she said, approaching a tall stooped bearded man in a green polypropylene boiler suit about to enter the small marquee covering the front door. He was head of the Technical Unit in the Cork Division and she had met him only once, at a retirement function the previous week. He had been approachable even though he seemed to be fixated about being referred to as ‘Doctor’ rather than Paul. He wasn’t even a real doctor, somebody told her it was a PhD.

‘I’ll inform you when you can enter the building, detective,’ Gubbins said and walked away.

‘Won’t be long,’ Collins said to her. ‘He’s always cranky when there’s a dead body in the vicinity. We can suit up in the meantime.’ He walked to the Technical Unit van and took the plastic bag that was handed to him by a woman in the same suit and cap as Gubbins. She was talking animatedly into a mobile phone. She handed Deirdre an identical bag, and ended the call.

‘This is my new partner, Deirdre Donnelly,’ Collins said to the woman. ‘This is Blessing Nzekwe, Deirdre, the best forensics analyst in Cork.’

‘You are such a charmer, Tim,’ Blessing said. ‘Very nice to meet you Deirdre, I wish it was in happier circumstances.’

‘Nice to meet you too, Blessing,’ Deirdre said, knowing better than to shake hands – TU people hated any bodily contact.

Two young gardaí approached Collins. One of them looked sick with nerves. Clearly they were the ones that had discovered the body.

‘Do you know Michael and Seán?’ Collins said to Deirdre. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Deirdre Donnelly,’ he said to the men. ‘Start at the beginning, leave nothing out. Remember what O’Malley taught ye.’ He was referring, Deirdre, knew, to Cathal O’Malley, Ireland’s most famous detective and now a teacher at the Garda Training College in Templemore.

The taller of the two, Michael, exhaled and looked at his notebook.

‘We were in the squad car in Ballinlough at a dispute between two neighbours, when we got the call …’

‘Time?’ Collins said, pulling the boiler suit over his right foot.

‘Oh, sorry,’ Michael said. ‘Just after eight.’

Collins glared at him.

‘Ten past eight,’ Michael said, quickly. He glanced at his colleague, who licked his lips. Deirdre didn’t know whether they were nervous because they had found a dead body or because they were reporting back to Collins.

‘Eight minutes past eight. I checked my watch when the call came in,’ Seán said. To Deirdre he looked young enough to be in secondary school, but that was happening a lot lately.

Collins nodded. He was fully suited up now and he stood facing the two young gardaí.

‘We arrived here soon after … we arrived here at 8:13,’ Michael continued. ‘And were met by the neighbour who had made the call. She was very agitated.’

‘Name?’ Collins said.

The garda looked at the notebook. ‘Orlaith Moloney, from number 43, just across the road. She had been phoning the … victim’s phone number for over an hour. They were supposed to go for a walk and the car was outside and there was no answer at the door or to her phone calls and texts. There was no sign of the dead woman’s eight-year-old son, either. She had phoned the husband and he rang her back and said to phone the guards that something must have happened.’

Collins glanced at Deirdre. The husband was always the first suspect until he wasn’t.

‘Name of the deceased?’ Collins said.

‘Helen O’Driscoll,’ Michael said and paused.

‘Another neighbour, Hugh Delaney, had a spare front door key and we entered the house at …’ he hesitated. Every garda knew that these times could be the making or breaking of a case and he didn’t want to get it wrong. ‘8:18 p.m.’ He looked at Seán, who nodded, checking his notebook.

‘There was no sign of any forced entry, front or back, or any window. We checked them all. There were two open windows to the side, they could have been used for entry, but there were no marks or sign of disturbance around them. We didn’t touch either window – we could have used them to get in but we knew there was a spare key by then. The alarm was turned off. No sign of life or anything downstairs. We saw her body on the bed in the bedroom when we went upstairs. She was clearly dead but we checked for breath and pulse. Neither. So, we called it in at exactly 8:21.’

Collins turned to the Technical Unit woman who had given them the protective suits. ‘How long more, Blessing?’ he said.

‘Not long, maybe ten minutes,’ she replied. ‘He is just finishing off a few things. But he will want you straight out, we have a lot more to do.’

‘Can you go back to the moment when you opened the front door?’ Deirdre said to Seán. He seemed to be the more perceptive of the two. ‘What was the first thing you noticed?’

‘It was quiet in the house,’ he said. ‘Somebody was cutting grass in the distance. And some children playing further down the park. And some music, there’s a concert in the Marquee.’ This was more like it.

