Three Little Birds E-Book

Sam Blake

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 506

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

THE TOP FIVE IRISH TIMES BESTSELLER 'Sam Blake at her masterful best' Andrea Mara 'Griptastic!' Liz Nugent Two decades of secrets. One shocking discovery... When a skull is found in Lough Coyne, facial reconstruction expert Dr Carla Steele is drawn into a fourteen-year-old case - but not all cases are cold, as Carla discovers when she and DS Jack Maguire find the brutally murdered body of a local woman close to the water's edge. Together with Carla's partner, criminal psychologist Grace Franciosi, Carla and Jack uncover a tragic story with very dangerous and current implications. Since the disappearance of her best friend, Carla has dedicated her career to bringing the dead home, but this time it's the living who are counting on her. In a race to save another woman, will they be able to stop the killer in time? 'Immersive and chilling' Jane Casey 'Gripping and fascinating' Catherine Kirwan

Leseprobe

Also by Sam Blake

Little Bones

In Deep Water

No Turning Back

Keep Your Eyes on Me

The Dark Room

High Pressure

Remember My Name

The Mystery of Four

For young adults:

Something Terrible Happened Last Night

First published in Great Britain in 2024 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

This paperback edition published in 2024 by Corvus

Copyright © Sam Blake, 2024

The moral right of Sam Blake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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

E-book ISBN: 978 1 80546 013 8

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.atlantic-books.co.uk

For Simon Trewin, my amazing agent, who made all of this possible

Chapter 1

CARLA STEELE ROLLED her chair closer to her desk, her concentration fixed on the screen in front of her – on the damaged eye socket of a human skull. The early morning June sunshine filled her office from the window behind her, dust motes dancing like fractured spirits in its beam. She adjusted the monitor to reduce the glare.

She knew this image like she knew the tattoo on the inside of her wrist: three birds in flight, their wings outspread, the line below it – WITH BRAVE WINGS SHE FLIES – written in script across her pale skin. Across her heart.

Since the week she’d arrived to set up the Forensic Anthropology and Computer Enhancement department, affectionately known as FACE, in Ireland’s Garda Headquarters, her days had begun and ended with this image filling her screen – with this case; with the sharply circumscribed semicircular entry wound on the left side of the occipital bone. She moved the image of the 3-D render around with the haptic Phantom lever, VR software allowing her to feel the structure of the skull as if it was in front of her. There was an exit wound at the rear, the bone demonstrating characteristic bevelling created by the direction of a bullet’s motion.

Whenever she opened this file, the questions crowded into her head. With only the skull as evidence, she couldn’t conclude absolutely that a bullet had been the actual cause of death, or hypothesise that it had been inflicted by someone other than the victim. But given that the skull had been found wrapped in a pale blue crocheted blanket, in a wardrobe, in an abandoned house, it seemed likely that someone had wanted to conceal this death. Someone who knew where the rest of the body was hidden, and exactly what had happened.

From the size of the aperture, the data suggested a medium-calibre bullet, most likely a .32. To Carla’s experienced eye, the point of entry suggested an execution.

Carla scowled and flicked to the next screen: the finished render of the girl’s face. This had been the first cold case she’d tackled when she’d been invited to set up FACE two years earlier. But despite an extensive media campaign, and her reputation as the woman who had rebuilt a skull mislabelled in the basement of a small museum and given a face to Ireland’s famous Pirate Queen, she was no closer to finding out who the victim was.

It nagged at her like the onset of a migraine.

When she’d rebuilt this girl’s face, she’d scanned it as she had so many others, using the three-dimensional software to create a model that allowed her to change the girl’s skin tone and hairstyle. This was the skull of a teenager of partially Asian descent – one who had had enough anxiety in her life to grind her teeth.

But who? And why? And when?

This girl belonged to someone; she’d had a life, had lived and loved and had died – whether by her own hand or someone else’s – violently. Despite the various impressions of her face that had been put out to the media, no one had come forward to suggest a name, or even a history.

Carla twirled her ring, a birthday gift from her cousin Rachel. They’d only met up for the first time this spring, two halves of the family totally unknown to each other until a DNA search had thrown up some unexpected results. They’d connected immediately, had had so much to talk about that Carla was planning a trip to London to visit Rachel and her partner Hunter and stay on their houseboat, as soon as she could get a week off. The ring was the perfect gift – a heavy silver skull, its diamanté eyes flashing in the summer light; Rachel had one just like it. Carla rolled it around her finger, the movement soothing. Deep inside her, she could feel the tragedy of this girl’s death as if it was a physical thing. Heavy, like her ring.

Every time she opened the image, anger and sadness and stress and failure blended together, turning her stomach. Because it wasn’t just this girl who caused her pain.

She was someone who found answers – it was her job, for goodness’ sake – and yet this was another case she couldn’t solve.

Carla closed her eyes, an image of Lizzie, her best friend, appearing in her head; the last time she’d seen her, frozen in time like a movie still. Lizzie, turning to wave as she headed off across Dublin’s iconic O’Connell Bridge into the night, her red cashmere scarf wrapped almost to her eyes, a pair of brown felt reindeer antlers holding back her crazy auburn hair, flashing with tiny red lights like a warning of what was to come.

It would be her birthday soon.

A knock rang out on her office door and Carla jolted in her chair. She checked the time on her screen. It wasn’t even nine.

‘Come in.’

The door opened and a man’s head appeared around it, followed by the unmistakable form of a Garda detective in plain clothes, whose serious look and creased forehead reminded her of one of the doctors she followed on YouTube. But this guy’s eyes were a piercing blue, his dark hair sticking up, as if he fought a daily battle with keeping it flat.

‘I was looking for a Dr Carla Steele.’

Carla raised her eyebrows and looked him up and down. His navy sports jacket looked crisp, but the creases in his pale blue open-necked shirt and sand-coloured chinos suggested he’d been driving for a while. His jacket flapped open as he came through the door, revealing the holster on his belt.

‘You found her.’

‘Oh.’ His eyes opened in surprise. He quickly corrected the expression, blushing hard, and opened his mouth – trying, Carla imagined, to find something to say to hide his mistake.

