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‘Your coffee is on the way.’ He tugged off his sports jacket, revealing a short-sleeved navy cotton shirt with underarm sweatmarks. His hands were as tanned as his face, and a shade darker than his arms. He nursed his tumbler, sniffed the alcohol and put it back on the table without drinking. ‘Connemara whiskey. You can taste the peat. The finest.’

‘Is it distilled here?’

‘No, it’s from your neck of the woods.’ He picked up the glass again. ‘What do you think of it all?’

‘The whiskey?’

He eyed her over the rim. She knew right well what he meant.

‘It’s hard to know what to think,’ she said. ‘Still no sign of Imelda Conroy? Or her car?’

‘Not a thing. We issued an alert on social media. But if she did the deed, then I’m sure she’s gone to ground, or maybe she’s airborne and on her way to somewhere without extradition.’

‘But why do that to another woman? I can’t understand the barbarity of it. It kind of freaks me out.’

‘You and me both, sister.’

She didn’t like thesisterbit, but let it go. ‘This documentary she was making, did you find out if it was for national radio? Who was funding it?’

‘All we’ve discovered to date is that she was operating on a freelance basis. I don’t think she had any takers for it. None that we’ve been able to locate so far.’

‘The laundry story has been covered numerous times… unless she had a new angle. Something that got this woman killed.’ Lottie waited while a waiter brought over her coffee, then leaned towards Mooney. ‘What if Imelda is a victim too and not a killer?’

‘All possibilities are on the table until we find her. The only thing we have so far is a kettle with a heap of fingerprints that could belong to anyone – we’ve had no hits as yet. Plus the cottage is a rental, so it will be a massive job to trace people.’

‘Who’s to say the killer didn’t use the kettle, but left it for you as a red herring?’

‘Something was used to pour the boiling water over her,’ Mooney said. ‘But I take your point. It was very obvious.’

‘Maybe the killer is making a statement.’ She realised she’d uttered her thoughts out loud.

‘What do you mean?’

She didn’t know what she meant. ‘Whoever did this could kill again. Your priority has to be to identify the dead woman. Otherwise you’ll be too focused on this Imelda and her documentary and it may have nothing to do with it at all.’

‘I get that, but I’m issuing a request for anyone who was interviewed by Imelda Conroy.’

That was what Lottie would have done, despite her doubts about its relevance. ‘I wonder should you take a look at what she worked on previously? You could go down a rabbit hole on the laundry and get yourself plugged down there. Like I said, it might have nothing whatsoever to do with this murder.’

‘It’s a starting point.’ He gulped his whiskey. ‘Another coffee?’

‘No, I’m fine, thanks. I should get going.’ She rustled up her handbag.

‘Are you on your own? On your mini-break, like.’

She thought that the less he knew about her, the better. But then again, he was a detective. ‘I’m in Connemara for a family wedding. There’ll be an SOS out for me.’ She smiled at him.

He returned it. ‘Take care, Lottie Parker. I’ll be in touch. Enjoy the wedding.’

She sensed he wouldn’t be in touch; that he would sideline her. Which was what he should do. But she was intrigued and curious about the horrific murder. She wanted to know who the victim was, and who had killed her. And most of all, why. Why such torture?

‘The wedding isn’t until the weekend. I’m free to help. Honestly, I’d like?—’

‘If I need input, I’ll be on the phone to you. Appreciate your help so far. Now I’m going to get another pint, and this time I’m going to take my time.’

She wanted to stay with this young but weary detective. She wanted to pick over the bones of the investigation. But it wasn’t her case.

‘See you then.’ Reluctantly she left him heading to the bar to call for his pint.