The Tom Reynolds Mysteries

by Jo Spain

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Suspense

Synopsis

The Tom Reynolds Mysteries: the first three books in the stunning crime series by the bestselling author of The Confession With Our Blessing (Book 1) It's true what they say . . . revenge is sweet. 1975 A baby, minutes old, is forcibly taken from its devastated mother. 2010 The body of an elderly woman is found in a Dublin public park in the depths of winter. Detective Inspector Tom Reynolds is on the case. He's convinced the murder is linked to historical events that took place in the notorious Magdalene Laundries. Reynolds and his team follow the trail to an isolated convent in the Irish countryside. But once inside, it becomes disturbingly clear that the killer is amongst them . . . and is determined to exact further vengeance for the sins of the past. Beneath the Surface (Book 2) Late at night, two powerful men meet in a secret location to discuss a long-nurtured plan about to come to fruition. One is desperate to know there is nothing standing in their way -- the other assures him everything is taken care of. Hours later, a high-ranking government official called Ryan Finnegan is brutally slain in the most secure building in Ireland -- Leinster House, the seat of parliament. Inspector Tom Reynolds and his team are called in to uncover the truth behind the murder. At first, all the evidence hints at a politically motivated crime, until a surprise discovery takes the investigation in a dramatically different direction. Suddenly the motive for murder has got a lot more personal . . . but who benefits the most from Ryan's death? Sleeping Beauties (Book 3) A young woman, Fiona Holland, has gone missing from a small Irish village. A search is mounted, but there are whispers. Fiona had a wild reputation. Was she abducted, or has she run away? A week later, a gruesome discovery is made in the woods at Ireland's most scenic beauty spot -- the valley of Glendalough. The bodies are all young women who disappeared in recent years. D.I. Tom Reynolds and his team are faced with the toughest case of their careers -- a serial killer, who hunts vulnerable women, and holds his victims captive before he ends their lives. Soon the race is on to find Fiona Holland before it's too late . . .

Release date: June 11, 2020

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 1010

Sample

1975

Her whole body shook as the adrenalin coursed through it. Sweat glistened on each unclothed patch of skin and relief from the pain washed over her like a wave. She knew, instinctively, that the physical ache would return between her legs and in the depths of her stomach but for now, in this instant, she was distracted by the little pink bundle and its continuous pitched wail.

‘Let me hold my baby. Please. I think it’s hungry.’

Her voice was plaintive, pleading.

The labour had been long and arduous. Fourteen hours of contractions with nothing to take the edge off and only harsh, scornful words from the woman meant to assist.

None of that mattered now. This baby had sprung from her womb, healthy and vital. She had created this miracle. It was the best thing she had ever done.

It didn’t matter how the child had been conceived. The seed was nothing; it was the growing and nurturing that mattered. This small bundle of innocence, with tiny perfect hands and dainty poking feet, red mouth open like a hungry chick’s and darting blue eyes – how could anybody blame it for anything?

‘Please, please let me hold my baby.’

The mother tried to sit up, reaching out as the nun wrapped the newborn in a pristine white towel.

The movement in the bed alerted the sister.

She turned to look at the mother, lifting the baby so that all the young woman could see from her bedridden position was the back of its head. She could still hear the keening, though. The baby wanted the warmth of its mother’s body, the sound of her heartbeat, the smell of her skin and her milk.

The nun raised a disdainful eyebrow.

‘Do you really think I’m going to let you hold this precious gift from God? Do you really think Our Lord would allow you to keep this child? You, a whore?’

She spat the words.

With a curt nod to the sister by the bedside who had come to replace her, the nun turned and swept out of the room.

Sheer panic gripped the mother.

‘Wait. My baby,’ she choked, her heart racing. She tried to get up but, weak and dizzy, fell back.

There was a moment’s silence.

Then she started to scream hysterically. The sound drowned out the wailing of the baby and the echo of sharp footsteps receding down the corridor.

