Deadly Evidence

by Marie Cassidy

Genres: Crime Fiction

Synopsis

COLD CASES. HOT LEADS. AND A KILLER STILL WATCHING . . .

State pathologist Terry O'Brien is about to take on her toughest role yet. Tasked with leading the Open Case Review Unit, her usual post-mortem work has been extended to cold-case investigation into unsolved suspicious deaths.
When a garda detective is murdered, his body mutilated and dumped on gangland ground, she is called in. As a large-scale investigation takes shape to hunt down the killers, Terry's post-mortem uncovers uncomfortable evidence.
She soon finds herself up against the powers that be. But, as new evidence emerges from her cold-case work that impacts closer to home, this may be the least of her worries. Can the identity of her sister Jenny's killer, all those years ago, be revealed? And is this a truth best left buried?
Deadly Evidence is a gripping page-turner that charts the course of a heroine of the mortuary who has come back from the brink once and remains determined to speak truth to power, whatever the cost.

Release date: October 2, 2025

Publisher: Hachette Books Ireland

Print pages: 352

Sample

‘Dr O’Brien. Wouldn’t it be fair to say that if Mr Boyle had taken the advice of the paramedics to go by ambulance to Beaumont Hospital, he would still be alive? And my client would not be sitting in this court?’ The defence counsel swept his arm towards a rather puny-looking man in his early twenties, sitting in the dock of Court 17 of the Central Criminal Court, a stricken look etched across his pale face. The eminent barrister’s gown flapped in the air before settling again around the heft of his bulky body.

Dr Terry O’Brien was not fazed by the counsel’s theatrics. She had given evidence in the High Court in Glasgow, and that was a much tougher crowd to crack.

Terry felt all eyes in the court on her. You could hear a pin drop. The defence counsel’s question was an important one and deserved careful consideration. Of course, she had anticipated it and was well prepared. In fact, she had asked herself the same question the day Robbo Boyle ended up on her mortuary table.

Before she could speak, a keening sound came from the back of the court, and she peered around the barrister to establish the source of the plaintive lament. In the back row of the spectators’ benches a woman in an ill-fitting black blazer was rocking back and forth, her face contorted with grief. Terry recognised her as Robbo’s mother. A flustered female garda, most likely the family liaison officer, had her arm around the devastated woman’s shoulders, gently trying to calm her.

Defence counsel turned his head and tutted. Terry looked towards the judge, expecting him to offer a sympathetic word, but he was scowling and gesticulating towards the gardaí standing at the back of the courtroom. He wanted this distraction removed. Even the prosecution team looked embarrassed at the display of raw emotion, shuffling papers and keeping their eyes down. She shook her head – where was the empathy? This poor woman had lost her son. Sure, wasn’t that why they were all here? Terry sighed. She knew that the function of a court was to mete out justice, but did it have to be so cold and clinical?

While Robbo’s mother was guided out by the FLO, Terry noticed a younger woman seated on the bench behind the defence team. She sat motionless, but the distress on her face was visible to see. The partner of the accused, Terry guessed.

Same old, same old, she thought. Two families devastated by a single punch. Her dad always said, ‘When the drink’s in, the wit’s out’. A scuffle outside a pub had ended with the bouncer being knocked to the ground and a drunken eejit on a stag night accused of manslaughter.

The door to the court thudded closed and the room fell silent once again. The barrister repeated the question. Terry sat up straight and kept her eyes focused on the jury. ‘I am neither clairvoyant nor God. There is no way to predict the outcome of a head injury, even if Mr Boyle had gone to hospital. But what I can say is that if he had, his chances of survival would have greatly increased.’

‘No further questions, Judge.’ The defence barrister swished his gown back and sat down, the bench quivering under his weight.

Pretentious twat, Terry thought.

The prosecution counsel looked up, but remained seated. Always a good sign. ‘I have no further questions for Dr O’Brien, Judge.’

Terry nodded – court speak for ‘thank you’.

The judge inclined his head towards her, dismissing her. ‘Thank you, Doctor. You are free to go.’

She avoided looking at the accused as she walked past him. The next witness had been called and Terry smiled at the toxicologist heading for the witness box, the seat still warm. ‘Good luck,’ she whispered as he walked by.

