‘Could it be that she’s just fled the family nest? Got sick of the pandering and fussing? Didn’t want to be stuck with the kid, a reminder of having to be thankful to the folks?’

‘I’d prefer that to the alternative. Look, she’s a young woman who has vanished with no indication that she was planning to leave. We won’t jump to conclusions, but considering we now know there’s a serial killer operating in the State targeting young women, I’m not taking any chances. Let’s step up the investigation into Fiona’s disappearance and if she turns up of her own volition, well, that’s a win. But we’ll sleep easier at night, knowing we acted.’

As they drew nearer to the small bonfire, a young man rounded it, carrying branches. He flung them into the fire, then stood watching them burn as he rubbed his hands together to rid them of the detritus.

While Fiona was the carbon copy of her mother, Fergus could have been carved from the hipbone of his father. He was as tall as Tom or Ray, his shoulders broad and his neck thick. He had the same weather-beaten colouring, a mixture of tan and red. He didn’t come to meet the approaching men, but instead walked back around the bonfire, presumably to fetch more kindling.

‘What’s he at?’ Ray said. ‘I know the heat is going out of the day a bit but why on earth would you light a fire?’

‘He’s got control of it,’ Tom answered. ‘It’s a good distance from the surrounding trees. He’ll let it burn down, then extinguish it. He’s getting rid of dead wood that could cause an actual wildfire.’

Fergus emerged into view with his arms full again. They were near enough now to call out a greeting.

‘I know who you are,’ he grunted, nodding up at the house. ‘The mother texted me. Still haven’t found her, then?’

Tom shook his head.

Fergus threw his load into the flames, then put his hands on his hips, feet planted wide apart. His jeans and T-shirt were dirty from the garden and smoke, but beneath his workman’s appearance – the stance and his obvious strength – he was quite baby-faced. Richard had said Fergus was four years older than his sister, which made him twenty-three.

‘Don’t come any closer,’ he said, nodding at the fire. ‘And don’t inhale too deeply.’

‘Why’s that, then?’ Ray asked.

‘Cherry laurel,’ Fergus answered. ‘When it’s cut, that sweet smell you get is actually poisonous. They say when you burn it, the fumes it releases are akin to cyanide.’

The frown on the young man’s face hadn’t lifted and his tone was confrontational.

‘You must be very worried about your sister?’ Tom probed, thinking if Fergus got any closer to the fire, the chip on his shoulder might ignite.

He shrugged.