She was never sure whether it was her nose ring, or the streak of white that contrasted so starkly with her long, almost black, hair, that was unexpected. Or the fact that she wore a T-shirt and jeans with Doc Martens to work. It didn’t matter; since she’d arrived at Garda Headquarters, she’d been getting all sorts of looks – few of them complimentary. Sometimes she was sure it was just because she was a woman under thirty who had Doctor in front of her name. Despite their best efforts, the national Irish police force, An Garda Síochána – the guardians of the peace – was only twenty-five per cent female, although Forensic Services Ireland, where she was based, was closer to fifty per cent. Still not enough, in her opinion.

Suddenly feeling sorry for her visitor, Carla cut in, rescuing him from trying to form a sentence that was clearly taking its time coming.

‘How can I help?’

He came fully into her office, a large brown cardboard evidence box under his arm, and pushed the door closed behind him.

‘DS Jack Maguire, from Coyne’s Cross, Mayo. We wondered if you could help us with this. They catalogued it in reception, said to bring it straight up.’

He proffered the box and Carla could see a printed label had been stuck to one side. Date and case number, the start of the digital trail that would map every item of forensic evidence connected to the contents of the box. It had been stuck firmly shut with brown packing tape.

‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’ Rolling her chair away, she pulled open her desk drawer and looked for her Swiss Army knife. ‘Try this. And sit down. We don’t want any accidental slash injuries. It’s Friday, and it’s the bank holiday weekend. The hospitals will be busy enough with the carnage on the roads.’

Jack Maguire hesitated for a moment at the irony in her tone, but rather than coming back with a smart reply, as she’d expect from some, he sat down and opened the knife, his forehead creased.

He was a serious one. She liked that.

‘What’s the background?’

Concentrating on the box, Jack answered as he sliced through the tape.

‘A couple of divers found it in the middle of Lough Coyne on Monday. It was really deep. They were looking for a marine video camera that got dropped off a dive boat, some problem with the insurance.’

‘Have you got the rest of the body?’

‘Not yet. A team’s been looking all week, but the lough’s tidal. The rest of it could be anywhere at this stage.’ He closed the blade of the knife. ‘The pathologist took dental casts. He’s taken other samples but we’re no closer to identification. He thought you might be a better bet.’

Carla slid her chair closer to the desk. ‘Extracting and amplifying DNA from bone is tricky on a good day, even assuming you have something to match it to – the environmental conditions can alter its integrity dramatically.’

Jack stood up again and flipped open the lid. Inside was a large brown paper evidence bag marked with the same file numbers as the outer covering. Lifting it carefully onto the desk, he unrolled the neck of the bag and gingerly lifted out its contents. Carla gave him a mental tick; the gentle way he was handling it showed respect for the victim. She’d seen so many who treated skeletal remains like the leftovers from last week’s dinner.

Leaning forwards to look properly, Carla tucked a loose strand of white hair behind her ear.

‘Did they find anything with it at all?’

‘Like clothing, you mean?’

Looking across the skull at him, she nodded.

‘Nothing. It was too deep for them to stay down long enough at the time, but they’ve been over the same area doing a proper search all week.’ He hesitated. ‘The thing is, we’ve had a spate of suicides. We were wondering if it was one of them.’

‘Your suicides are predominantly male?’

It was Jack’s turn to nod. ‘They call it Suicide Point, the cliff path. God knows …’ He trailed off as Carla reached for the skull.

Picking it up, she turned it gently, inspecting the yellowed cranium, fracture lines radiating across the right side. The mandible was intact, although some of the teeth were missing. She turned it again, looking at the orbital ridges, the same feeling building inside her that she’d had looking at the skull on the screen.

She could hear Lizzie’s laughter around her, dancing like the high notes on a violin, infectious, melodious, as if she was standing in the corner of the room. She was always here, but at times like this her presence seemed stronger. Sometimes Carla felt that if she spun around fast enough, she’d see her. She’d tried so many times. Had, she’d thought, occasionally caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye. But never long enough to speak to her, to ask her where she was, what had happened that night. The night that had changed the course of all their lives.

Carla cleared her throat.

‘Come up to the lab, we need to have a proper look.’

Chapter 2

DANIELLE BRENNAN FOUND herself wiping the counter again as she looked across the almost empty cafe and out of the windows filling the wall facing the lough. The search team was a good way out, and she had to strain her eyes to see the rescue RIB, its orange sides bright against the merging inky blues of the water. She had binoculars behind the coffee machine, but there was a bunch of photographers gathered outside and she didn’t want to look as if she was taking too much interest in the activity on the water.

She shivered. It was roasting in here, with this crazy early summer heatwave, the sunshine beating in, but she knew it was cold out on the lough and at their deepest, the tidal waters were arctic.

Ruairi would tell her exactly what had gone on when they were on their own at home, just as he’d told her in excruciating detail how Kyle had spotted the skull and brought it up to the waiting boat. They’d been almost out of air, the team waiting on the surface anxiously peering down, trying to see if they’d located the lost equipment. She wasn’t sure who had been more shocked – Ruairi and his dive team from the Adventure Centre, or herself as she’d heard the tale unfurl.

Danielle glanced over to the corner table, to the mother hunched over her coffee, the father twisted so he could see what was happening outside, his bald spot catching the light from the windows, the white hair around it still mussed as if he’d rushed out of the B & B they were staying in without smoothing it down. They’d been here every day since the story had broken.

Their lad had gone missing last autumn.

Danielle had found his car abandoned in the car park beside the coffee shop when she’d come to open up. It had been October, a chill wind whipping across the open water of the lough, the trees at the water’s edge shedding their leaves like tears. He’d left a note, his mobile phone laid beside it on the worn seat of the battered red Toyota. Her heart had almost stopped as she’d realised. She’d fumbled with her mobile, walking around looking for a signal, calling Ruairi first, then summoning the Gardaí. The search and rescue crew had scrambled as Seamus, the local sergeant, had arrived, their two rescue RIBs combing the shore for signs.

But it had been too late.

They’d found his hi-tops a fortnight later, lying neatly beside the path at the highest point of the cliff.