God knows what the jury would make of what they were about to hear. Robbo Boyle had been a muscle-bound hulk, born of a gym obsession and large doses of steroids. She knew the defence would seize on that information suggest that Robbo’s ‘roid rage’ had led to an aggressive attack on his client, who’d had no option but to retaliate in self-defence. She could imagine the defence counsel casting a sympathetic glance towards the feeble figure of the accused, dwarfed by the officers sitting either side of him. The clear implication being: what possible threat could he pose? The unspoken reference to David versus Goliath would not be lost on the jurors. He would stop short of saying that the bouncer was instrumental in his own death. Justice! she thought as the court door slammed shut behind her.

As Terry walked out onto the concourse she rummaged in her bag and pulled out her phone. She saw that there were three missed calls from the Office of the State Pathologist, where, today, Friday, 3 January, she would be starting in her new part-time role.

Terry had been employed as a state pathologist the previous year on a temporary contract while Dr Paul Hannah was on compassionate leave. Much to her surprise she had loved it, feeling instantly at home in Dublin. In Glasgow, she’d always been an outsider, never fitting in with the team there. But here she had formed strong relationships with everyone she worked with. Well, almost everyone. She had thought that Professor Charlie Boyd, chief state pathologist, would be delighted to get rid of her when Paul returned to work, so she had been surprised when he contacted her with the job offer. It seemed that the Prof wanted to take a step back – more time for golf, she guessed.

The person who really wielded the power behind Charlie’s throne, however, was Mrs Carey, the office manager of the OSP. She was not to be ignored. The fact that Mrs Carey had called repeatedly meant she had her knickers in a twist over something. Terry had hoped today would be easy and drama-free. She smiled to herself. Who was she kidding? All the same, it was good to be back.

Placing her file on the marble bench outside the courtroom, she dropped her bag next to it and stood facing the wall to discourage anyone from approaching her. She had forgotten how stressful giving evidence in court was. In Glasgow, she would have headed straight to Babbity Bowser’s, a ten-minute walk from the High Court, for a stiff drink. But that was then.

She stretched and arched her back. Her shoulder ached from holding herself upright in the witness box. It had taken intensive physiotherapy to get full movement back in her upper body after the brutal attack she’d been subjected to just a few months before. She had honestly thought she might never get back to wielding her scalpel in the mortuary. While the physical injuries had healed, the mental scars were taking that bit longer.

Terry took a deep breath, trying to remember her breathing exercises. She needed a few minutes to ground herself. She was determined to show her team that Rupert Hunt, the serial killer responsible for the attack, had failed not just to kill her, but also to kill her spirit. She had trusted Hunt, a forensic archaeologist, to help in an investigation into the murder of popular true crime podcaster Rachel Reece. But instead, he had manipulated Terry in a game of cat and mouse with the sole intention of luring her to her death. It hadn’t worked out as he had planned though. She had managed to fend him off, resulting in the fight for her life, one that had almost killed her and that had left Hunt with a severed spinal cord. Both had survived the ordeal, but both were changed by it. Hunt was awaiting trial for the brutal murders Terry had uncovered, but it wouldn’t be over until he was jailed for life.

When she was discharged from hospital, she had retreated to her dad and stepmum’s house in Glasgow to lick her wounds and reconsider her future. Charlie Boyd’s job offer had come not a moment too soon. When she realised that the highlight of her days had become watching Countdown – her dad was always better at the words but she thrashed him with the numbers – she knew she was ready to go back to work.

She had swithered about returning to Dublin, concerned that everyone would treat her with kid gloves, but a terse phone call from Mrs Carey made it clear that a near-death experience was no excuse for tardiness and she was expected to finalise outstanding post-mortem reports in a timely manner. That had sealed the deal.

Now, feeling ready for whatever this day would bring, Terry sat down on the marble bench, ready to return Mrs C’s calls. Looking about, she realised that the concourse was strangely empty. Two hours earlier it had been buzzing: counsel taking instructions from solicitors, solicitors chatting with clients, huddles of anxious family members, expert witnesses consulting notes, as well as members of An Garda Síochána milling around. Maybe it was just the pre-lunchtime lull.

Then she heard some sort of commotion drifting up below. Above the ground floor of the Criminal Courts of Justice were three tiers of courts, like three doughnuts perched atop the grand circular atrium. She leaned over the parapet to try to see what was going on. It looked chaotic from what little she could glimpse. Gardaí were shouting into their radios and running towards the stairs. She could see people hurrying towards the exit. Mrs Carey would have to wait. She slipped her phone back into her bag and, slinging it over her shoulder, started towards the glass elevators, hoping to sneak out of the building and not get caught up in whatever madness was unfolding.