It broke the heart of the nun left to tend to the woman. She ceased trying to wipe the perspiration from the mother’s brow.

‘My baby!’ the new mother implored, every ounce of colour drained from her face, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief. Then, overtaken by a primal reaction, she used every last ounce of her strength to raise her exhausted body and swing her legs to the floor. The sound that came from her throat was guttural.

She would get her baby back.

The young woman was possessed of a determination that was more powerful than anything she’d ever felt, but the nun beside her was physically stronger and hadn’t been weakened by hours of labour.

She put her arms around the mother in both a comforting and restraining way, and they struggled.

‘Don’t. Please don’t. You knew this would happen. There’s nothing we can do.’ The nun’s voice broke on the last sentence.

The woman fought against her some more before collapsing back with a small cry. She looked at the nun, aghast.

‘But it’s my baby.’ Her voice was now a haunted whisper, incredulous. She was in shock but she also knew, in her head if not her heart, that she was defeated. She had known this was going to happen.

Great shuddering sobs spilled from her throat and the nun held her tightly but gently, hot tears welling in her own eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the mother, over and over. ‘I’m sorry this is happening to you. She will answer for her sins. I promise you.’

The desolate woman heard the nun through a fog of pain.

She collapsed back on the bed, turned over and stared at the white metal bars of the empty cot beside her.

‘Was it a boy or a girl?’ she whispered.

The nun told her.

The mother responded with a heartbroken sigh.

Hours ticked by, but the woman didn’t move. Not when they washed her, nor when they wheeled the bare cot out and left her staring at the wall and the table of medical instruments.

She heard none of the compassionate words mumbled by the nun. She didn’t taste or swallow the water that was held to her lips. The smell of the clinical disinfectant being mopped over the floor didn’t reach her nose.

She lay there, feeling nothing, seeing nothing.

It was six hours before the madness came.

The return of the physical pain was nothing compared to the fury and the anguish that consumed her.

The light faded. The nun ordered to watch her fell asleep.

The woman in the bed wrapped her arms around herself. She began to rock. Then she began to whisper, over and over.

‘I hate her. I hate her.’

The words filled the void. They were a comfort, a mantra to replace what had been taken from her. Her body lay empty under the coarse blanket. Her arms clasped herself, not her baby.

All she had now was grief and loathing.

2010

I am frightened. I keep thinking I can hear sounds. Doors banging. Footsteps.

The kitchen is a Christmas wonderland, with aromas of cinnamon and nutmeg. On the counter is a tray of storybook gingerbread men lined up to cool, delicate icing dotted down their fronts. Beside the tray is a red muslin basket of spiced buns, sugar frosted. It’s early December and soon there’ll be a Christmas tree in the corner, twinkling with lights and home-made ornaments from years past.

It’s cold and the air smells of snow. I shiver and close the back door gently, shutting out the frost.

I cross the room, pausing at the kitchen door.

The wind has risen, shaking the window frame, and my hand trembles in concert with the old glass.

I steady myself. Close my eyes. Remember not to let fear get the better of me.

For years, I’ve been haunted by the feeling that someone is coming for me. I’ve a vivid imagination. Some might say I’m paranoid.

They haven’t lived my life.

I open the door.

There’s nothing in the well-lit entrance hall. Nobody up when they shouldn’t be. No bogeyman ready to pounce.

Relief.

The kitchen door is heavy and crashes shut behind me as I cross the threshold, making a God-awful noise. I nearly leap out of my skin, my hand flying to my mouth.

It’s a minute before I can breathe again. No one else seems to have heard; I’ve only scared myself.

I know it’s important to let yourself be afraid. I learned the taste of fear early. It’s a friend. Terror makes you alert.

I move across the hall, quietly, straining to hear if anyone else is active in the house.

There’s a small walnut table just to the right of the door I’m approaching, a large vase of white lilies at its centre. Their smell is intoxicating, pungent, used for centuries to mask the stench of death.