Suicide Point.

Had he been walking away from her along the path, on his way up there as she’d arrived? When she’d realised, she’d been physically sick, hadn’t been able to get the idea out of her head that she could have stopped him. Saved his parents the pain.

What if it had been her Ben? He was only thirteen, but didn’t these problems start then, with boys in their early teens? He was quiet, an only child who spent too much time online. Was that how it started? Danielle couldn’t bear the thought.

The guards had checked his dental records and assured the parents that the skull wasn’t their son’s, but they’d still come down from Dublin as soon as they’d heard. They intended to wait until the search was called off, still hopeful that there had been a mistake, or that more remains would be found.

Realising she was still wiping the counter, Danielle turned, rolling the cloth up, dropping it in the stainless steel sink, rubbing her damp hands unconsciously down the purple denim apron covering her faded cut-off jeans. The early morning sun was bouncing off the polished pine tables. She was only wearing a cotton vest top, but she could feel the sweat starting to slide down her back. She needed to open more windows before the place turned into an oven. All this glass was great for the views, for tourists visiting Lough Coyne, but it was a constant battle to keep the cafe a comfortable temperature.

Would they keep looking after this weekend? Would they find the rest of the body? She winced inside at the thought.

Pushing her bubbly strawberry blond curls behind her ear, Danielle turned her back on the outside world and leaned on the sink behind the counter, feeling the relief of the cool steel on her hands. She wasn’t sure if it was the rising heat or the ongoing drama outside, but she could feel a pain beginning to form behind her eyes. She glanced over her shoulder again, trying to see if the boat was coming in.

This was day five, and they’d been out there for hours. It was well past nine now, and Ruairi had been at the water’s edge every morning at first light with the Garda team, organising his staff at the Adventure Centre and the volunteers. Head of Lough Coyne’s volunteer search and rescue crew, he loved all of this: the attention, the action; the journalists and the cameramen. Her stomach flipped at the thought. If there wasn’t more news soon, stories would be dragged up; there’d be questions and more questions.

Picking up a couple of mugs from the stack still hot from the dishwasher, she put them under the spout of the coffee machine and hit the cappuccino button. The parents had been waiting in their car when she’d come to open up this morning, parked in almost the exact spot their son’s red Toyota had been. Danielle had let them in as she got ready for the day. They’d looked pale and drawn, as if they hadn’t slept. Looked like she felt.

The froth-filled mugs in her hand, Danielle heard the cafe door opening, the bell above it tinkling. Several of the journalists at the window turned to look as an attractive blonde came through, her long hair loose, skin-tight jeans topped off with a wide gold belt the same metallic shade as her roman sandals. Her cousin Melissa. Danielle headed over to the table the boy’s parents were sitting at, slipping the mugs in front of them.

‘Can I get you another croissant? You need to keep up your strength.’

The mother shook her head. Danielle patted her on the shoulder.

‘I’m sure it won’t be much longer.’

The older woman smiled weakly.

On her way to the counter, she could see Melissa hovering beside the till, taking off her sunglasses and sticking them on her head as she surreptitiously glanced at the couple in the corner. As Danielle reached her, she lowered her voice.

‘How are you doing? Jules told me.’ Without waiting for the answer, Melissa continued. ‘You’d have thought the parents would have gone. I mean, why wait when they know it’s not him?’ She stopped speaking for a nanosecond, then continued. ‘I wouldn’t, I mean, not with all this press. Have you got any scones? The cottages are all booked for the bank holiday and the bakery’s aren’t ready yet. I’ve got people arriving today and I need to do the welcome baskets.’

‘I’m grand, thanks. Body turning up in the lough was the perfect start to my week.’ Danielle kept her own voice low, fighting to hide her irritation. The one thing you could rely on with Melissa was her focus being entirely on herself and her own problems. ‘I’ve got scones – do you want fruit or plain?’

‘Fruit. So what’s the news? Does Ruairi think they’ll find anything?’

Before Danielle could answer, Melissa’s phone began to ring loudly. She raised her eyes and pulled it out of the designer shopper slung over her shoulder.

As Danielle reached into the display for the scones, dropping them into a brown paper bag, she could half hear Melissa’s hurried conversation with her sister Julia. For once, she was keeping her voice down.

Across the cafe, two young mothers were looking at Melissa, their babies asleep in pushchairs beside them. Danielle knew them from the village; they were little older than she’d been when she’d had Ben, but had none of her naivety. They were here often enough – she’d seen the way they’d looked at Ruairi when he came in to pick up his lunch, how they flicked their long hair when they thought he was looking. She wasn’t sure if he was the main draw, or if they came here because they could gossip with less chance of being overheard by the rest of Coyne’s Cross – her customers were mainly tourists, school parties using the Adventure Centre. She was just far enough out of town not to be a regular haunt for the locals, which suited her fine. There had been enough talk the summer she got pregnant to last her a lifetime.

Danielle heard Melissa finish her call and, without drawing breath, she continued.

‘Sean said they’re wasting their time, they’ll never find the rest of the body, the currents …’

The cake tongs in her hand, Danielle looked at her sharply.

‘Sean’s suddenly an expert on currents now, is he?’

Melissa’s husband had an opinion on everything – one that was always right, too. He’d made his money selling insurance, buying out the firm he’d worked for before he was thirty. Risk had always been his thing.

Danielle put the tongs down and slid the brown bag across the counter to Melissa.

‘The guards said they’re giving it till tonight, and then they’re going to have to stop, at least until after the bank holiday. I don’t know what happens then.’

Chapter 3

THE CORRIDORS OF Forensic Science Ireland were beginning to get busy as Carla led Jack Maguire to the lab. Techs in white coats, manila files in their hands, passed one another, their heads down, their brows furrowed. The exhibits were checked in downstairs: queues of Gardaí from all over the country brought in bags of forensic evidence, which were carefully catalogued and then sent for analysis. There was never a lull; crime was a growth industry.

Carla pushed open the door of the FACE lab, a series of interconnected rooms and offices, all painted regulation cream, computer terminals blinking along the counter on the far wall. In the middle of the room, two broad benches ran parallel to each other, at right angles to the door. Stainless steel sinks were sunk into them at intervals.

