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The holiday cottage was so cold when Diana woke up, her breath hung in the air. She’d wrapped every available blanket around Aaron. At least he was cosy and snoring. She made herself a mug of coffee and held it between her icy hands, warming them.

After switching on the television, she scanned the limited channels until she found the rolling twenty-four-hour news service. It was currently on sport, so she had to sit through a recap of the previous night’s Premiership loss by Manchester City to Liverpool before the feed rolled on to the headlines.

Sitting forward, she watched smoke billowing in the distance behind the midlands news correspondent. A drone flew over the site, showing the devastation. The coffee caught in her throat and she spluttered it out over her hands. Gordon Collins’s house. What the hell?

She read the subtitles, not daring to turn up the sound in case it woke Aaron. The images showed an ambulance screeching off followed by an unmarked garda car, blue lights flashing on the grille. Was he dead? The subtitles didn’t mention any fatalities, so he must be okay.

This was getting too close to home. She’d lost her daughter. Gordon his house, if not his life. His protégé, John Morgan, was dead. Aneta was dead. And another girl was missing.

She’d have to go back to Ragmullin. She knew the person behind all this would make sure she was blamed if it came to it. She had to tell the truth.

Once she’d made up her mind, a calmness descended. She’d tell all, bury her daughter, then leave for ever.

As she switched off the television, there was a knock at the door.

She stood, frozen, mug in hand. No one knew she was there. Get a grip, Diana. It had to be the house owner. She peeked out the window. A car was parked beyond the hedge, an unlit taxi sign on its roof. What was this about?

She went to answer the door.