The door leads to a corridor lined with stone alcoves. In each one sits a candle, lit earlier or later in the day depending on the season. The last person up, and it’s always the same person, blows them out before the weary trip to bed.

The routine is the same. Step, step, step. Blow. A lick of the fingers and a hiss of the wick for good measure. All the way to the end. A lonely task.

I sense a movement to my left and whip my head round to see what it is, chest constricting.

It’s nothing. The shadows of tree branches twisting in the wind, caught in the stained-glass window.

An involuntary laugh escapes my lips, breaking the tension. Not every sound is for me; not every shadow is the enemy. Even as I think it, I relax, the knots in my shoulders easing.

I’m at the door now. To my right is the light switch for the corridor. Buzzing fluorescent tubes overhead provide a guiding light back to the hall once the candles are extinguished.

I flick it. In the last few months the old-fashioned fuse box has been acting up, unexpectedly plunging the corridor into darkness. It’s nerve-racking on a moonless night, but the trick is to leave a candle lit and use that to get back.

To the left of the door is an old coat rack, heaving with long winter garments. It’s so wide and deep, an adult could hide in it and not be seen, head to toe.

As I stand by it, my imagination gets the better of me again. I wonder, is someone hiding there now?

I reach in tentatively and move my hands through the coats. I’m ready to snatch my arm out, petrified that someone will grab me by the wrist and pull me in, a cry dying on my lips before it has time to erupt.

There’s nothing there.

I hear a noise. This time it’s real and it’s close. Footsteps are coming my way. I shudder as skeletal fingers crawl along my spine.

I dive into the coats, heart racing.

The door opens.

A woman steps into the hall. I can see her profile through the damp-smelling clothes.

My mouth is dry and I’m filled with dread.

It’s actually happening.

Can she see me?

Her face is hard. Fearsome. Ever sneering. She’s the one I’m afraid of.

For a second I think she has seen me. Every muscle in my body seizes with terror.

Then she turns away from me, places the last burning candle on the table. She raises her hand to the light switch to turn it off. She thinks the fuse has blown again and doesn’t want the switch to be on when it’s replaced.

Her hand freezes. The switch is off, but she knows she flicked it on before entering the corridor.

I step out of the coats, as silent as the grave. While she is standing there, puzzlement turning to unease, I raise the heavy torch I’m carrying.

Her body starts to quiver ever so slightly. She has sensed my presence but doesn’t turn around. Maybe she thinks if she can’t see me, I don’t exist.

I do exist.

I bring the weapon down with just enough force. Not too hard, not too soft. I’m like Goldilocks and the three bears. My blow is just right.

It cracks against the back of her skull. Her right arm flails, her left twitches.

Too late, I see her trailing arm hit the vase on the table. It smashes against the wall with an explosion that sounds to me like thunder and a siren all going off at once.

Shards of glass explode in all directions as she collapses to the ground.

I’ve no time to react. No time to clean. I must move now.

I pocket the torch and hook my hands under her armpits.

There’s barely a moment to savour what has just happened. All that watching and waiting. Over a year’s planning.

Revenge.

I don’t know if it’s the Christmas spices in the air but it’s true what they say.

Revenge is sweet. And I’m not done yet.

He was dreaming. He knew this, even though in his imaginings he was actually up and getting dressed, albeit in that sleepy, sluggish way of dreams. It was his day off and he was going to get the papers, breathing in the sharp winter air on the pleasant fifteen-minute walk to Castleknock village. No hurry. Maybe pick up some Danish pastries. He and Louise could light a fire in the old-fashioned grate in their bedroom and curl up under the duvet.

Louise. She was calling him now. ‘Tom. Tom. TOM!’

He opened his eyes. Actually opened them this time.

His wife was leaning over him, her long brown hair tickling his cheek, amused brown eyes peering into his barely opened green ones.

‘Calling Detective Inspector Tom Reynolds. Time to wake up, love. Do you fall asleep at night or slip into a coma?’

She wafted a mug under his nose. His slightly crooked nose, which she had decided early in their relationship was his most endearing feature, because it gave a manly unevenness to his handsome face.