‘Morning, guys. How’s the head, Raph?’ Carla grinned to a tall black man in a white lab coat, his top pocket packed with biros, who was examining a thick file. He turned, looked up at her over his glasses and winced. His close-cropped hair was beginning to grey at the temples, his face creased into laughter lines. Beside him, a woman in her twenties, her face pitted by acne, had one of the pages they had obviously been discussing in her hand. Her wavy straw-coloured hair was pulled up in a practical ponytail. Acknowledging Carla with a grin, she put her finger to her lips.

‘Don’t mention the war.’

Carla turned to Jack.

‘It was Raphael’s daughter’s birthday party last night. She’s an engineer with a star-filled future. This is Tina – soon to be Dr Antonia Marsh.’

The box under her arm, Carla ushered Jack into the lab.

‘This is DS Jack Maguire from Coyne’s Cross.’

Raph put his hand out, his mid-Atlantic accent strong.

‘Raphael Montgomery. Nice to meet you. I read about your find in the paper.’

Jack shook Raph’s hand.

‘He’s hoping we can help.’ Carla glanced at the paperwork on the counter top. ‘How are you getting on with the others?’

Tina put down the page she’d been looking at. ‘The 3-D renders are all done, they’re ready to get out to the media. I’ve notified the detectives in charge.’

Carla smiled appreciatively. ‘Let’s hope they land some sort of response. Your timing is good, DS Maguire, we can get started straight away.’

‘How long will it take?’ Jack came to stand beside her as she put the box down on the bench. Its white melamine top was spotless, reflecting the harsh overhead lights. ‘To build the face, I mean?’

Carla pulled up the top flap of the box. ‘Usually it takes a day to make the cast, and then about two days for us to build the face. Overall, about a week to do a single reconstruction in clay. We gather as much data as we can from the scene, from the rest of the body, to create several different renders. That’s the artistic bit. The work we do isn’t an identification, it’s a tool in the identification process, predicting the facial features from all the evidence we have.’

‘And if you don’t have anything else, any other information, like this, how do you do it then?’

Carla lifted out the skull as Tina bent down and, opening a cupboard below the bench, pulled out a piece of steel pipe welded to a flat plate.

‘What on earth’s that?’ Puzzled, Jack looked thoughtfully at what resembled an entry-level plumbing project, or a grotesque instrument of torture.

‘A stand.’

Tina screwed another curved plate onto the top of it – one which had grippers on either side. She pushed it towards Carla, who took a moment to settle the skull onto the top plate, resting the jaw on the slanted shelf that connected it to the upright. She glanced at Jack.

‘The stand ensures the model we build is at the right angle. It’ll need adjusting before we start, but this will work for now.’

Carla crossed her arms and took a long look at the skull. The fracture lines were clear. Whatever had happened to this victim had involved a perimortem blow to the head – there was no sign that the fractures had had time to heal.

She turned to Jack. ‘We can tell a lot about the victim from the bones themselves, if they can be found. You said you suspected this was a suicide?’

Jack shrugged, his blue eyes serious. ‘Nothing’s certain until we have an ID. The most recent disappearance was last October, but we’ve ruled him out from his dental records. Before him, there was one the previous February – a lad in his twenties, but he’d never been to the dentist, unfortunately.’

As he was speaking, Carla began shaking her head. Wrinkling her nose, she sighed.

‘It’s not him.’

‘How can you tell?’

Before she could answer, Raph leaned over to take a closer look, his voice practical as he replied.

‘First off, if your guy went in in February, this definitely isn’t him. The bottom of a lough is very cold, whatever the ambient temperature. It slows decomposition. If your guy’s in there, he’ll probably still be intact. This is likely to have been in the water for a number of years.’

Carla pursed her lips, looking hard at the skull. There was that feeling again: the black hole in her gut. Sometimes it felt as if she was poised at the mouth of a tunnel – at least, that’s how it manifested in her dreams. A tunnel where there was no light, and water dripped from the ceiling. She always felt as if it was pulling her in, but she never got more than a few steps before she woke up, sweating, a cry dying on her lips. That was the worst of it. She was sure the tunnel held the answers she needed, but it was terrifying, or something in it was terrifying. Sensing a movement in the corner of the lab, Carla glanced over her shoulder quickly, but of course there was nothing there. Again. And nobody else seemed to have noticed.

She cleared her throat. ‘I think the guys will agree with me – this is a teenager. And as Raph says, they didn’t go into the water recently. We’ll have a clearer idea of age when we do some tests. But I don’t think it’s a him, I’m pretty sure it’s a her.’

‘Christ …’ Jack trailed off, running his hand through his dark hair, more spikes springing up as if they’d been waiting for their moment. ‘I better let them know at the station. You definite? How can you tell?’

Carla glanced sideways at him, but he seemed genuinely surprised – it wasn’t as if he didn’t believe her. Despite four years of anatomical science, a year of life drawing and sculpture, a PhD in facial reconstruction and an international reputation, Carla was regularly challenged on her findings. Not least in court.

‘Every individual is unique, but we work off aggregated data, and experience. You see here – the supraorbital ridge? Female skulls have a rounded forehead. This ridge along the brow is much more prominent in males. And the jawline is quite different. In females, as you can see here, the edge of the jaw slopes gently towards the ear.’ She pointed to show him. ‘And if you look, there are no wisdom teeth. So, my first thoughts are that this is a skull that hasn’t fully developed. And …’ She bit her lip. ‘Typically, male skulls are heavier than female, the bone is thicker, and the areas of muscle attachment are more defined.’ She picked up a biro and pointed. ‘Women tend to have round eye sockets with sharp edges to the upper borders, whereas a male has squarer orbits with blunter upper eye margins. See here.’ She pointed to the side of the skull, now at eye level on its stand. ‘This could be a young, feminine-looking male, but I’m thinking female.’

‘And you think it’s been in the water for years?’

‘Definitely. You’ll need to go through the files for disappearances much further back than February last year.’