When she got out of the lift on the ground floor, she kept her head down and quickly made for the security area and the exit turnstiles. Just as she hit the metal spar with her hip her arm was roughly grabbed from behind. She immediately froze and held her breath.

‘Terry. Wait. You’re needed.’

Recognising the voice of Detective Sergeant Mary Healy, Terry relaxed.

But when she turned around she saw the panic on Mary’s face. ‘Have you not heard? A guard’s been shot. He’s dead!’

Terry’s heart skipped a beat, but she quickly regained her composure.

‘It’s not anyone you know,’ Mary reassured her.

Relief washed over Terry. She had gotten close to the Dublin gardaí she had worked with, one in particular.

‘But it is one of Fraser’s team,’ Mary explained. ‘You know he’s now heading a team in the Garda National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, investigating gang-related crime?’

‘Mmm,’ murmured Terry non-committally. She didn’t want to appear too interested in the activities of Detective Inspector John Fraser.

Mary didn’t seem to notice. ‘He thinks this might be some form of retaliation from a gang he’s got his eyes on. It could be the Hayeses, the new old family on the block. Donal Hayes was a big player back in the day and it looks like he could have resurfaced. Fraser’s on his way to the scene and asked me to get hold of you – Mrs Carey told him you were on call. I’m under strict orders to take you straight to the crime scene.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘Not a lot, just to get you there ASAP.’

Terry looked away, annoyed at herself for asking. Mary would think that she cared about Fraser.

Mary punched her arm. ‘Oh! Don’t tell me you two aren’t talking? Or anything else for that matter!’ She gave her a sideways glance, eyebrows raised, then registered the scowl on Terry’s face and put her hands up. ‘Okay, none of my business!’

Then, seeming to suddenly remember the urgency of the matter, Mary pushed through the turnstile and strode out through the massive glass doors.

Terry hurried after her, her stiletto heels clicking across the marble floor. The white garda van was abandoned haphazardly on the pavement between the entrance to the Phoenix Park and the courts building. Terry had barely had time to fasten her seatbelt before, they sped off up Arbour Hill, lights flashing. She grabbed the handhold above the door. ‘For Christ’s sake, slow down.’ She saw the look of shock on some old boy’s face as the van careered over to the wrong side of the road, narrowly missing his car.

‘Calm down, Doc. I know what I’m doing. More than can be said for these wankers.’ Mary pressed her left hand firmly on the horn and swung right into the oncoming traffic and onto Montpelier Hill. ‘Just up here. New builds in Delaney Gardens.’

Mary pulled in sharply behind a line of garda vehicles. ‘Guess we’re late to the party, Doc. Mind those good shoes – it’s still pretty much a building site around here and we don’t want you falling on your arse.’

Terry ignored her as she struggled to get out of the van without flashing her knickers. When she’d dressed this morning, she was thinking of the impression she wanted to make for her comeback: serious, professional, an air of sophistication – all of which the suit and heels were meant to convey. She had thought she looked pretty good, but she had to admit she would be better in trackies and runners in her current surroundings.

She took stock of the terrain, hoping to be able to navigate her way through the building debris without twisting her ankle. Up ahead was a block of ugly-looking flats, and a large group of garda personnel, some in white suits, were gathered about the bin area. Terry tried to pick out DI John Fraser. As she and Mary passed the Technical Bureau’s van, the door slid open and Detective Garda Vincent Green stepped out. He was in full protective gear and had his camera slung around his neck. Vinnie was a garda photographer and seemed to turn up at all the crime scenes Terry had worked, which suited her just fine as he was the best of the bunch.

‘Good timing, Mary. Welcome back, Doc. Get in there.’ He nodded towards the van’s interior. ‘I managed to save a large suit for you. There was no chance I was letting those fat buggers rob it.’

Terry smiled at Vinnie’s thoughtfulness. It was a bone of contention that the powers that be decided it was more cost- effective to order extra-large or extra-extra-large Tyvek suits. Anything smaller was coveted by the female members of the team.

‘Grab some gloves too,’ he instructed.

Terry ducked inside the van and emerged moments later in the protective white suit, hood up, mask on and with a fist full of gloves.

‘Bet you didn’t think you’d get something as exciting as this on your first day back?’ He gave her arm a quick squeeze. ‘It’s good to see you. We missed you. Come on, the body’s round the back of the building.’

Mary stayed put, letting Terry know she would wait for her to give her a lift afterwards.