He smelled coffee. Steaming and rich, strong wonderful coffee.

‘For me?’ he croaked, rubbing his eyes. He pulled himself up into a sitting position, running a hand through his thick, once black, now greying hair.

He reached for the caffeine. ‘I was having the strangest dream, you know the type when you think you’re awake, but you’re still asleep . . .’

‘Tom.’ Louise smiled and stroked his face, her fingers scratching his salt and pepper stubble. ‘You’re still half asleep. Ray is downstairs. You’re needed.’

Tom grunted, sipping the coffee and grumpily batting her away as she ruffled his bed-head hair.

‘What time is it?’

He wasn’t a morning person at the best of times, but something told him this was earlier than even he was used to.

‘It’s just after six. I’d offer to make you both breakfast but Ray says it’s urgent. There are some pastries downstairs you can take . . .’ She paused and patted his stomach. ‘Though maybe some fruit might be better.’

Tom snorted at that, took another sip of coffee and felt it kick-start his synapses. Put the mug down and stretched.

‘I’m an inspector in the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation. It’s always urgent. God, why am I so tired?’

‘Maybe because you stayed up until 1 a.m. so you could smoke a cigar after I’d gone to bed? Oh, I smelled it all right.’

She gave him a playful clip on the ear. He responded with a sheepish grin.

She hated him smoking, but he was nearly fifty and couldn’t kick the habit of a lifetime. He had a preference for intensely flavoured, if prohibitively expensive, Cuban cigars. Luckily, a few puffs were generally enough to keep him happy.

It was one of his only vices. His wife devoured crime novels populated by detectives who drank too much, suffered with depression, were addicted to painkillers – their list of afflictions endless, their lives unfailingly miserable. The fiction shelves had done a great job convincing the public that all police detectives were stereotypical flawed geniuses, battling secret demons. In reality, although the job took its toll, most of Tom’s colleagues were normal men and women with all the usual human qualities and flaws, and most officers retired intact, not as quivering wrecks.

‘I apologize. It’s too cold to sit out back. I could get the flu.’

‘I’ve no sympathy.’ She shook her head. ‘Not when you’re worried about flu but not about lung cancer. Will I send Ray up? He’s chomping at the bit down there.’

Tom nodded, braced himself for the cold air and threw his legs out from under the warm bedspread.

He had his trousers on and was buttoning up his shirt when Ray rapped on the door.

‘It’s okay, I’m decent,’ Tom called.

Ray Lennon was fifteen years younger than Tom. His height, chiselled features, dark grey eyes and buzz cut all contributed to make him an attractive man. The intense, brooding appearance, however, belied a boyish sense of humour. That light-hearted aspect of his personality in turn masked an insightful intelligence, which explained his relatively swift rise through the ranks to become Tom’s lead detective sergeant in the NBCI’s esteemed murder unit.

Tom chose a navy tie and turned round. ‘Cold got your tongue this morning?’

The teasing grin died when he saw his deputy’s face.

Ray’s features were grim, the colour faded from his cheeks. He looked shell-shocked.

‘What is it?’ Tom asked.

There had been a spate of gangland killings over the last few months, but the situation appeared to have calmed. Every guard in Dublin was praying the hiatus would last through December.

Ray swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, still choosing his words.

Tom grabbed his suit jacket from the chair beside the en suite. ‘Please don’t tell me one of the scumbags has shot an innocent bystander.’

Ray shook his head. ‘No. It’s worse.’

‘Not a child?’ Tom’s heart thumped as he said the words.

Again, a shake of the head.

‘It’s a woman, sir, an elderly woman. They found her body in the Phoenix Park.’

The inspector sat down on the edge of the chair, ostensibly to lace his shoes, but in truth because he felt he should be sitting for whatever was coming next. He couldn’t imagine what could provoke such a reaction in an experienced detective outside of a child being harmed.

‘Spit it out, Ray.’