Before Carla could continue, there was a sharp knock on the lab door. They all turned as a heavily built redhead in a smart black trouser suit put her head around it, her curly hair drawn into a neat twist.

‘I want a word with you, Steele. Nigel puked in my shoes.’

Carla winced. ‘Crap, sorry. Did he …? I’ll—’ She stopped herself, one eyebrow raised. She knew the answer before she said it. ‘The good ones?’

‘Of course, I don’t own cheap shoes.’ Her voice was clipped, her anger rolling off her in waves that Carla was sure they could all feel. Before Carla could say more, she continued, ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us? Who’s this?’

‘Oh, sorry – DS Jack Maguire from Coyne’s Cross. This is his.’ Carla pointed to the skull.

‘Grace Franciosi – Doctor … Coyne’s Cross?’ She stopped speaking for a moment as if she was thinking. ‘I’ve always wanted to go there. Glacial lough and monastic settlement? You’ve a round tower and—’

Jack cut in. ‘A Celtic cross. Yep, that’s us.’

‘Nice.’

Grace looked at Jack a moment too long, an approving smile on her face, all thoughts of Nigel and her shoes obviously forgotten.

Carla looked at the skull critically. ‘I’m going to need to see the recovery site. Connecting the remains to where they’re found helps me build a picture of who and why.’

She’d barely finished the sentence when Grace jumped in.

‘Why don’t we go down tomorrow for a long weekend? You’re not climbing mountains, and it’s a bank holiday – and the view is great.’

Carla cringed inside. Had Grace really said that? Had she no shame? Maguire was very nice to look at, but Carla was quite sure he was the type of guy who needed a gentler approach. And Grace could be an awful tease where men were concerned; it was more that she liked pretty things than was actually interested in a relationship, although she’d dated boys in college. Grace was Carla’s polar opposite in every way: she described herself as ‘big boned’ where Carla was slight; she was forthright, where Carla opted for tact. They’d first met at Trinity College, what felt like a hundred years ago, and Grace hadn’t changed one jot. She’d been pushy and focused in those days, and hadn’t let anything get in her way. Now she was an absolute perfectionist in everything, from her first-class degree to her ground-breaking PhD in forensic psychology, her designer suits to her manicures. Despite Grace’s pushiness, Carla was completely in love with her, but then she knew what was under the flawless veneer.

Jack looked as if he needed rescuing again.

Time to change the subject.

‘Suit’s good. Going somewhere nice?’

Grace pulled a face. ‘UCD. I’ve ninety detectives and another hundred and fifty tuning in on Zoom to find out how to interview sex offenders. Building a rapport is top of the list.’

‘I can see that going well.’

‘Indeed. I’ll call when I’m done and we can plan our adventure. Grab the moment while you’ve a gap.’

With the renders of the two skulls they’d just finished working on going out to their investigative teams, Carla knew they had a few days before they’d be ready to call any press conferences.

‘Sounds like a plan. I’ll sort out Nigel and the shoes, promise.’

‘I left them in the laundry room sink.’

Grace closed the door, leaving as quickly as she had appeared, the ringing sound of her heels on the tiled floor receding as she headed for the lift.

Jack turned to Carla, his eyebrows raised.

‘I’ve just worked it out. She’s the Dr Franciosi – she fronted that cold case series on TV?’

‘Yep. The one and only. Whatever they claim, she eats serial killers for breakfast.’

He winced. ‘Shoes don’t sound good.’

‘I’m going to have to take him to the vet.’ For a split second, Jack looked utterly confused. Carla almost laughed. ‘Nigel’s my cat, not my boyfriend. They hate each other. Have done since she moved in. I think he finds her a bit much.’

Jack raised his eyebrows as if he could relate, but said instead, ‘So what happens next?’ He indicated the skull.

‘Next we use something called alginate to create a mould from your skull. Then a resin reproduction, to work on. We usually make two casts. That’s where these guys come in. Can you find out if there have been any teenagers reported missing in the area?’

He nodded. ‘Will do, but they could be from anywhere. Are you serious about coming down?’

‘I find it invaluable to see where the victim was found, it helps me build a picture of who they were. I try and get to all locations if I can. Bonus, if it’s the middle of the summer and the location is as beautiful as Coyne’s Cross.’

‘Grand. So do you need me here for anything now?’

She shook her head. ‘Just a few forms. The cast will need to set – it takes a couple of days, so we’ll be ready to start reconstruction work on Tuesday. We should have a face for you by the end of next week.’

Jack nodded again. ‘I’m staying with my brother here in Dublin tonight. Babysitting his three kids. His wife has MS, and they need a night out. But I can head back to Mayo in the morning, and show you the location? I can be there for lunchtime.’

‘Are you sure? Sounds like you had family plans for the weekend?’

‘My brother’s a barrister, he’ll understand. I’m up a lot since his wife came out of remission.’

‘If you’re sure, give me your card and I’ll text you when we get there. Grace will book somewhere.’

‘She’ll have problems finding a five-star hotel in Coyne’s Cross.’

Carla almost smiled. There was a reason why he was a detective; he’d summed Grace up in one line.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll manage. I’ll see you in the morning, so?’

Chapter 4

NIGEL WAS SITTING on the doorstep, waiting for Carla when she got home, the wheels of her Fiat 500X crunching on the gravel lane leading to their slate-grey Georgian front door. Grace’s silver Mercedes sport was already tucked in beside the high laurel bush bordering the garden. Carla pulled in behind her.

The one disadvantage of this house was the parking. Nobody wanted to pay almost two million euros for a house that had a pedestrian right of way that passed the front door, and no off-street space for the sort of cars you owned if you could afford a property like this.

But it suited Carla fine.

As long as Lizzie’s property developer father Eoin couldn’t – or didn’t want to – sell it, she had it essentially rent-free. And on the tough days, when she was feeling down, she’d walk the five minutes to Sandymount Strand, the flat three-kilometre beach nature reserve that stretched out around Dublin Bay like a hug. It was the place she and Lizzie had always gone to blow away a late Saturday night, to dissect their latest relationship crises, to do star jumps and sprint starts when their jeans got a bit tight.

