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‘I was watching pole vaulting on television over the weekend. Some athletics thing. This Swedish lad broke the world record. Amazing stuff.’

‘I’m sure.’ Martina always wondered how Kirby’s mind worked, and she was no closer to reaching a conclusion with his latest statement. ‘Where to next?’

‘I’ll get Edie’s handbag to forensics and then make sure McKeown has organised the search of her home. I can let you out at Happy Hair, where Edie worked.’

‘Thanks,’ Martina grumbled, feeling he’d undermined her because she was female by having her go to the hair salon. But then she was only a uniformed guard and Kirby was the detective. She let it ride.

The Happy Hair salon was located at the top of Gaol Street, on the left-hand corner after the market square. The outside walls were painted black and the lettering was metallic silver. Inside it seemed to be a slow day. One stylist sat behind the desk. There were no other staff or customers present.

‘How can I help you? Do you have an appointment, or do you need to make one?’ The young woman tapped the screen with a pen.

Martina was in her garda uniform with a hi-vis equipment vest over it. She took off her cap and automatically touched her hair. Did she look like someone who was in for a cut and colour? ‘I’m here about Edie Butler.’

‘Oh.’ The woman, make-up pristine, false eyelashes fluttering – they had to be false, Martina thought – got off her stool and stood. She was small, about five foot, in her twenties and dressed in a black work tunic over trousers. ‘Terrible news. Do you know what happened?’

Without answering the question, Martina took out her notebook. ‘I’ve a few questions. Can I have a minute?’

‘Not sure how I can help you, but fire ahead.’

‘Your name?’

‘Margaret Woods. Everyone calls me Marge, and don’t start theSimpsonsjokes. I’ve heard them all.’ She giggled, a little hysterically. Nervous? Maybe.

‘When did you last see Edie Butler?’ Martina asked.

‘Edie? Friday. She only worked Wednesday to Friday and she was on the rota from ten until three. She had to finish off a colour and cut Friday afternoon, so I’d say it was about three thirty by the time she left. And that’s the last I saw of her.’

‘How did she seem?’

Marge appeared to hesitate.

‘What sort of form was she in?’ Martina clarified.

‘Huh, I don’t know what to say. It’s…’

‘Go on,’ Martina coaxed, ‘you can tell me.’

‘Was she murdered?’

‘We’re looking into the circumstances surrounding her death.’

Flicking her gel nails – maybe acrylic, definitely not natural – the stylist sighed. ‘Edie wasn’t the easiest person to get along with.’

‘How so?’

‘She was grumpy at times, sullen I think is the word. You’d have to remind her to smile at the clients. And she’d let herself go, too. Turning up for work with grey roots in dark hair wasn’t an ideal image for a hairstylist.’

‘I suppose not.’ Martina realised she could do with getting her own roots done, but no one had commented on her appearance. They wouldn’t dare. ‘Was Edie unhappy?’

‘Probably. She was a loner as far as I could tell. I felt a bit sad for her.’

‘I heard she had a boyfriend. Did she talk about him?’

Eyes widening, accentuated by a lorryload of kohl, Margaret said, ‘That’s the first I knew about it. Wait a minute. Some guy turned up here on Friday looking to speak to her. When he walked in, it was like she saw a ghost or something.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She got all flustered. Nearly dropped the scissors. Said she was taking five minutes. In the middle of a haircut? I said no way. She had to finish the cut first. She told the guy to wait outside.’