‘You look more relaxed. I can see the veil has lifted. Your eyes – they’re peaceful. When you can’t figure things out, they’re distant, away off thinking. You’re here, but not here. Do you know where she is, then, Fiona Holland?’

‘No. But it’s only a matter of time. She’s not being held captive, I’m afraid. Fiona’s dead, I’m certain of it. I know who killed her. I’m going out to see him this morning.’

‘You didn’t go last night?’

‘No. He thinks he’s safe. He’s not going anywhere.’

‘Well, go tell him he’s wrong, then.’

Tom nodded and kissed her, before throwing off the duvet and heading for the shower.

Ray was outside a half-hour later.

‘Coffee?’ Tom offered, putting a travel mug into the car’s cup holder.

‘Thanks. Right, let’s go turn the screws on this prick.’

The inspector had filled him in on his theory last night over dinner and Ray had quickly come to the same conclusion.

They planned their line of questioning on the drive out to Meath.

‘We have to make him think we have something absolutely concrete,’ Ray said, as they turned in the direction of Trim. ‘I can’t see him caving just because we apply a little pressure.’

‘I don’t know,’ Tom said. ‘He might play into our hands.’

But he agreed. They’d massage what they knew to get the truth out of him, if they needed to. The irony of deciding to blur the lines, when he’d been so vexed by the errors of some of his garda colleagues in the course of this investigation, wasn’t lost on Tom.

Caroline Holland opened the door. She was holding Fiona’s son, who peered at the two men curiously. His red hair was brushed and soft after a morning bath, his skin pale in the sunlight. He was so like his mother and grandmother.

Caroline’s eyes filled with hope when she saw Tom and then with sorrow when he slowly shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Holland, I’m not here with good news.’

‘Oh. Well, it can’t be long, can it? You must be able to make him talk. You caught him – I know you’ll find my daughter.’

She beckoned them in, leading them to the room they’d sat in when they first visited the house.

‘Is Richard at home?’ Tom asked, holding the door open for her.

‘Yes. I’ll call him. Ah, there’s Nikki. She helps with Cían. Nikki, will you take the baby and fetch Mr Holland?’

‘Of course.’

Nikki’s accent was French. God love her. She’d probably come to Ireland thinking she’d landed a handy au pair job with a nice family, and somehow ended up in the middle of this mess.

‘Nikki, hold on,’ Tom said. ‘Mrs Holland, is Fergus about? He should be here, too.’