The house and the location made her feel close to Lizzie.

They’d moved in here halfway through their first year at Trinity, the five-bedroom house shared with friends, their housemates changing as each term progressed … until they’d reached their third year, and the Christmas Lizzie had disappeared. Carla had stayed here then, ensuring there was always someone in, just in case Lizzie came home, obsessively checking the house phone for missed calls.

And then, when she’d needed to get away, to leave Dublin, Eoin had been mysteriously unable to sell the property. It had lain empty until Carla came home, her PhD in her hand and a new direction in her life. ‘Bringing the missing home’ had been the headline in the Irish Times profile when she’d set up FACE. It had made her tear up.

There was one person Carla needed to bring home, but she had to find her first.

Nigel curled around her legs as Carla got out of the car, her arms full of files, the smell of the receding tide blending with a barbecue in one of her neighbour’s gardens. It was after six, but the heat hadn’t abated much, even with the gentle sea breeze, the sun reflecting relentlessly off the car’s metallic paprika paintwork. At least it was cooler here than in the middle of Dublin city. The air seemed to hang in dense pockets around the nineteenth-century Garda HQ located in the middle of the huge Phoenix Park. The Liffey river was that bit too far away to funnel in any fresh air.

She closed the car door with her bum.

‘Why Grace’s shoes, Nige? You’ve got the whole garden to puke in, you know. What did she do to you?’

Nigel opened his beryl-green eyes wide and yowled as if he was replying, then jumped up, putting his dusty front paws on her jeans.

‘I can’t pick you up.’ Carla proffered her pile of paperwork as the reason why, and clicked the central locking on her key fob. ‘Let’s get inside and see if she’s forgiven you, will we?’

Juggling with the files, Carla headed for the front door, stooping to get her key in the lock as Nigel jumped up again and tried to push it open himself. The rich colour of marmalade, his coat was thick and long, the ginger tones catching the evening sunshine. He had to be boiling. Carla definitely was. Despite the air conditioning in the car, she could already feel herself heating up as the sun beat down on the back of her black T-shirt.

Suddenly the door swung open and Nigel darted inside. The cool of the hall met Carla like a caress. Inside, pushing the door closed behind her, she smiled. In typical Grace style, there were two overnight bags packed and positioned neatly beside the hall table. Carla’s black nylon climbing bag, with a metal carabiner still clipped to the handle from her last trip, sat beside a distinctly more stylish, distressed leather holdall with a dangly designer logo hanging from the zip. Carla didn’t even want to know what it might have cost.

As Carla headed through to the white-painted kitchen, she spotted a knife and the ends of a lemon and an orange sitting on a wooden chopping board on the granite counter. The stalks from a generous sprig of mint were a clear indication that Grace had mixed a large jug of Pimm’s and, Carla guessed, would now be sitting out on the patio under the parasol, her earbuds in as she listened to an audiobook.

Heading to the glazed end of the kitchen, Carla dumped her files on the scrubbed pine farmhouse table and stuck her head out of the open patio doors. Grace had changed into a pair of exceedingly unflattering garden-use-only shorts and a sun top, and installed herself on a reclining chair, exactly as Carla had expected, her hair now loose and curling around her shoulders, sunglasses on the table beside her, her earbuds connected to her phone.

She looked as if she was asleep, but Carla knew she only had her eyes closed. Grace was a terrible sleeper, had the nervous energy of a ten-year-old. But this was her Zen time. She’d learned she could switch off once one part of her brain was kept busy, and audiobooks were her answer. She’d been working her way through the complete works of Agatha Christie since the start of this hot spell. Beside her, too, was a pair of tall glasses and the jug of Pimm’s, ice cubes still floating at the top. Grace had obviously only just got home ahead of her.

Right now, Pimm’s was exactly what Carla needed, but first she wanted to kick off her boots, peel off her jeans, and change into something cooler, and she knew Grace had had a busy day, she’d let her rest for a few more minutes.

Nigel, however, had other ideas. Before Carla could stop him, he’d materialised beside the lounger and launched himself to land neatly on Grace’s broad stomach, with, from her reaction, his claws extended.

‘Holy fucking God!’

Carla was quite sure all the neighbours could hear Grace’s screech as she shot upright and walloped Nigel off. He let out a loud hiss as he landed on the patio slabs and shot into the kitchen. Grace caught sight of Carla and scowled. She didn’t need to say anything.

‘He loves you, you know, it’s just his way of showing it.’ Grace’s scowl deepened as Carla stepped out onto the patio to give her a kiss. ‘He does, honestly.’ Before Grace could reply, Carla continued. ‘Did you find a hotel for the weekend?’

Grace’s expression changed, her face, still heavy with the day’s make-up, lighting up.

‘I’ve booked a cottage. Thatched. Right beside the lough. It just been renovated, it’s very expensive and it looks glorious. The fridge will be full, the wine’s being delivered in the morning. All we have to do is turn up.’ She couldn’t resist a smug smile. ‘Everything’s organised, it’s going to be gorgeous.’ She blew Carla a kiss.

Carla shook her head to herself. Grace loved having a project to work on – and being in control. She wasn’t even a recovering perfectionist. But she’d obviously forgotten that the reason they were going to Coyne’s Cross was to look at what could well turn out to be a murder scene.

Chapter 5

‘WHAT SORT OF time do you call this?’

Jack Maguire’s sister-in-law Orla raised one eyebrow, and reversed her wheelchair into the wooden-floored hall to let him in through the front door. Light flooded the space from the glazed porch behind him and from the open patio doors in the kitchen. When they’d remodelled the house to allow wheelchair access, Brian and Orla had painted everything white. It never ceased to amaze Jack that the 1950s four-bedroom semi still looked like a show house – but then Orla was an accountant and liked things to be precise. And having a cleaner definitely helped.

Grinning, Jack opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by a war cry coming from the kitchen.

‘Uncle Jack!’

Their voices set on ‘loud’, three children of varying sizes and one large collie hurtled in from the back garden, straight through the kitchen and into the hallway. Scarlett, already tall for her nine years, her brother Ollie, two years younger, and Leo – at four, the baby of the family – wrapped their arms around him, almost knocking him over. Buster leaped up to try and lick his nose. Grinning, Jack steadied himself on the door frame.