‘Do you have a name for him?’ Terry asked, as she and Vinnie made their way across the concrete wasteland, strewn with broken glass and rubbish.

‘Detective Garda Martin Higgins.’

‘Doesn’t ring a bell with me.’

‘He is – he was – on Fraser’s team. He was in Pearse Street and Galway before that. I don’t think Fraser was too happy getting landed with him. By all accounts he was a bit of a lad. And he was friendly with Bob Paterson.’

‘I remember Bob from the Reece case. Between you and me, I wouldn’t be a fan. He seemed a bit … boorish.’

‘A real gentleman in comparison with Martin Higgins, apparently.’ Vinnie shrugged. ‘But I guess the big brass thought Higgins spoke the same language as our gangland friends and was a good fit for Fraser’s team.’

‘Hmm … Anyway, who found him?’

‘Anonymous call earlier this morning, as far as I know.’ They fell silent as they approached the tape marking the crime scene.

Four white-clad figures were standing beside three colossal wheelie bins on the periphery of the tarmacked area behind the block. ‘Doc’s here!’ Vinnie shouted over and one turned around. Terry recognised Detective Inspector Alan Ahern, a ballistics expert from the Technical Bureau.

‘Alan’s crime scene manager,’ Vinnie said, and waved as Alan started making his way over to them.

‘Hi, Doc.’ Alan smiled at Terry. ‘Good to see you. Nasty one this. Not great when it’s one of our own. We haven’t touched anything yet. He’s on his side and I can see a bullet hole in his forehead.’

‘Not great, all right.’ She grimaced. As they walked towards the bins, she turned to Vinnie. ‘Have you finished photographing the body?’

He nodded.

Terry perched on one of the metal plates that had been placed on the ground in front of the body. She looked it up and down. She checked the ground around it, then stood up and surveyed the area, as far as she could see. The body wouldn’t be directly visible unless someone walked right over to the bin area. Higgins could have been lying there a while before someone noticed. Crouching down, she bent over the head.

‘I can only see one gunshot wound to his face. I’ll need to get him cleaned up to be sure there isn’t anything else.’ She looked over her shoulder to where Ahern was standing. ‘What do you think about the blood staining?’

‘Not as much blood as I would have expected to see. But if he was already lying there when he was shot in the face, the blood, brains and whatever could have exited the back of the head and all that mess might be underneath. The bullet might even be in the ground.’

‘Maybe, but I’m not sure.’ She called over to Vinnie. ‘Have you taken close-ups of the face?’

Vinnie stepped onto the plate behind her and scrolled through the images he had taken. Once he’d found what he was looking for, he held the screen in front of her.

‘Look at this, Alan.’ Terry pointed at the image. ‘Look at the blood over the top half of the face. Vinnie, can you enlarge that?’ She watched as he zoomed in. ‘Compare the blood over the forehead with the blood around his mouth and chin.’ Ahern took the camera from Vinnie and studied the screen. Terry continued, ‘Do you see that the blood over the bottom half of his face is thick and smudged but the blood over the top half, around the gunshot injury, is a light smear and there is textured pattern to it?’

Ahern nodded. ‘So what does that mean?’ He handed the camera back to Vinnie.

‘After he was shot, something was put over the wound to soak up the blood. A towel or something.’

‘But why?’ Ahern didn’t look convinced.

‘To prevent blood contaminating someone or something? Maybe he was shot in another location and then his body moved here. He might have been shot a second time in the mouth when the body was dumped here, hence the blood around it. Just to throw us off the scent. But why? And why here?’

She looked around and was surprised to see John Fraser standing behind them. He came closer to their huddled group, keeping his eyes on the body. ‘Maybe because we’ve been keeping an eye on this building,’ Fraser said. ‘We had intel that the Hayeses were running a brothel from the top flat.’ He glanced back at the desolate block. ‘But they’ve all scarpered.’

The RTÉ van was just pulling up as Terry came out onto the road looking for Mary, intending to tell her she was almost ready to leave. She spotted the garda vehicle first, then the young guard who waved her over. When Terry reached her, Mary said, ‘Keep that up.’ She pointed at the hood of the white coverall Terry was wearing. She was right – it was the perfect disguise. The pathologist would be just one of several anonymous personnel hanging around the Technical Bureau vans.

By the time she had walked to the kerb, Mary was already in the driver’s seat. Terry hesitated. This was wrong: the normal protocol was to remove all potentially contaminated protective clothing and leave it at the scene. She stood with her hand on the door handle, reluctant to risk an encounter with the media.