‘But nothing inside the house. There was total silence. The sun was streaming into the living room on the right. The TV was turned off, the radio in the kitchen too. There were two windows open in the sitting room and the blinds were blowing a little. No smells in the kitchen of cooking or coffee or anything. Kettle was cold. A few pieces of ware on the drying rack, no plates on the table or island or anything like that.’

Deirdre knew better than to interrupt him, the kid was on a roll and seemed to have a photographic memory.

‘We went upstairs together,’ he said. ‘And there was no sound or smell there, either. Oh, Michael called out when we entered the house first. I forgot to mention that. No response. So, we weren’t expecting to meet anyone or find anything. I pushed open the bathroom door, that’s the first door on the right. Nothing. Clean toilet. Nothing.

‘Then Michael pushed open the main bedroom door and we saw the body. A woman, mid-forties I’d say, blonde hair. Face up, partly on the bed. Contusions around the neck, naked from the waist down, clear signs of sexual assault.’

‘What clear signs?’ Deirdre said. This was no time for him to be embarrassed.

Seán exhaled.

‘There was blood around her … midsection and thighs,’ he said. ‘Blood on the bed cover, too.’

‘Thanks Seán,’ Collins said. ‘We’ll see that ourselves when we go up. Was the blood still wet? Could you tell?’

‘No. Dried.’

‘Anything else?’ Collins said. ‘What happened then?’

‘We rang for an ambulance and for backup. The first squad car arrived in ten minutes and the super about ten minutes after that. We cordoned off everywhere and set up a perimeter down the road.’

Gubbins came out of the house and approached them. He peeled off a green plastic cap and the hood of his suit.

‘You can go in now, but don’t touch anything, we’re not finished,’ he said to Collins. He didn’t acknowledge Deirdre, which rankled.

‘Are we looking at asphyxiation, doctor? Sexual assault?’ Collins said to Gubbins.

‘Superintendent O’Rourke will get my report in due course,’ Gubbins replied. He took a phone out of his pocket and turned away.

‘Two things,’ Collins said to the gardaí. ‘The boy? Any sign? Did ye search for him?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Michael said. ‘No sign, we searched the house, top to bottom. A few of the lads are going door-to-door in case he’s with a friend.’

‘And the father?’ Collins said. ‘Who’s following up with him?’

‘Superintendent O’Rourke told us to give the phone number to Detectives Clancy and O’Regan.’

Collins didn’t react. Deirdre watched him closely. The chances were that the husband did it, so Clancy and O’Regan would get to arrest him and take lead on the case and close it out. This was the dirty end of the stick, examining a dead body and a bloody bed.

Collins looked at her, glumly.

‘You ready?’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ she replied. She put the plastic cap over the top of her head and headed for the door.

Chapter 3

Deirdreand Collins passed through the forensics marquee and into the front hall. It was almost dark now and the house lights were turned on. The décor was tasteful; beautiful, even. A good oak floor behind the sunken welcome mat and colourful tiles. Pale blue and off-white paint on the walls, in two tones. A large mirror on the left by the door. Small paintings and family photos on the wall of the stairs and on a console table to the right.

Money and good taste, all for nothing now. Deirdre could hear the thrum of the concert going on in the distance in the Marquee. It seemed strange that so many people so close by were having fun at a time like this. She wondered what kind of music Collins liked. She pushed it out of her mind.Concentrate, she told herself.

Collins took the stairs in bounds ahead of her, as though he were eager to see the grisly scene. She followed on quickly, she wanted to see his reaction and his modus operandi.Look, listen and learn,her father used to say.Every day is a school day.Even if it was the husband and he had taken the boy with him, it had to be proven.

Collins paused at the top of the stairs, as though listening. He moved around a Technical Unit marker on the landing floor. A woman was taking photographs of the body and Collins entered the room and stood at the end of the bed. He moved his gloved hands to his face and pressed them to his mouth and nose.

‘Jesus,’ he said, through gritted teeth and he seemed to sway. Deirdre wondered if he might topple over. He went to the window and looked out.

The photographer made eye contact with Deirdre and shrugged.

‘Okay, okay,’ Collins said and he turned. His face was drained of colour and his eyes were wet.

‘Nail this bastard, Collins,’ the photographer said. She faced Deirdre and said: ‘I’m Alison Cronin, Technical Unit. You the new partner? Good luck with that.’

‘Deirdre Donnelly,’ Deirdre said.

‘Did you get Helen’s knees and elbows?’ Collins said.

