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‘It’s b-brutal,’ she stammered. ‘I can’t believe someone did this to another human being.’

She noticed an electric kettle on the floor, without its cord. Too far away from the body in the bath. The woman did not scald herself. Someone did this to her. How? Why? Who? Too many questions crowded her brain. It was difficult to determine the woman’s age, such was the damage to her face and body.

‘Can I move a bit closer?’

‘I’d prefer to wait for SOCOs and the pathologist.’

‘Sure. You’re right. I need some air.’

She backed out. He followed. They stood on the outside step and took deep breaths.

‘I reckon she’s not been there too long,’ Lottie said, pulling off the mask and gloves and wiping her nose with her hand, as if that could get rid of the smell now lodged there. ‘But decomposition is setting in, so it’s hard to tell.’

‘Definitely less than twenty-four hours,’ Mooney said.

‘When was she last seen?’

‘We don’t know – we don’t know who she is or if she was here alone. My guys are contacting the owner of the cottages to get a name. This time of year people come and go. Short-term lets, weekend breaks, Airbnb and the like.’

‘The other cottages…’ She pointed to the two similar dwellings.

‘Unoccupied.’

‘It’s so remote.’ Stating the obvious. Maybe she should just leave. But the dichotomy of the tranquillity outside against the horror within the walls numbed her. She was intrigued. ‘Did you search the rest of the rooms?’

He turned and gave her a look that asked if she thought he was an idiot. ‘Of course I did.’

‘Sorry, just checking.’

‘It’s okay. There are some clothes in a rucksack. There’s also a laptop lead in the bedroom, but no sign of a laptop anywhere in the cottage. No phone either. Might be a burglary gone wrong.’

‘The way she was… tortured seems a bit extreme for a burglary.’

‘I know that. But even if she was targeted, nothing could warrant such barbarism.’

The clipboard garda came over to them. ‘Got a call from the owner. The woman who rented the cottage is Imelda Conroy. A documentary-maker. You can google her. She does freelance stuff for national radio and television. Lives in Dublin.’

‘What was she doing here, then?’ Mooney asked. The guard shrugged. Mooney continued. ‘Find out more for me, Delaney.’

‘Will do.’ Delaney scuttled off.

‘Did you find any equipment other than the laptop cable?’ Lottie asked.

‘Not yet, but there were some pages disturbed, all blank and might be from a new ream. And a chair overturned. Whoever did this took her stuff.’

‘You need to find out what she was working on. It may have been something the killer wanted, or didn’t want exposed.’

Mooney straightened his shoulders and narrowed his eyes at her. ‘It’s probably totally unrelated to her work. Thanks, Inspector. I can take it from here.’

She heard the annoyance in his tone. Feck. She’d insulted his intelligence.

‘I’d really like to help.’

‘Give your number to Delaney over there, and if I need your input, I’ll call you. Good day.’

He marched back inside the house.

Damn. With her curiosity piqued, she itched to be involved. She debated following the surly detective. No point. Instead, she breathed in the fresh air, smelled the countryside, listened to the waves in the distance and wondered why someone had brutally murdered Imelda Conroy. Then another thought struck her. Imelda may have rented the cottage, but it might not be her lying dead in the bath.