Then door slammed into her, as Mary shoved it open, making the decision for her. ‘Get the fuck in!’ Mary shouted, leaning across the passenger seat. ‘Now!’

Terry looked back over her shoulder and saw a soundman and a cameraman hurrying towards them. She jumped in and the van sped away.

As they hit the quays, Mary slowed and Terry relaxed her grip on the handhold. At the lights, Mary glanced at the time and sighed. ‘Is it all right if I take you straight to the mortuary? I need to get back to court. I’ve got a domestic abuse case that’s been dragging on, but we finally got it over the line. Judge Henderson has made it known he wants it done and dusted today. He’s happy to sit a little later this evening, but he’ll have a face on him if it tips over to Monday. It’ll ruin his court list for next week. Court 18 is brutal. They don’t call him Hanging Henderson for nothing.’

‘I thought it was assaults and road traffics in there. Not quite hanging offences.’

‘And the domestics. I’d say he takes no prisoners, but he does. If they’re found guilty, they get the maximum sentence, especially the men.’

Terry leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes, remembering again how she’d hoped for an easy first day back. She could feel a familiar throbbing at her temples, a clear sign that a headache was imminent. She hoped Mary would take the hint and leave her be. It worked. Nothing further was said until they reached the entrance to the mortuary and the van cleared the security gate.

The Dublin mortuary was situated in the medico-legal complex off Griffith Avenue. Toxicology and Forensic Science were close neighbours. The mortuary occupied the ground floor of the building housing the Office of the State Pathologist. These modern edifices concealed the murky secrets of death and crime in Ireland.

Terry jumped out of the van, shouting her thanks to Mary. She rang the bell on the wall beside the gate opening into the mortuary’s vehicular entrance. In truth, the only vehicles entering carried the dead or belonged to the state agencies investigating the deaths, and the mortuary staff would have been watching out for her. Mrs C would have told them a guard had been shot, and, Friday afternoon or not, it would be all hands to the helm.

Within seconds, the gates slowly slid open and she followed the footpath around to the back of the OSP building to the mortuary entrance where the hearses and ambulances pulled up, steeling herself for whatever reception she got. She hadn’t seen any of the upstairs or downstairs staff since she’d left hospital and gone back to Glasgow following the ‘incident with Hunt’, as her dad liked to call it.

Terry needn’t have worried. When she rounded the corner, the mortuary door burst open and Tomas came flying out. He was one of the mortuary staff, an anatomical pathology technician. He took the steps two at a time and embraced her in a bear hug. She was taken aback by his exuberant welcome and teetered on the top step. ‘Steady on, Tomas. Folk will talk!’

He jumped back, embarrassed, then realised she was grinning at him.

‘Will you stop that nonsense and get back in here! You’re letting the heat out.’

She recognised the gruff voice and looked over Tomas’s shoulder. Jimmy, the mortuary manager, was standing in the doorway. Jimmy was old school – he was probably younger than he looked, with a grumpy demeanour and dishevelled appearance.

‘Hi, Jimmy. Good to see you.’ She followed them both inside.

Tomas scurried along the corridor, like an excited springer spaniel. ‘We’ve got your room ready, Doc. Mrs Carey even got a gold nameplate for the door.’

The ‘Pathologist’s Office’ was now ‘Dr O’Brien’s Office’. Tomas pulled the sleeve of his white lab coat over his hand and gave the sign a little polish before he opened the door with a flourish and stood aside to let her enter. Terry laughed and stepped past him. She knew they were waiting for her reaction and she didn’t want to disappoint. ‘Wow!’ She turned around slowly, taking in the improvements and nodding her head in approval. The old scuffed furniture, rickety hatstand and stacks of chairs had been replaced by a sleek desk, matching bookcase and a humongous black leather chair. She smiled at the two expectant faces. ‘It’s really fancy. Thanks, boys. You done good.’

Tomas beamed back. Jimmy, true to form, shook his head, brushing off her praise. ‘Oh, it wasn’t our doing. The prof ordered the desk. Cherrywood or something. Though I thought a bit of Pledge would have brought up the old one a treat.’ He turned and left. A flurry of animal hair and the distinct odour of wet dog lingered in his wake as he retreated to the tea room.

Terry watched him go. ‘He’s in good form. There must be a race meeting on tonight.’ Jimmy’s real passion was his greyhounds. He wasn’t a people person.