‘I got it all, Collins, as you well know, and don’t touch that body or anything else,’ Alison said and left the room.

Collins approached the body and looked into the dead woman’s eyes as if that old myth were true: that the killer’s face would be reflected there.

‘What colour would you say Helen’s eyes are?’ Collins said and Deirdre didn’t like the way he kept referring to her first name. It seemed affected, as though they weren’t already committed to catching her killer. Or as though Collins cared more than she did, than anybody else did.

‘Does it matter anymore?’ she said. Surely something left behind by the killer was more important, some piece of DNA or something to prove who did this horrific thing.

‘It does matter. Whoever did this can never take away the colour of her eyes,’ Collins said. ‘They are green. Look at them.’

Deirdre found herself leaning over the body and looking into Helen O’Driscoll’s blood shot, bulging, soft green eyes – lifeless now.

‘What do you see here?’ Deirdre asked him, moving away.Every day is a school day.

‘Rage and pride,’ Collins said. ‘Rage and pride. Enough pride to drown in, a sea of it. This is a display. He thinks he’s a great artist leaving his masterpiece for us to admire.’

‘Will you take upstairs and I’ll do downstairs?’ Deirdre said. ‘We can compare notes later.’

‘Sounds good,’ Collins said. He walked to the other side of the room, by some sliding door wardrobes.

‘Before you go,’ he said. ‘What doyousee? What can we take with us?’

She thought for a moment.

‘I see myself,’ she said and Collins’ head shot up.

Deirdre stared back at him. ‘I see every woman who was ever born and had to endure either the threat of violence from men or the violence itself. And you know what? I’m fucking sick of it.’ She turned and left the room.

‘Well then,’ Collins said.

Chapter 4

Collinslooked at the body again. The worst of the nausea was over, he felt in control again. Even his therapists couldn’t explain or help him with his reactions to the bodies of murdered people – women and children, especially.

The face was red which was an indication of asphyxiation, and the pinpoint haemorrhaging in and around her eyes. There was a thin red mark around her neck, it looked like the killer used some type of ligature. A vivid bruise on her temple. No marks on her hands or face, why didn’t she fight back? Maybe she was unconscious.

Collins looked at the two dressing gowns hanging on the back of the bedroom door to see if a belt was missing. Both were intact.

He worked the room from the far corner on the right, anti-clockwise. He opened every drawer and examined every inch of it. He looked underneath every surface. The laundry basket contained leggings, a sports bra and some children’s clothes.

In the wardrobe, he went through her clothes, feeling and looking his way through every stitch. He thought he heard a muted noise, like a phone on silent. He checked his own phone: nothing.

He went into the next room, a study. Blessing was in there, bagging a laptop.

‘Any sign of her phone, Blessing?’ Collins asked.

‘No, but we have the number, we will get the provider to do a location sweep.’ This was standard practice after any major crime, to track people’s whereabouts, but the killer might have taken the phone since it often contained incriminating evidence.

‘We phoned it, upstairs and downstairs. Nothing.’

‘Okay. Were there any clothes on the ground or anything?’ Collins said. ‘A towel? Any sign of a ligature?’

‘No. Nothing. We noticed the mark around her neck, we’ll test everything suitable.’

‘I checked the dressing gown belts, in case one was missing.’

‘Yes, we noticed them too.’

‘He must have taken some of her clothes as a trophy,’ Collins said. ‘It didn’t look like she was coming in from a shower or anything like that.’

‘That’s what Dr Gubbins said.’

‘We might be able to confirm what she had been wearing if somebody met her earlier,’ Collins said. ‘When is the pathologist due?’ The body could not be removed until then.

‘She is due in a few minutes, she was in CUH doing something when we called her.’

‘Good,’ Collins said. He didn’t want Helen’s body to be displayed like that for any longer. ‘What’s your sense of Helen O’Driscoll?’ he asked. He knew that Blessing had trained in psychology as well as forensics.

She labelled the clear bag and took a photo of it. She thought for a moment.

‘Very methodical, very organised. Not one thing out of place in the house. But a strong personality, too. Apart from the room downstairs with the big TV and the fridge with beer, the whole house is her personality. Look at the presses in the kitchen and at the bookshelves in the living room. All the books are alphabetical by author. I never saw that outside a library,’ she said.

Collins looked at a small child’s painting framed on the desk, a self-portrait with the letters E-V-A-N scrawled at the bottom. He shuddered.

‘The boy’s name is Evan, is it?’

