‘Are you the detectives from Dublin?’ she asked, her hands balled into little fists at her side. ‘I’m Caroline Holland. Fiona’s mother.’

The inspector had seen several photos of Fiona Holland. Although fuller in figure, she bore a remarkable resemblance to her mother – small, light blue eyes; skinny frame and pale skin; long, strawberry-blonde hair with a flicked Farrah Fawcett fringe. On a good day, Caroline could probably pass for her daughter’s sister. But after a week of worry and the shock of the discovery yesterday, the woman looked haggard. Her neck was covered in nervous red splotches, her forehead was creased in a permanent frown and her eyes carried the haunted look of the insomniac.

The detectives introduced themselves and made to follow her into the house.

‘Do you want me to get the dog?’ Ray asked, before she shut the hall door.

Caroline looked at him blankly for a moment.

‘Oh. No. Don’t worry. The heat is driving him mad. I’ll leave him out there a while.’

She led them to a comfortable, pleasantly cool sitting room. It was on the opposite side of the house to the sun and was further shaded by a Japanese maple tree outside. The room had been painted olive and its white couches were dotted with cushions in various shades of green. The designer had brought the garden inside.

Caroline had laid a wicker table with a tea service in anticipation of their arrival.

They’d just sat down when the door opened and a man entered.

Richard Holland was tanned and weather-beaten. His coarse brown hair framed dark, almost black eyes. He crossed the room and shook both the detectives’ hands firmly before joining his wife on the two-seater facing them.

‘I’m just back from the local cop shop,’ he said. ‘I’m glad to see you here. They won’t tell us anything. Is it our girl? Did he … did that monster who buried those girls up in Glendalough take her?’ His voice was throaty and he squeezed his wife’s hand as he spoke, her eyes already bubbling with tears.

‘Mr and Mrs Holland, Fiona’s was not one of the bodies discovered in Glendalough yesterday,’ Tom said, annoyed that this fact hadn’t already been communicated to them. ‘I can absolutely confirm that.’

A spring in Caroline Holland’s body seemed to uncoil and she collapsed against her husband, a sound somewhere between a sob and a groan freeing itself from her lips. He placed his arms around her and buried his face in her hair.

‘It’s okay,’ he murmured. ‘It’s not our baby.’

She shuddered. The inspector was willing to give them a minute, but Caroline recovered herself fairly quickly.