Bradley laughs, a pleasant enough sound. ‘I took the statement that she gave after it was all done and dusted. Nice girl. Very pretty. He wasn’t part of the investigation. Hadn’t long since arrived. Bit of a surprise when I heard he’d got hitched to a Gypsy.’

‘Irish Traveller,’ corrects Pharaoh, automatically.

‘Aye, whatever. None of our business though. I’d only been there on secondment and was glad to get out before Roper turned me into one of them. No, I only remember because I was in charge of exhibits and I gave him back some of his new wife’s things.’

‘Go on.’

Bradley pauses. ‘Look, I know you two are close. Maybe you should just read this.’

‘Wilma, get on with it.’

‘There were some personal items,’ says Bradley. ‘A journal she’d written. A spell, if that doesn’t make you spit your cigarette out. A love spell, to make him fall in love with her. It was all lovey-dovey stuff. Sweet, y’know. Like, they’d known each other a long time. And I was a bit surprised when I put the pieces together, because when he came into CID that night, he didn’t say he knew her. And if I’m honest, I’ve always thought there were unanswered questions on the whole case. I mean, the Garda I spoke to gave me a lot of stuff about some stone-cold contract killer and a big feud about the bare-knuckle world, but Roper was very good at making little problems like that go away. There were two brothers – half-brothers, now I think on it – went missing not long after and Roper very much pointed the finger that way. He was a bad man. Wouldn’t wish it on many people, but he got what he deserved.’

Pharaoh sucks her teeth. Chews the tip of her cigarette. ‘The clairvoyant,’ she says, at last. ‘Any foreign objects …’

‘Labradorite,’ says Bradley, at once. ‘Did my research there. Said to ward off evil.’

Pharaoh glares at the tip of her cigarette. Blows on the glowing red ember. Thinks of the ruined body, lying empty and maimed in the little house beyond the trees. Shakes her head.

‘Didn’t fucking work.’

NINETEEN

Twelve years ago

‘I slipped. Fell. Sorry … forgot my … I just need …’

Roisin stumbles over her words. Gabbles, the way she’s seen the English do. Makes a show of herself. Gives just enough away to guarantee that the young woman in the T-shirt and leggings holds the door for her. Doesn’t give her chance to second-guess herself, or ask difficult questions. She ducks under the outstretched arm, her hand to her face, briars and mud in her hair. She’s soaked through. Shivering. Tired to the bone.

A voice behind her: the woman recovering herself, remembering, trying to do things properly.

‘Which room are you in, please? Which room – it’s members … members only …’

‘Thanks,’ she shouts, over her shoulder.

The voice fades as Roisin hurries into the warm, menthol-scented air of the health spa. The hotel had appeared like a mirage: a grand affair with gleaming glass frontage and a golf course beyond the tree-lined car park. Dripping, sucking down urgent breaths, she’d sidled down the back of the hotel and followed the smell of chlorine and peppermint oil. Her daddy always told her not to ask for permission. Told her to take what she wanted, and then ask the Lord for forgiveness. She’s taking now, jogging briskly past a darkened nail bar, past a reception area for beauty treatments and massages. By God’s grace she finds the door to the changing rooms unlocked, held open by a yellow plastic triangle declaring ‘cleaning in progress’.