‘What?’ Blessing said, distracted. ‘Yes it is – he’s eight.’

Collins went back and continued his search through Helen’s clothes and then her husband’s. His name was Gregory Murphy, he had noticed from the framed degree on the wall of the study. Science, if Collins’ Latin wasn’t too rusty. He was probably called Greg, they always used the birth certificate name in university. His clothes were good quality, a lot of Tommy Hilfiger and he had three Paul Costello suits. No shortage of money, but killings like this were never about money.

So, Helen kept her own surname after they got married. Nothing strange in that.

Collins looked at the floor of the wardrobe and noticed it was different from the good oak wood outside it. He sensed a presence and turned quickly to the body.

He went to the first wardrobe he had checked and took out the long stick with the hook to pull down the folding stairs to the attic.

Nothing apart from a stifling heat. It was neat and orderly around the door. Some suitcases and several large plastic boxes, stacked in two rows. All labelled. The rest of the surface was deep with blown insulation.

When he got downstairs, Deirdre beckoned him outside.

‘The super wants us to head back and have a team meeting,’ she said.

‘Any news of the boy?’ Collins said.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Not yet. Looks like that will be the focus of the investigation for now.’

They stood aside as the Assistant State Pathologist, Alice O’Callaghan, arrived with Inspector Tom Brennan, who had driven her from CUH. She was carrying a big old medical bag and she smiled when she saw Collins.

‘Hello, handsome,’ she said. ‘Are you never in Dublin, at all? You promised us you’d call.’

‘Hi Alice,’ Collins said. He noticed Brennan’s face set in anger, he hadn’t known that Alice and Collins were friends. ‘I don’t get out of the real capital much, any more, I’m afraid. How are you? How are Rose and Suzie?’

‘We’re fine, Collins. Don’t be a stranger,’ Alice said. She waved and entered the house.

‘Youknowher?’ Deirdre said.

‘Yeah, when I was stationed in Store Street I got friendly with her partner, who’s a garda. Long story,’ Collins said. ‘Listen, let you head back in, I’m going to stay around here a while. We need to find Evan.’

‘The super said he wanted us both back for a briefing,’ Deirdre said, shaking her head. Collins could see she was uncomfortable about going against instructions.

‘Tell him I’ll follow on, I just need to check something here but I have to wait until they remove the body.’

‘Up to you,’ Deirdre said and walked away.

Collinslooked around. It was quieter, except for gardaí coming and going. All the neighbours were gone and the perimeter on the street had been moved further back, all the way to the Blackrock Road. That should have been done immediately, he thought. He took out his phone and found the number of Kate Browne, the most senior of the Family Liaison Officers (FLOs) in Cork.

‘Hi, Kate? This is Collins, can you talk? Are you up to speed on the murder on the Blackrock Road?’

‘One second Collins,’ she replied. Then he heard her talking to somebody, excusing herself.

‘I’m with some of the family there, the husband’s parents. They’re distraught, needless to say. What do you need?’

‘I’m worried about Evan, do they have any idea where he could be?’

‘No, they phoned various people, friends and neighbours, but nothing. They’re just down the road in Ballintemple. They even searched around their own garden, apparently he walked on his own down there a couple of months ago, without permission.’

‘Can I come down and talk to them? There’s something wrong here, but I can’t put my finger on it.’

‘What is it?’

‘I just want to see if the grandmother would be strong enough for something. Can you let me talk to them for five minutes?’

Collinswalked to Maryhill from Ardlea. The concert in the Marquee had finished and there was gridlock on the Blackrock Road. Throngs of people, mostly young, passed by, giddy in their post-gig high. Many stopped at the barriers by the entrance to Ardlea and gaped at the garda flashing lights.

The light outside 16 Maryhill, an old bungalow, was on and two gardaíwere standing outside in high viz jackets. Collins said hello to them and rang the doorbell. Kate opened the front door and stepped outside.

‘What’s this about?’ she whispered. ‘Is the husband suspected? I thought he had an alibi.’

‘No, it’s not about him, it’s the boy. I think he’s hiding in the house and won’t come out.’

‘Hiding? I thought they searched it from top to bottom, and all around the estate?’

‘It’s just a feeling, but I think it’s worth a try. They can remove the body now that the pathologist has been there …’

Kate thought about it. ‘Five minutes,’ she said. ‘And don’t upset them.’

Collins nodded. ‘Surname is Murphy, that right?’

‘Yes,’ Kate said. ‘Jim and Nora. Jim doesn’t seem fully with it.’