‘Sorry I’m so late. I had a swift half with one of the lads I was in Templemore with after work. So, what have you guys all been doing?’

The words garden, trampoline and water merged as they all shouted at once.

‘Kids, give him a bit of peace. He’s had a long day and you’ve got him all evening. Scarlett, take the boys back outside now before we think about dinner.’

‘Pizza from Domino’s?’ Ollie’s freckled face was hopeful, prompting his little brother to start bouncing like a pogo stick, his long blond curls flopping into his face. Using a grubby palm to push his hair out of his eyes, Leo suddenly froze, bent in the middle as if ready to spring, his eyes locked on Jack’s.

‘I want twisted dough balls.’

It was as if the pause in jumping was the calm before the storm.

‘Chicken wings!’

‘I want Chinese actually, Mum, we haven’t had that for aaaages.’

The cacophony started again.

‘Out!’ Orla gestured with her thumb and, as if propelled by the promise of takeaway, the three hurtled outside again, followed by the dog, picking up their game where they had left off, accompanied by excited barks.

‘Thanks for this, Jack, it’s a real treat for them. They get sick of Brian working, and me … Well, I’m pretty useless these days.’

‘Don’t be daft.’

Jack leaned down to give her a hug, her shoulder blade sharp against the thin cotton of her pink T-shirt. He pretended he hadn’t noticed. With her dark hair cropped in a pixie cut, she was looking paler since he’d last seen her, the circles under her eyes a delicate plum.

He looked at her reproachfully. ‘They love having you at home. Isn’t being here better than being in an office on the other side of the city and having them brought up by minders?’

Orla threw him a half-smile and, spinning her wheelchair around, headed into the kitchen.

‘Put that thing in the safe. Brian will be down in a minute. He’s looking forward to seeing you.’

Jack dipped into the modern living room, moving the books concealing their home safe from prying eyes. Swinging the door open, unbuckling his belt, he slid the holster off it and put it inside, fishing the cartridge out of his pocket and putting that in, too. He closed the door and checked it to make sure it had locked. A few minutes later he was in the kitchen again, where Orla was looking out of the open French windows, watching the children play.

Hearing him behind her, she looked over her shoulder with a grin.

‘Here, pour me a gin and tell me what you’ve been up to in the Park.’

‘At your service.’

Jack glanced outside to see what the children were doing and opened the fridge. The contents always made him smile. His own fridge in Coyne’s Cross was basically bacon, eggs, sausages, milk, bread and cheese. Not that he often ate at home. Here, Frubes were tumbled on top of Actimels; a cling-filmed plate of what looked like an omelette balanced precariously on top of a carton of coleslaw.

He’d learned early on in his career that you could tell a lot about a person from the contents of their fridge.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered what Carla Steele had in her fridge. Leftover Chinese takeaway, he’d bet; she didn’t strike him as the type of woman who fussed over a stove. But Grace? She gave off the aura of someone who was good at everything; she was probably a brilliant cook, too, had a shelf for lemon grass and quails’ eggs.

Closing the fridge door, Jack flipped open the cupboard beside his head and pulled down the tall glasses Orla loved. She had to keep them high out of reach of the kids, but that meant only he and Brian could reach them.

Now pulled in under the modern pine kitchen table, Orla put her elbows on it, waiting for him to cut a lemon into slices.

‘So, what brings you up? That skull? I saw it on the news.’

‘You and half the world. Yes, there’s a forensic facial reconstruction specialist based at headquarters. She’s going to give it a go.’

‘Carla Steele?’ Jack turned as his brother walked into the kitchen behind him. ‘I’d be very interested to hear more about her. Don’t keep all that lemon to yourself.’

Jack turned to give him a hug. Brian was only two years older than him, but already losing his hair and spreading around his middle, the navy polo shirt he was wearing less than flattering. He looked about ten years older than Jack, but then he had enough worry for both of them.

Pulling out of the hug, Jack looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

‘Aren’t you driving? Where are you two off to tonight?’

‘Well, we were going to go to a play at the Gate, but someone …’ Orla looked at Brian pointedly, ‘forgot to book the tickets.’

Brian winced. ‘We thought we’d go out for a quick Italian instead. There’s a lovely place around the corner – we can walk.’

‘Your brother really knows how to treat a girl on her night off.’

Brian opened his mouth to reply, but Jack held up a warning finger and, opening another cupboard, pulled out a bottle of Bombay Sapphire.

‘Before you perjure yourself, get the lady some ice.’

Brian picked up the glasses and filled each of them from the dispenser on the fridge door, passing them to Jack. A moment later, Orla had a glass in front of her.

Jack turned around to lean on the counter. The noise level hadn’t changed outside, although the children had moved on from the trampoline to playing with the hosepipe. Beside him, Brian took a sip, closing his eyes as the gin hit the spot.

‘Boy, I needed that. What a week.’

‘New case?’ Jack glanced across at him. Brian nodded slowly, taking another sip and savouring the drink. ‘But you can’t say anything?’

Brian shrugged. Ever since he’d qualified for the Bar and gone into criminal defence, they’d had to be careful what they discussed, even at home.

‘So tell me about Carla Steele. Is she as terrifying as people say?’

Jack looked at him, puzzled. ‘Who says she’s terrifying? She seemed very nice to me. Bit alternative – she’s got this nose ring – but she seems to be eminently capable.’

‘My colleagues think she’s a tiger. You’re safe, you’ll never have to cross-examine her. She’s one clever lady. And she looks about fifteen with that streak in her hair and the tattoo. Perhaps she’s got a picture of Dorian Gray in her attic.’ Brian pouted sadly. ‘I need to take notes.’

‘That’s really not a good look, darling.’ Orla’s teasing smile was half hidden by the glass.

Brian hastily straightened his face. ‘Sorry. So, tell me what you were doing up here, apart from supplying invaluable babysitting services.’

Jack grinned. ‘Dropping in the skull that was found in the lough on Monday. The work Carla does is fascinating. She looked at it and she could tell so much just from the bone structure.’

