They made their way down into the woods, negotiating their footing over awkward paths scarred by ancient tree roots, rocks and sprawling moss. It was darker down here, the tall trees obscuring the natural daylight. But as they approached the crime scene the greenery overhead thinned and they found themselves in a small glade.

A perimeter cordon had been established: tape stretched from tree to tree around the clearing and a low tent had been erected over the body.

Tom and Ray stepped into crime-scene gear before joining their colleagues.

The affectionate term for the coupling of Moya and Emmet was Little and Large. Almost at retirement age, the Tech Bureau chief, though a handsome man, was at least four stone overweight and on the tipping point of diabetes, heart disease and all other kinds of obesity-related illnesses. Moya, by contrast, was a petite woman in her forties. Her bleached blonde hair was set in a perm straight out of an eighties soap opera. That, along with her ample bust, gave her a passing resemblance to Dolly Parton, though none of her colleagues would ever make that observation to her face. Sharp, focused and authoritative, Moya suffered no fools. She was Boudica reincarnated.

‘Tom, wait a moment,’ Emmet called over. He was sweating profusely. His glasses hung on a chain around his neck, unable to keep their grip on the sweat-slicked surface of his nose. His dyed brown hair was damp from the exertion of just turning up to work on such a hot day.

The inspector was expecting Emmet to launch into a full-blown tirade railing against being summoned to work on a weekend and was preparing a response that involved the words ‘Piss’ and ‘off’. The Tech Bureau chief had a reputation for being crotchety, but it was better to meet his rudeness with good-natured chutzpah, rather than fawning capitulation.

But Emmet wasn’t himself today. He appeared uneasy, rattled, even.

Tom wondered what the hell was under the tent. It took a lot to put that look on his colleague’s face.

‘Just walk in a straight line to the middle here,’ Emmet instructed the two detectives. ‘Avoid the edges.’

Tom and Ray, seasoned in forensics protocol, obeyed the order.

The four shook hands.

‘What have we got?’ the inspector asked, directing the question to Moya. ‘Is it the Meath girl?’

The pathologist shook her head, thin lips sucked in to make them even thinner.

‘Absolutely not. The state of decomposition would indicate that this woman has been in the ground for approximately a year. It’s difficult to be exact – the ground here is damp, which speeds up the process.’