‘She’s been crucified, Tom. An old woman has been crucified in the park.’

‘What do you mean, crucified?’

Tom wondered for a moment if he was still dreaming. His house faced one of the outer walls of the Phoenix Park, a public green space that encompassed over 1,700 acres of Dublin city land.

‘I haven’t seen her. Michael and Laura were the first of our team at the scene. They just said she’s nailed to a tree.’

Tom stared blankly at his deputy for a long moment before his senses kicked into action.

‘Let’s get down there. It’s not in public view, is it?’

‘No, it’s off road.’

The two men hurried downstairs, meeting Louise in the hallway.

‘It’s cats and dogs out there, Tom. Take your raincoat . . .’ She paused. ‘What is it?’

Tom shook his head.

A look of well-worn understanding settled on his wife’s face.

Tom took his heavy black coat from her outstretched hand.

‘I might get a Christmas tree today,’ she said, as he fastened his zip. The world he had to deal with outside might be brutish and chaotic, but she’d be damned if she’d let it infringe on their home life. ‘And you said you’d order that mini skip for me for those boxes of junk in the attic.’

‘I’ll do it later.’ His response was automatic.

‘When you die, Tom Reynolds, I’m going to have “I’ll do it later” inscribed on your tombstone.’

‘As they say, love, if you ask me to do something, I’ll do it. You don’t need to nag me about it every six months.’

She raised one eyebrow in the ‘I don’t think you’re funny’ expression he knew so well.

‘Anyway, isn’t it a bit early for a Christmas tree? I won’t be here to help you.’

‘We’re only a couple of weeks away. Maria can help.’

‘Isn’t she in college?’

Louise hesitated. It was barely noticeable, but long enough for her husband of over a quarter of a century to stop moving towards the front door.

She mentally kicked herself. Sometimes, it was necessary to delay the truth.

‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I’ll fill you in another time. Go, do your job.’

Tom paused a moment longer, then leaned over to hug and kiss her goodbye.

Maria had been causing them more than a few headaches these last few months. She wasn’t settling well in college and at nineteen years of age it had gone beyond the point of them telling her what to do. Tom was starting to wish, much and all as he loved her, that she would cut the apron strings and flat-share with a friend.

Louise closed her eyes and enjoyed the brief embrace, inhaling the smell of musk and toothpaste. He was on the brink of yet another case that would steal him from her, just when she needed him.

She sighed. Life with Tom was never boring, but it was often lonely.

Traffic in the park was light in the still dark morning. In an hour, the roads would be backed up as people awoke to the heavy rain and decided to avoid unpredictable public transport and drive to work.

They were in Ray’s car. Tom’s mechanic saw more of the inspector’s vehicle than he did these days. The old man had advised against an Alfa Romeo, but a pig-headed Tom had willingly sacrificed reliability for the car’s magnificence when it was on top form.

These past two weeks, though, relying on either Ray or his oft-time garda driver Willie Callaghan had been painful. Both men observed the speed limit with what Tom considered undue reverence.

‘You do realize fifty kilometres per hour in this park is for law-abiding citizens, not the police, don’t you?’ he griped, as they toddled down the Phoenix Park’s main avenue.

A grim smile played on Ray’s lips, but his eyes stayed focused on the road.

‘I think you’ll find, sir, the speed limit is for the benefit of the deer, who don’t really care who’s driving the car.’

The park was home to over 400 fallow deer, descended from an original herd introduced in the 1660s. Dublin residents knew to look out for them bounding across the main avenue at night, but many an unfortunate visiting driver had been known to swerve with fright into the roadside ditches upon seeing the magnificent animals canter out, eyes glinting in the headlights.

Tom and Ray had entered via the Castleknock gate and now took a right turn before the American ambassador’s residence. Further on they took a narrow road to the left, freshly marked with police cones. A lone officer stood sentinel, hunched against the driving rain.

The uniformed guard peered through the car’s windscreen from under his dripping cap as they slowed for him. Seeing who they were, he waved them through enthusiastically.