Sitting in her new chair, she smoothed her hands across the gleaming wood of the desk. ‘And who is responsible for this beautiful floral display?’ She pointed to the centre of the desk, where there sat a small plastic plant that she recognised from the waiting room for families coming in to identify their loved ones.

‘That was Jimmy,’ said Tomas. ‘He did run it under the tap to take off the dust.’

Terry stifled a giggle. ‘It’s a lovely touch, but maybe not practical on the desk. I’ll find a better spot for it.’

Then, a thud made Terry and Tomas look towards the door. Jimmy shuffled in, balancing a china teacup on a saucer. ‘Leave the doctor in peace, Tomas.’ The cup rattled on the saucer as he placed the tea on the desk, spilling some in the process. ‘Mrs Carey sent a tea set down from upstairs,’ he said by way of explanation for the dainty offering.

Trust Mrs C, Terry thought. She should nip upstairs and say hello to her, but she needed to make sure they were ready for the post-mortem first. At that moment her mobile rang. Michael’s name flashed on the screen. She ushered the two men out.

‘Hi, Mikey boy,’ said Terry cheerfully, delighted to hear another friendly voice.

Michael had been her best friend since their first day at medical school at Glasgow University. But he had dropped out, deciding a doctor’s life wasn’t for him, and eventually became a forensic scientist. That had piqued her interest and she had pursued a parallel career in forensic pathology, training in Boston which is where she had met Paul Hannah. Later, she’d introduced Paul to Michael, and they both ended up in Dublin. When Paul took compassionate leave and returned to Boston for family reasons, Michael and Paul split up. For a time, it had looked unlikely that he would return to Ireland, but he had, and they were now back together. But their relationship was complicated and exhausting.

‘Don’t Mikey me. What the hell are you up to, Terry?’ Well, maybe not so friendly.

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing. That blonde woman on the news just announced that the assistant state pathologist had attended the scene of a garda murder. And then I see you flash up on the screen having the chats with Vinnie and Alan.’

‘That’s neither here nor there. Anyway, I’m not an assistant, I’m a part-timer.’

‘When were you thinking of telling me you were back in town?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve got to find out my best friend is back from the dead on RTÉ’s breaking news? Class!’

‘Well, I would have thought it was obvious,’ Terry replied. ‘You knew I was due back, I just didn’t mention a specific date. And who did you think was covering your boyfriend this weekend while he’s off in Cardiff? Didn’t he mention it? Charlie’s in Madeira. That leaves me. I didn’t think I’d get called out on day one. I was planning to give you a ring to meet up this weekend to celebrate my return. I just wanted to come back quietly and not make a fuss.’

‘Are you in a mood with me because Paul’s back on the scene and I didn’t come to Glasgow to visit you over Christmas?’ he huffed. ‘We’ve been busy.’ Typical Michael. Always on the defensive.

‘Michael,’ sighed Terry, pushing the plastic plant over to the edge of her desk, ‘you’re being an arse. I’m delighted Paul has returned from Boston. And so is Charlie. Working in the OSP part-time suits me just fine. For God’s sake, how long do you think it would be before Charlie and I came to blows without Paul as a buffer? This way, I parachute in and out, which minimises the risk of me getting on Charlie’s nerves, and Niamh gets her eye candy back in her web – I mean, lab. You do know she thinks she can turn Paul?’ she teased.

Niamh was the histology technician in the OSP. She processed the pieces of tissue the pathologists took during post-mortems to confirm their findings or to exclude other pathologies or diseases that might be relevant to the cause of death. Niamh was a bit quirky but she was a damn good technician. Her only fault was her eternal quest for a husband. No man was safe, even Paul, who was in a relationship and gay. She wasn’t interested in Michael though, who she thought was ‘cute but a short-arse’, and there was no way she was giving up her heels.

Unappeased, Michael snapped back. ‘There’s been no call for a forensic scientist to go to the scene. I would have thought they would want to bring in all the big guns for this one?’

‘Ah, well, Alan Ahern is crime scene manager. I’m sure he’ll be in touch if he needs you. Will it be a bit awkward, what with you dumping him when Paul came back?’

‘There won’t be an issue. Alan and I are okay. We’re professionals. We can work together.’

‘If you say so. I think he’ll be glad of your input in this case,’ she said, softening her tone, hoping Michael would lose his sarky attitude. ‘Look, what about a drink Sunday night when Paul gets back and takes over the on-call? I’ll text you.’

Michael agreed and Terry said a quick goodbye when she heard activity in the corrido