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‘Any more details that I should be aware of?’

‘I can ask Detective Kirby to talk to you. You might also need to compare the MO of the Ragmullin murder with those in Connemara.’

Mooney slurped his coffee, wiped his bearded chin and leaned back in the chair. ‘Okay, but I’m up to my lugs, so I can’t spare anyone to look for this Galway chef.’

‘Just ask around. Someone might remember him.’

‘I know there’s been an alert issued for him, and I’d have heard if anyone remembered him.’

‘But you and your team have been up to ninety with the murders here. It might have slipped under the radar. Robert Hayes might have too.’

‘Okay, okay. I’ll talk to your detective. What’s he called again?

‘Larry Kirby. Thanks. About Bryan…’

‘Don’t go there.’

‘I figure you must be keeping him a bit longer. I hope he’s secured a good solicitor.’

‘He got a fucking bulldog.’

Lottie laughed. She knew exactly what Mooney meant. She was glad for Bryan and fully expected him to be released without charge before long.

After Norah Ward left him to go fight his corner with the custody sergeant, Bryan leaned his head against the cold wall of his cell. He wondered how he’d get out of this mess. He had to hope his solicitor would help. Why hadn’t he remembered the crucial bit of information the first time? Of course he’d been in the holiday cottage. A few years ago. That’s why he’d forgotten. Helping a friend to paint a room and move in a few sticks of furniture. Was his helpful nature about to be his undoing?

He thought of Grace and felt an immediate gush of sorrow for her. He didn’t know how she would cope with all this. She was a good soul, a kind and gentle person. This – whatever it turned out to be – would have a detrimental effect on their relationship. He had to convince her that he was an innocent bystander. Then there was his past. He was not an innocent in all that. Lottie was right. He should have looked for his sister, and for Mary Elizabeth, all those years ago. A bit late in the day to try to right a wrong now. Look where it had got him.

He noted his stark surroundings while trying to avoid the thought of Imelda Conroy burning in his brain. This was not a good place to be for a man used to wide-open fields and the angry ocean crashing on the rocks. His sheep. God, they’d need to be fed. Would Grace remember? And then his poor dog, Tess, would be pining for him. He’d have to tell his solicitor to remind Grace about the sheep.

Thoughts of the solicitor brought him back to Mooney and the cavalier way he’d thrown the page with the DNA results onthe table. He really had to think about Imelda Conroy. She was related to him. DNA didn’t lie, did it? His mind was in turmoil. Could she actually be his daughter? The child of the girl he’d asked Lottie Parker to trace?

He recalled when Imelda had arrived on his doorstep. Afterwards he was glad that Grace had been at a fitting for her wedding dress that day. Or perhaps if she’d been there, he might not be in this mess. Would she have been more probing with Imelda’s questions than he had been? Or would she have sent the woman off with her tail between her legs and that would have been the end of it? He thought he knew Grace well, but apparently not well enough, because he had no idea what she’d have done.

Imelda had not given him any hint that they could be related. None of her questions were along that line. She’d talked mainly about Knockraw. He’d had no suspicions that she might have had an ulterior motive for speaking with him. With his loyal dog at his feet, he’d sat on the back wall with the young woman and answered her questions. That’s what he’d tell Mooney when asked.

Enough of this ‘no comment’ shite.

He’d talk, but whether he’d be believed or not was debatable.

Whether he told the truth or not, that was also debatable.

48

When Mooney left the hotel to return to work, Lottie ordered another coffee. She scrolled through the bullet-point information Kirby had sent her about Robert Hayes. It included his old Galway address, which had yielded no result when the local guards had investigated it at Kirby’s request.

No harm in having a second look. She finished her coffee, then used the bathroom. She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror and was pleased to note that she looked a little healthier than usual. The Connemara sunshine was good for her. Or perhaps it was the sea breeze. Whatever it was, she knew she looked good, and that elevated her mood. It returned to sombre when she answered a call from Boyd.

‘Grace is so upset,’ he said. ‘I know I told you that you can’t fix everything, but is there any way you can get Bryan released?’

‘I spoke with Mooney. I reckon they have something on him or they wouldn’t still be holding him. Mooney wouldn’t budge. But Bryan’s got a good solicitor, so he should be out soon.’

She finished the call and made her way to Bryan’s Range Rover. It had dried mud splattered on the doors, bonnet and tyres. The filthiest car she’d seen in a long time. She punchedHayes’s old address into Google Maps and made her way there. Slowly. Glaring sunshine blinding her. And traffic, damn traffic.

Robert Hayes had once lived out on the Moycullen Road according to Kirby’s notes. Up a leafy hill and at the end of a row of old two-storey detached houses, she came to one that bordered a small stone church. She parked and checked it was the correct address. Yep.

Beside the solid wooden door was an old wrought-iron bell with a piece of rope attached. She pulled the rope and waited.

A stooped, grey-haired woman who only came to Lottie’s shoulder appeared, squinting against the blinding sunshine.