At the road’s end they pulled in beside two other squad cars parked on the grass verge.

‘Prepare to get drenched,’ Tom warned, as he pulled his hood over his head and stepped on to the sodden grass. The smell of damp greenery assaulted his nostrils, followed by the uncomfortable sensation of wet seeping up his trouser legs. All the heat he’d absorbed in the car seemed to instantly leave his body.

Michael Geoghegan was waiting for them. He was wearing a heavy black Nike rain hoody, hands shoved in the pockets.

The inspector knew Michael was only back on the job a few days. He hadn’t seen the young detective since Michael’s wife had miscarried three months previously. Anne had been almost halfway through her pregnancy and the baby’s loss was a devastating blow to the couple. Michael had been granted compassionate leave, combined with overdue holiday time, so he could be with her.

Tom placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘Michael, good to see you. How are you? How’s Anne?’

Michael shrugged and shuffled nervously. ‘We’re all right, sir; getting on with things.’

It was obvious the young detective didn’t want to dwell on the tragedy.

‘What have we got here, then?’

‘We had a hard time finding her. The man who rang it in was incoherent and, to be honest, describing a wooded area — ‘Michael cast his arm at the many trees in their vicinity ‘— well, one copse looks the same as the next around here.’

‘Did you say corpse?’ Ray looked astonished.

Tom rolled his eyes. ‘Copse, you illiterate! It’s a collection of trees. Carry on, Michael.’

‘Right. Well, a patrol car was sent out first, but we were pulling an early morning shift and heard it on dispatch, so we got here minutes after the uniforms. Pathology and the Technical Bureau are sending teams. There were gunshots fired at a house in Clondalkin last night and an incident in town so they’re stretched. I think McDonagh himself is coming. He gave me a big lecture about how busy he is, and put the phone down.’

Michael looked uncertain, as if he was wondering whether he should have confirmed that the chief superintendent in charge of the Garda Síochána Technical Bureau was indeed en route.

‘He’s on his way, Michael,’ Tom reassured him. ‘Have we secured the scene as much as we can for now?’

The Technical Bureau would assess the crime scene for forensics, but Tom’s team would set up an outer cordon to protect against public or media intrusion.

‘There’s a guard at the entrance to the road you came up and another behind this set of trees, making sure no one can get in. The hollow where we found her is pretty much inaccessible, bar where you come off the main path. There are dense bushes and briars surrounding it.’

‘We’ll go as far as the hollow,’ Tom said. ‘We’d better not go in until the Bureau gives us the okay.’

They set off into the trees, taking torches from the car. Tom could see they were following a rough path, but he knew no woman would walk this route alone, day or night.

‘Michael, the man who rang in – how exactly did he say he came across this woman? This doesn’t look like the sort of place you’d be walking your dog.’

‘He didn’t. No name either.’

‘Suspect number one, so,’ Ray offered.

It took them five minutes to reach Laura Brennan. The youngest detective on the team was resting her back against a tree. Her copper curls hung forward, her face illuminated by the smartphone in her hand. Laura’s fingers flew over the screen, issuing diktats via text. Unlike Michael, who took casual dressing at work to a new level, the female detective always wore smart, well-fitted suits. She was young, so she dressed older to make a point. Right now she was wearing a sensible black parka over her tailored clothes to keep out the rain.

She looked up at their approach and hauled herself to a standing position.

‘Morning, sir. The victim’s in there.’ She took a deep breath. ‘It’s pretty bad.’

‘Nothing has been touched?’

‘Nothing.’

Tom and Ray walked to the very edge of the dark hollow, careful to go no further for fear of contaminating the scene. Both men raised their torches. Their combined arcs of light illuminated patches of the clearing in the trees, casting a ghostly glow on the leaf-strewn soil.

At the same moment, both men trained their respective beams at the far side of the small circle.

Ray dropped his torch in shock. ‘Christ,’ he exclaimed, sinking to his knees and fumbling to retrieve it.