Collins followed her through. There were classical books lining both sides of the hall and he realised this was Professor Nora Murphy, who had taught him in UCC, several years previously, not that she would remember him.

‘Jim. Nora,’ Kate said, when they entered the sitting room. ‘This is Detective Tim Collins, he’s one of the investigating team and he wants a quick word.’

‘Is there news?’ Nora said. She was in her mid-sixties. She was thin and fit looking, tanned from being outdoors. Her eyes were rimmed with worry. Her husband looked a good ten years older but his face was strangely passive, almost serene, as though he were on medication.

‘No, professor, I’m sorry,’ Collins said. ‘There isn’t. I wanted to talk to you about Evan. I think he’s hiding somewhere.’

‘Where? Where is he?’ Nora said standing up. Exactly the response Collins had wanted.

‘I think he might be in the house,’ Collins said. ‘But I want him to come out of his own accord and I need you for that.’

Nora wanted to go to Ardlea immediately but Collins explained to her that Helen’s body had to be removed first, that Evan couldn’t possibly see it. Then he went outside with Kate and phoned Superintendent O’Rourke, outlining his plan.

Collins was glad that O’Rourke was in charge of the case. He was conservative in his approach and a devout Catholic, but he let his Detectives get on with their work and didn’t micro manage, which suited Collins just fine.

O’Rourke was sceptical and put him on speakerphone to the group. Then he patched in Lorraine Crowley, one of the station’s counsellors, who was a child psychologist, and she swung it – she thought it was essential that a stranger didn’t find Evan. A man, especially, in the circumstances.

Collins told them that he thought Evan was hiding under the wardrobe in the bedroom, which was why he hadn’t searched further. He didn’t want him to see his mother’s body.

Anhour later, Collins, Deirdre, O’Rourke and Brennan were standing on the footpath outside the house in Ardlea as Lorraine Crowley, Kate Browne and Nora Murphy entered through the Technical Unit marquee.

Temporary lights had been set up on the lawn and insects were flying in wide circles around them. The heat was still oppressive, no sign of any breeze.

The blinds had been lowered and the curtains closed in the bedroom where Helen had been found. The window faced to the front and all four gardaí looked up at it. Some uniformed gardaí were also gathered by the taped exclusion zone, watching expectantly. Alison, Blessing and Gubbins from the Technical Unit stood by their van, in their green overalls.

‘You better be right about this, Collins,’ Brennan said.

Collins ignored him. Was there a possibility that Helen’s murderer could have killed Evan, too, and taken his body, as another trophy? Surely not, the TU would have found something to indicate that and how would the killer remove and transport a body?

He heard Nora call out Evan’s name inside the house.

‘Evan? It’s Granny Nora, you can come out now, love.’

Nothing.

‘Evan? It’s okay, love, it’s all over. You can come out now.’

The only sound was traffic from the Blackrock Road. Collins stared at the window and willed the boy out.

There was a sound like a sob and the unmistakable crying of a child. Collins closed his eyes.

‘Thank God,’ Deirdre said, quietly.

A few minutes later Kate emerged from the marquee. Nora was behind her, carrying the boy, who was crying loudly, his face pressed against his grandmother’s neck. Lorraine was next, holding a bottle of water. She escorted Nora to a waiting car and opened the door.

Kate made for the group of gardaí and spoke to Superintendent O’Rourke.

‘Collins was right,’ she said. ‘He was hiding in the wardrobe. There were some loose floorboards and he must have been able to wriggle his way under them. When Nora called out his name in the bedroom, we heard a sound and he shot out of the wardrobe like a bullet.’ She looked at Collins.

‘Did he have her phone?’ Collins said.

‘Yes, I saw it in the wardrobe where he was hiding. I didn’t touch it.’

‘I’ll retrieve it,’ Paul Gubbins said and walked towards the house.

O’Rourke turned to Collins. ‘How did you know?’ he said and Collins shrugged.

‘Just a feeling, but I might have heard something, too, when I was going through the wardrobe,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Well, it was a good idea to get the grandmother and not to have the child see the state of his mother,’ O’Rourke said. ‘Although what he heard is another thing. We can’t do much more here, we should head back and plan our next steps.’

Collins walked over to the Technical Unit van where Blessing Nzekwe and Alison Cronin were standing.

‘Want a coffee or anything, lads?’ he said.

‘He’s looking for something, Blessing,’ Alison said.

‘I am not! Jesus, you’re after getting fierce cynical, Cronin.’