‘She is the top skull woman in the country – I’ve heard, in Europe. So you would sort of expect that. Interesting to hear she didn’t eat you, though. That’s good.’

Jack grinned, pursing his lips playfully. ‘Guess who else I met?’

Orla put her glass down, her eyes narrowed. ‘Who? Spit it out. Bono?’

Ignoring her, Brian looked at the ceiling as if he was trying hard to guess. ‘Do I get a prize? Free babysitting next week, too?’

Jack laughed. ‘Maybe. I’ve got to get back down to Coyne’s Cross in the morning, I’m afraid, so I’ll owe you a night.’

‘Stop messing. Who?’ Orla glared at them both.

They said it in unison.

‘Dr Grace Franciosi.’

Jack looked at his brother. ‘How did you know that?’

‘I know many things, little bro. Like the great doctor has an office in Forensic Science Ireland, as well as her very salubrious private office. And she’s shacked up with Dr Steele.’

‘What do you mean “shacked up with”?’ Jack’s eyebrows met.

Brian opened his eyes meaningfully. ‘Like they’re an item.’

‘For goodness’ sake, Bri, what sort of dinosaur are you?’ Orla looked at her husband, appalled, as Jack did a double take.

‘Really? I’m sure she was hitting on me earlier.’

Orla laughed. ‘It’s those blue eyes, Jack, I keep telling you they’ll get you into trouble.’

Chapter 6

‘HOW DID YOU even find this place?’

Carla reached into the footwell of Grace’s car for her black nylon backpack as they pulled into a narrow lane, the hedges on either side a riot of summer flowers.

Grace glanced across at Carla as she answered, ‘Google, obviously.’

Carla almost laughed. It was a stupid question. The night before, Grace had said she’d found a cottage, but had only raised her eyebrows mysteriously when Carla had probed for more details.

If she hadn’t needed to see the recovery site, Carla would have happily spent the weekend working on the pile of academic research papers she’d compiled for the lectures she was due to give to the New York Police Department, and walking on the beach, trying to catch the cool sea breeze. But seeing the victim’s last resting place was crucial to the bigger picture. There was always a reason – no matter how seemingly random – they had ended up in a particular place. It often led to their identification – and ultimately, how they had got there … and why.

And she wanted to start working on the Coyne’s Cross face as soon as the casts were ready.

Her department was usually the last stop in the investigative process, after everyone else had already drawn a blank. Once a skull was entrusted to her, she felt personally responsible for finding the answers.

So far, apart from Girl X, they’d had a remarkable success rate. Sometimes things didn’t move as quickly as she’d like, but the cases were rarely recent and often needed several elements to come together for the public’s mind to be jogged – for someone to realise they knew the victim, or had seen them in their last hours. Sometimes it was the pattern on a piece of curtain, or a missing tooth, that gave them the break, but whatever the extra element was, it was always coupled with the victim’s likeness.

The sun was already hot when they’d left home this morning, although it was early, and they’d enjoyed the opportunity to take the top down on the car. Coyne’s Cross was literally on the other side of the island of Ireland, and as they’d left the main roads behind them, heading across the countryside, it felt as if they were entering a different world.

They’d just passed a set of grand eagle-topped gates marked COYNE HOUSE when Carla spotted a smart painted sign for Lake View Cottage, pointing to the next turn on the right. Swinging through a smaller set of open wrought-iron gates, Grace had slowed, taking her precious Mercedes gently over the uneven road surface. It must have been tarmacked once, but it looked as if that could have been a lifetime ago.

Carla had googled Coyne’s Cross herself when Jack had left the previous day. It was one of Ireland’s famous monastic sites, the sort of place you went to on school trips, although she’d never been. As she’d flicked through the images on her phone, she could see why the monks had settled there: it was a stunning location.

As they passed through the small town on the way, glowing in the June sunshine, the broad straight main street had already been busy with Saturday shoppers. Coyne’s Cross had everything you’d need – a post office, pharmacy, bakery, several boutiques, a general store and the essential fast food takeaway. The brightly coloured shops were punctuated by a large pub in the middle of the main street, and beside it, a small hotel.

As they’d crawled along behind a tractor that had swung out rather unexpectedly into their path from beside the staunch granite church, Carla could see what Jack Maguire had meant about five star hotels being in short supply. The Coyne Lodge looked comfortable and cosy, but the bright yellow paintwork and dark green shutters would have offended Grace’s sense of design before they’d even walked through the door. It was the perfect spot for tourists – no doubt it was all dark wood, with a statue of the Child of Prague on the stairs – but it didn’t quite meet Grace’s expectations in relation to the perfect weekend getaway.

Carla had stayed in a lot worse on climbing or caving trips, but Grace didn’t do the sort of exercise that could get you killed, so hadn’t enjoyed the delights of rural Irish hospitality to quite the same extent. She much preferred the sleek designer luxury of hotels like Dublin’s 1796, or New York’s opulent Frederick Hotel overlooking Central Park.

‘Here we are.’

Swinging in through another set of wide stone gateposts, Grace pulled up in front of a white pebble-dashed picture-postcard cottage with bright red shutters and a deep thatch cut in an intricate design. It was surrounded by wild borders overgrown with brambles, knotted with convolvulus, and splashed with pink and sunshine-yellow flowers, and behind the building, the lough stretched as far as Carla could see. The water glistened in the sunshine, mountains rising purple and brooding in the background.

There was a dark blue BMW X2 4 × 4 parked outside the cottage, and as Grace pushed up her sunglasses and opened her car door, a blonde woman jumped out of the driver’s side and came around the back, her hand out. She was wearing a red halter-neck sundress and matching wedge-heeled espadrilles, and looked more as if she was organising a fashion shoot than letting a cottage.

‘Hi, I’m Melissa. You found us. Dublin’s closer than you think with the new road.’

Climbing out of the car, her legs stiff, Carla swung her backpack on her shoulder, pushing her dark hair away from her face with her sunglasses.

‘It is. This place is lovely. I’m amazed it wasn’t booked for the bank holiday.’