Tom was frozen to the spot, a slight tremor in his hand as he kept his light focused on the nightmarish sight in front of him.

The woman appeared to be standing, ready to meet them. Her head was positioned grotesquely to one side, resting on one outstretched arm. Her chest was exposed beneath torn, blood-saturated fabric. Thin strands of lank grey hair framed her wrinkled face. She was in her seventies or thereabouts. Nondescript clothing – a brown skirt and lace-collared blouse.

The elderly woman’s facial features were frozen in a moment of terror, eyes wide with horror, mouth hanging open in permanent shock. Dried blood covered the bottom half of her face.

Her arms extended at an unnatural angle from her body, hands impaled on long nails hammered into the wide tree trunk. Her feet, barely raised off the ground, were joined and similarly affixed with a single nail.

As if the nails were not enough, a rope tightly cinched her waist to the tree.

None of it, though, shocked Tom as much as the words.

On the bare flesh of her chest, letters had been crudely carved.

The inspector had to squint to make out the words, barely discernible amid the congealed blood.

Satan’s Whore

Tom instinctively took a step back. In that chilling moment, he was glad he hadn’t eaten breakfast.

Behind him, Ray was polluting the outskirts of the crime scene, vomiting as he clutched a tree for support.

‘Good morning, Tom. What have we here, then?’

Emmet McDonagh, head of the Technical Bureau, walked briskly towards them. Two others followed, momentarily obscured by his girth.

‘I thought I’d lend you my extensive expertise, as you’re on my home patch. Where’s the victim?’

Tom pointed into the hollow.

Emmet abruptly stopped and directed his torch nonchalantly into the dark space.

The accompanying technicians crashed into the back of him.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Emmet exclaimed.

‘You did stop with no warning,’ a woman’s voice snapped, before its owner came round to stand beside him.

‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ Emmet replied. ‘Look.’ He brandished his light at the hollow, creating a gruesome flickering effect on the victim.

The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Well. That’s novel,’ she declared.

Emmet shook his head and the mop of brown hair atop it, still distracted by the sight in front of him.

Tom reckoned he dyed his hair. Emmet had twelve years on the inspector and there wasn’t so much as a grey strand in sight.

‘Hell, Tom, a bit of notice would have been nice. I thought we were coming down for some gang shooting.’

‘Michael didn’t tell you?’ Tom was surprised. Then he remembered Michael telling him Emmet had been his usual brusque self on the phone.

The other man shook his head. Without taking his eyes off the victim, he waved his hand at the two people beside him. ‘Sorry, you know Ellie Byrne and Mark Dunne, don’t you?’

Tom leaned forward to shake their hands. He’d seen both technicians on occasion, and he certainly remembered Ellie. The woman was beautiful. Long raven-black hair framed a love-heart face, her bone structure the envy of any model. Even exhausted from her heavy workload, with bags under her eyes, she was still breathtaking. He suspected Ray had a crush on her, along with most of the men on the force.

Both of them shook his hand distractedly, busy staring at the woman nailed to the tree.

‘We need to secure this,’ Emmet said. He shone his torch over the ground in front of them. ‘Has anyone been in there?’

‘None of our lot,’ Tom said.

‘Who left that?’

Emmet waved his torch at the rank-smelling puddle to the left of the entrance.

‘We can account for that,’ Tom replied, deflecting the question.

‘Hm. I’ll need some halogen lamps. It’s at least another hour until proper daylight, and if it keeps raining it will stay dull.’

*

Tom spent most of the hour and a half that followed on the phone. The state pathologist was en route, along with Tom’s boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Sean McGuinness.

When Emmet eventually allowed Tom into the hollow, he crossed straight to the victim, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘What do you think, Emmet – mid to late seventies?’

His colleague walked over and joined him, nodding his head slowly.

They peered at her chest.

‘She’s been stabbed,’ Tom said, aware he was stating what was probably obvious to Emmet. ‘Repeatedly.’

He would take in everyt