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The nun turned and stomped back up the steps, and Gabriel was left there.

Girls were working in groups in the small, clogged space. Not one of them had halted their tasks when she’d arrived, and they didn’t stop now that the nun had left. They were like working ants with damp hair, their grey aprons and slip dresses stuck to their bodies with the heat. They were either putting sheets into machines or taking them out and feeding them through massive rollers. Gabriel had never seen anything like it in her life. She didn’t know what to do.

‘You’re the new one, are you? You’re a bit thin.’

The voice came from behind her. She was afraid to turn, but a poke in the shoulder told her that was what was expected. So she turned.

The woman – no, she was a teenager, maybe fifteen or sixteen, with skin like leather – held out a blistered hand. Was she to shake it? She did.

‘I’m called James, but that’ s not my real name. They love giving us holy names.’

‘I’m Gabriel.’

‘The archangel. Ha. You’ve no wings, so you’re stuck here like the rest of us. Just do what you’re told and you’ll be fine. Ask no questions, you’ll hear no lies.’

She had no idea what that meant.

‘Well, get on with it then.’

The teenager dragged her by the hand towards a long table. It was covered with sheets and a group of girls were ironing them. Behind them, along the far wall, were the massive washing machines. That was when she knew what fear was.

29

WEDNESDAY

After a restless sleep, Lottie left the house early, telling Boyd she might do a bit of shopping. She had no intention of travelling into the city. Instead, she headed back out to the convent.

She found Mickey Fox’s caravan on the outer edges of the convent grounds, in the midst of a copse of trees. Smoke billowed from a barrel, which, like a beacon, led her to the clearing where he had his abode. Apart from the burning embers, there was no sign of the old man. The caravan door was open. Standing on the step, she looked inside. Surprised to find it tidy but sparse, she debated going in. A shout from behind halted her.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

She quickly backtracked down the step. ‘Mr Fox.’

‘It’s yourself, is it? Snooping again, I see. There’s nothing in there to interest you, unless you can fix a bastard of a blocked toilet.’

He held a plunger in one hand and a sturdy container in the other with a toxic warning symbol emblazoned on its side. Nothing that could be used as a weapon, she thought, though thetoxic liquid was probably as good as anything. Calm down, she warned herself. She was the trespasser here, not him.

‘I apologise,’ she said. ‘I was looking for you. Thought you might be inside when I saw the fire over there.’

‘Snooping, that’s what you’re at, and that’s no word of a lie, missy.’

The ‘missy’ reminded her of her mother, and a wave of guilt flowed through her. She needed to ring her girls to see how Rose was doing. She had toyed with the idea of bringing her mother to Connemara for the week, but then ruled it out. Katie and Chloe had asked if they should bring her when they were coming to the wedding, but Lottie vetoed that, saying the event would be confusing for her. She better ring later to see how they were getting on.

‘I was after some information, Mickey. About your time working for the nuns.’

‘A cop was here last evening. Mooney. String of misery, giving the impression of carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He should try living out here in the heart of winter. That’d give him something to worry about, so it would.’

She grinned internally at his take on Mooney, but outwardly she maintained a stoical expression. ‘Did you ever hear of a time when someone got burned at the convent?’

‘They were always getting burned, little souls. Between irons and boiling water and steam, sure there was always accidents.’

‘Any time when it wasn’t an accident?’

He moved towards her. His white beard seemed darker, his froggy eyes bulged and his grip tightened on the plunger. ‘What is it you’re not saying?’ he growled.

‘I heard someone got burned, scalded on purpose. No accident.’

He seemed to draw in his eyes, or maybe his bushy eyebrows shaded them. ‘Never heard of that.’