Page 18 of Hidden Daughters (Detective Lottie Parker #15)

The cottage was quiet enough in the early afternoon sunshine, despite the echo of his knocking on the door reverberating through the small living room inside.

The garda put his booted foot over the threshold, having pushed in the door with his hand because it was already open. He paused at the scene before him.

A wooden kitchen chair lay on its side, the armchair was twisted askew and the fire in the stove had long since burned to embers.

A myriad of papers littered the table, which was pushed up beneath the window, and some pages had fluttered to the floor.

This disarray along with the open door had prompted the walker who’d looked through the window to call the guards, believing the cottage had been burgled.

Now that he was inside, he wasn’t sure that was what had happened. Okay, it appeared a skirmish of some sort had taken place, but as to a burglary having occurred, well, he’d leave that to others to determine.

He edged inwards, shouting out, ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

His voice echoed in the stillness right before he heard a soft scuttle above his head. Mice in the attic, most likely, he thought as he ventured further into the tight space.

Tugging open an inner door, he peered into a narrow kitchen.

Toast was popped up in a toaster, a plate and knife beside it.

Mugs and a wine glass were on the draining board, and the narrow counter held a sliced pan, a jar of jam and a carton of milk out of the fridge.

He touched the side of the toaster. Cold.

Stepping backwards, he wondered if he was gatecrashing someone’s solitary weekend away.

No kettle. Odd. Maybe they, whoever they were, boiled the water in a saucepan on the two-ring hob.

But there was an electrical lead dangling from a socket. Weird.

Two more rooms to check, then he was out of there. Write up his report. Head home. His shift was almost done, so he opened the first door quickly.

A bedroom. Bed made. Clothing on a chair. No sign of a struggle. Good.

The last door must be the bathroom, he told himself. The cottage was cramped, leaving him, a big man, little room to turn, but he edged forward. That was when he noticed the water pooled by his feet.

Slowly and warily he pushed the door, and was immediately hit with an odour he had smelled only once before in his career. That had been a suicide victim who hadn’t been found for four days.

Without taking another breath, he leaned forward, thrusting his head and shoulders inside. He wasn’t about to contaminate a crime scene, if that was what this was. But once he had visually assessed the horrific spectacle before him, he had no doubt that that was exactly what it was.

The body was naked, blistered and burned. Lying in a bath overflowing with water that had spilled onto the floor before some of it had seeped under the door.

His eyes were drawn from the body to the kettle on the ground in the corner.

Likely the one he’d missed from the kitchen.

No way did the person in the bath do this to themselves.

He figured the kettle was too far away from them.

His gaze returned to linger on the body, his mind a jumble of questions he knew he could not answer.

He backed away from the stench-filled space and retraced his steps to the front door.

Standing on the stoop, he dry-retched before gulping a few deep breaths of clean air.

He listened to birds noisily chirping in the trees, to the swish of the wind through the leaves and the roar of waves on the ocean nearby.

When his hands stopped shaking, he unclipped his radio and called in the murder.