‘I’ll have a cappuccino,’ Blessing said. ‘The phone, right? You want us to do that first? It is always the phone.’

‘That would be great, Blessing, thanks. One cappuccino coming up. Alison?’

‘Vodka and tonic would be nice, Collins. No ice. Failing that, I’ll have a large latte.’

Chapter 5

Itwas 23:22 according to the clock on the wall of Meeting Room 3 of Anglesea Street Garda Station, but nobody was complaining about not going home. They all knew the importance of quick action and moving in the right direction immediately.

Deirdre looked around the room. She felt that usual thrill of excitement at the beginning of a murder inquiry, the sense of focus and energy. It was enjoyable, she had guiltily confessed to another detective while celebrating cracking a case one night in Dublin after too many glasses of wine.

O’Rourke sat at the head of the table, with Inspector Brennan to his left. Beside him, Sergeant Mick Murphy, who didn’t get on with Collins, but who had been nice to Deirdre since she moved to the Cork Division. Beside him Jack Clancy and John O’Regan; Clancy was another famous detective, his work in the Drugs Squad in Dublin in the 1990s and his battles with ‘The General’ were legendary. O’Regan seemed to be winding down to retirement, Deirdre thought, and she wondered if she could be paired with Clancy if Collins didn’t work out.

Deirdre sat opposite Brennan, with Collins next to her. Beside Collins the veteran detectives, Tom Kelleher and Jim Murphy, old cronies of Collins’ apparently.

‘Okay,’ O’Rourke said. ‘Will you sum up where we are, Collins?’

Collins straightened up in his chair.

‘Here’s what I know,’ Collins said and he cleared his throat. ‘A call was made to Anglesea Street Station shortly after twenty hundred hours this evening about Helen O’Driscoll, 39 Ardlea Estate, Blackrock Road. A neighbour, Orlaith Moloney from 43 Ardlea Estate had become concerned about Helen’s well-being. Two gardaí in Ballinlough, Michael Kingston and Seán Murray got a call from the station at 20:08 and arrived at 39 Ardlea Estate at 20:13.

‘They entered the house at 20:18 by the front door using a spare key that another neighbour Hugh Delaney had. We need to talk to him, too. Soon after entering the house by the front door, Kingston and Murray found no sign of forced entry or a struggle in the house. However, they did find the body of Helen O’Driscoll – who hasn’t been formally identified yet. Presumably sexually assaulted and murdered by asphyxiation – to be confirmed by the pathologist.

‘The area was cordoned off and the Technical Unit have been carrying out forensic examinations since. The Assistant State Pathologist, Alice O’Callaghan, arrived at the house sometime around 21:50 and made an initial examination. The body was removed to CUH for a full post mortem soon after. Evan Murphy, aged eight, the son of the deceased was found hiding in a wardrobe of the house by his grandmother Nora Murphy at around 22:45. The husband of the deceased, Gregory Murphy is in Belgium working at present. He works for a pharmaceutical company and spends a lot of time travelling.’

‘One thing I should add: there was a concert in the Marquee tonight and Ardlea is used as a short cut by people heading down towards the Marina, so there could have been a lot of people walking through the estate earlier, the killer among them. It seems he picked his moment well. That’s it so far.

‘Did I miss anything?’ he asked Deirdre.

‘No, that’s it,’ she replied. ‘The crowd going down to the concert complicates things but there might be some video cameras outside some of the houses that might show something. One other thing: no sign of a break-in or no indications of a home robbery. Her purse was intact in her handbag hanging up in the hall.’

‘Okay, good enough,’ O’Rourke said. ‘We’re doing door-to-door already and we’ll be doing more of that tomorrow, first thing. I won’t keep ye too long now, tomorrow is going to be a long day. Collins and Donnelly: I want ye to look into Helen O’Driscoll. Contacts, friends, known and unknown associates, the works. She either knew the assailant or she didn’t. I’m inclined to believe she did.

‘Clancy and O’Regan: concentrate on the husband for now. Is he really in Belgium, could he have organised this, how were things between them? The whole story, top to bottom. If ye rule him out, I’ll reassign ye.

‘Kelleher and Murphy: gather every bit of detail from the neighbours, passers-by, cameras, dash cams. Review any infor- mation from last night first, and ye can have as many people as ye need in the morning to continue the door-to-doors. The crowd going to the concert complicates things but something might turn up. And why was the neighbour so concerned in the first place? Everything.

