They were almost at the village when Laura spotted a farmer ushering the last of his sheep into a gated field. She slowed the car to a halt and wound down the window.

‘Pleasant day,’ she said.

‘’Tis.’ The man rested one arm on the gate and looked curiously at the car. ‘Down from Dublin, are ye?’

‘We are today. I’m from just over the way, originally. The Kingdom.’

Michael noticed with amusement that Laura’s Kerry accent got thicker the further they travelled from Dublin.

The farmer raised a sardonic eyebrow.

‘Not going too well for your footballers this year, is it?’ he teased.

‘We’re looking for the Lehanes,’ Michael said, leaning across. He didn’t want to bear witness to a Kerry and Cork slanging match about Gaelic sports.

‘The Lehanes. Is that right now? What would you be wanting them for?’

‘Mary Ellen,’ Laura said. ‘We’re gardaí.’

‘Ah.’ The man’s demeanour changed as he straightened. ‘Turn left before you enter the village. Go up the hill, give or take a mile. Through the crossroads. You’ll see their gate on the left. It needs fixing.’

They thanked him and set off again, following his directions.

‘Does everybody around here know where everybody else lives?’ Michael asked.

‘Michael, everybody around here knows everything about everybody.’

They drove for what seemed like an age along what appeared more like a long weedy entrance to someone’s house than a road. It was a bucolic scene, fields sloping in either direction, some dotted with grazing animals, others filled with golden crops swaying softly in the light breeze.

‘He said a mile,’ Michael griped. ‘We must have missed it.’

Laura didn’t even respond. A country mile was a world away from a Dublin measure.

Moments later they drove through the crossroads. The Lehane house wasn’t hard to find. A woman was standing at the part of the gate that was still attached to its hinges. She waved at the approaching car.

‘You found us alright, then,’ she said, as Laura pulled into the drive. ‘John rang from the next farm over to say you were on your way.’ Her voice was harsh, her tone unwelcoming.

The woman was in her thirties and bore a strong resemblance to her missing sister – black, curly hair and tiny eyes, a pert nose and small mouth. Local officers had visited the family the previous night to inform them that Mary Ellen’s body had been found, so Laura and Michael didn’t have to break the news. Thankfully.

‘We’re very sorry about Mary Ellen,’ Laura said, offering her hand. ‘You must be her sister, Elizabeth.’

The woman looked down at the proffered hand but didn’t take it. Her eyes were bloodshot.