‘Mick, can you set up all the comms systems we need, organise the press stuff and all that? The media are going to be all over this in the morning, they’re already reporting it as a murder and the victim has been named on social media, before some of the family were even told – the bastards.’

O’Rourke looked around the table. He let the silence linger for a moment, which impressed Deirdre. That bound the team together and knitted them into a unit. She vowed to remember that trick when she would be a superintendent, leading such teams.

‘We’re going to get this guy,’ O’Rourke said. ‘We owe it to that woman and her family. Make it happen, people. Let’s meet at 07:00 for a quick briefing in case anything turns up. We can review at 18:00 also unless you hear otherwise. Phones fully charged and close by at all times in case something happens during the night. Get some sleep. Ye’re going to need it.’

Chapter 6

Inthe corridor outside the meeting room Deirdre asked Collins if he fancied a pint. She was wired and wanted to talk to him about the following day, to plan it out. Collins looked at his watch.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Crane Lane is still open. The quickest way is to walk.’

Anglesea Street was quiet when they left the station. The night was balmy. They crossed the road.

‘Where should we start tomorrow?’ Deirdre said as they were passing the old school that had been converted into a courthouse.

‘You mentioned you have a sister, are ye close?’ Collins said.

‘Very. Will we start with Helen’s sister? What’s her name again, Kathleen?’

‘Yes, I think so. Kate said she’s in CUH now formally identifying the body. We could talk to her first thing.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ Deirdre said. ‘Female friends, too, but the sister will know them. That woman who called it in, Orlaith Moloney. She seemed a good friend. That other neighbour, too, the man.’

‘Hugh Delaney,’ Collins said. ‘Might be more of a friend to the husband.’

‘We shouldn’t rule anything out at this stage,’ Deirdre said. It was a cliché, but still true. ‘It could have been a break-in gone wrong. We should check previously unsolved rapes or near-misses from break-ins.

‘Sure,’ Collins said. ‘But that killing looked personal, to me.’

‘I agree. A lot of anger. But you never know, no harm in checking.’

Collins took out his phone on Parnell Bridge. ‘This is a long shot but I’m just ringing Blessing.’ He rang the number but she didn’t answer. He left a message for her to call him asap, he wanted a look at the phone and laptop.

‘If the killer knew her,’ he said, ‘there might be something on the phone. She must have given it to the child before she hid him in the wardrobe.’

Deirdre bit her lip. She should have thought of that.It isn’t a competition,she thought.Get with the programme.

‘We might ask IT to compare what’s on the phone versus the laptop,’ he said. ‘It was a Mac, so the chances are everything is backed up on her iCloud account.’

‘As long as the laptop isn’t the husband’s.’

‘I doubt that, he’s working abroad, he’ll have his with him.’

Deirdre nodded. Of course, it’s hers. Collins was looking for the big sources of information first, so he can eliminate what he doesn’t need. Impressive.

Collins’ phone rang as they were crossing the South Mall and he answered it.

‘What?’ he said. ‘You do? Already?’ He stopped on the footpath and looked at Deirdre. ‘Okay, thanks a million, Blessing, you’re a star. We’ll pick it up in ten minutes.’ He closed the call.

‘We’re in luck. TU did the phone first so we can get in, we can pick them up now. Blessing said they already downloaded all the data so we don’t have to worry about losing anything.’

Deirdre was disappointed about the pint. But the sense of excitement was powerful, too. They were going to get this fucker, she was sure of it.

Chapter 7

Collinsand Deirdre set up in a small meeting room on the first floor of the station to trawl through the phone and laptop records. Collins had been impressed with Deirdre earlier, especially her anger at seeing the body. He believed in the power of anger to motivate people. As long as it didn’t cloud her thinking, but there was no indication of that. She appeared ambitious, too, which could be good or bad.

They looked at the most recent phone calls on the phone first. Her husband had called at 18.04 and left a voice message. There were two calls from her friend Orlaith, after that, again leaving voice messages. Another unanswered call from the husband, another voice message. It looked like the last actual phone conversation was at 15:23, when Helen had phoned Orlaith.

‘Reasonable to assume the attack took place between 15:23 and 18.04,’ Deirdre said.

‘Yes,’ Collins replied. ‘And the blood was dry by 20:18. Let’s see if there’s anything on WhatsApp or social media after 15:23.’

Deirdre had just opened WhatsApp on the phone when it began to ring. A phone call, they could both see, from ‘Kathleen’.

‘Her sister,’ Collins whispered.

‘Should we answer?’

‘No. But she knows. Why is she ringing?’

‘She wants to hear her voice, maybe,’ Deirdre said. They both looked at the phone vibrating on the desk, it was still on silent. Eventually it stopped. Then there was a text indicating a voice message had been left.

Collins clicked it on and put the phone on speaker. He felt like he was hearing something intimate between two people. Something he shouldn’t be hearing. The message came through. The woman was weeping.

‘Helen. Oh, Helen. We love you. We always loved you. I’m so sorry.’ The crying turned into a high pitched keen and was ended. Deirdre put her hand over her mouth. Collins looked at the window. A bluebottle was butting itself against the glass. He went over and opened it. The bluebottle flew out and there was quietness.

‘What do you make of that?’ Collins said, sitting back down.

‘Let’s keep an open mind,’ Deirdre said. ‘I’d like to hear it again.’

They listened to the message again.

‘Could be anything,’ Collins said. ‘Maybe they had a row or Kathleen said something angry to her the last time they spoke.’

‘Still, we should ask her tomorrow,’ Deirdre said.

As if on cue, Collins’ phone rang. He didn’t recognise the num- ber but on instinct he answered it.

‘Is that Detective Collins?’ A woman’s voice which Collins re- cognised immediately.

‘Speaking,’ he said. ‘Who is this?’

‘This is Kathleen O’Driscoll, Helen O’Driscoll’s sister. I know it’s very late, detective, but I wonder if we could talk. It’s about her death. I have some information.’

‘It’s not too late at all, Kathleen, I’m actually at work now. Where are you right now? I can go there.’

‘I’m in the Kingsley Hotel, but I’d prefer not to meet here. I can go there.’

‘I can have a squad car at the door in ten minutes to bring you here. I’m at Anglesea Street Garda Station.’

‘That would be fine. I’ll be at the door of the hotel in ten minutes.’ She hung up. Collins looked at Deirdre.

‘That who I think it is?’

‘Yep,’ Collins said. ‘She says she has some information.’

KathleenO’Driscoll stepped out from the back of the squad car in the rear car park of the station. She was in her late forties, with long dark hair. She was wearing an overcoat, which seemed incongruous to Collins during a heatwave. Under that a black trouser suit, cream blouse and black low-heeled shoes. Her eyes were rimmed and red and she held a tissue in her right hand.

Collins and Deirdre approached her. They had agreed in advance that Deirdre take lead on the interview.

‘Kathleen, my name is Detective Sergeant Deirdre Donnelly and this is Detective Tim Collins. We’re so sorry for your loss.’ Deirdre shook the woman’s hand.

Collins did likewise. ‘My condolences,’ he said. ‘Please come this way.’

They led her to the lift which opened immediately.

‘Can we get you anything?’ Deirdre said as the door closed. ‘Tea or coffee? A glass of water?’ Collins pressed 3, they were bringing her to a quiet room at the front of the building. He stood aside from the two women.

‘No, thank you. A cup of hot water, if you don’t mind. I think I’m coming down with something.’

They had left two windows in the room open to try to cool it down, but it still felt stuffy to Collins when they walked in. It was called ‘the good room’ because it was where VIPs were brought by senior gardaí for discussions. It was not a formal interview room with the usual tone of adversarial confrontations and the paraphernalia to record them. It was carpeted, and on the right there was a small coffee table surrounded by three armchairs and a bookcase containing legal books and statutes. On the left was a good quality long table surrounded by six matching chairs. Collins led Kathleen O’Driscoll to the second chair from the end. He and Deirdre had left their notebooks and folders opposite her. Deirdre had placed a box of tissues on the table.

Collins was trying hard to get a read on the woman. She appeared impressively self-assured, despite the circumstances and the earlier phone call. He guessed a medical or legal background; professional and successful. The clothes, the posture, her height – she must have been close to six feet – all spoke of capability and drive. Even the fact that she had taken the initiative to be here at 1:15 in the morning spoke volumes to him.

‘Can I take your coat?’ he said to her. She thanked him and he hung it on a coat-rack near the door. With his back to her, he opened the Voice Memos App on his phone and pressed the red ‘record’ button. He picked up a landline phone on a console table and pushed three digits.

‘Hi Katya, this is Tim Collins, and I’m in the good room. Can you send up a cup of boiling water, please, and a strong coffee and …’ He looked at Deirdre and she shook her head ‘no’. ‘And water for three please? Thanks very much.’ He sat beside Deirdre and placed the phone face down on the table.