Laura released her grip like she’d been scalded and sat back on her heels.

‘Christ!’ Ray whispered.

They pushed the remaining carpet to the far wall and stood up.

‘It’s locked,’ Laura said, pointing at the rusty contraption affixing the door to the floor.

Ray kicked hard at the lock. It broke on contact.

‘Do you think that could be considered tampering with evidence?’ Laura asked.

‘Do you really want to wait for a locksmith? Anyway, I used my foot. No fingerprints. Now, is a trapdoor in the kitchen usual? Is it an original feature?’

‘I haven’t a clue.’ She started to shake her head, but stopped suddenly. ‘Hang on. We’re in West Cork.’

Ray shrugged. That much was obvious.

‘The Rebel County,’ she explained. ‘The War of Independence? I know you lot in Dublin think you were the only ones fighting in the 1920s, but Cork and Kerry were sort of holding it together for ye. Michael Collins grew up down the road.’

‘Ah. A hidey-hole,’ he said. ‘For the guerilla fighters.’

‘Exactly. A lot of the houses around here probably had secret cellars for stashing guns or hiding on-the-runs from the British army.’

‘Or kidnapped women …’ Ray said.

Laura felt her stomach lurch. She and Ray pulled on gloves and they knelt together, legs touching. He pulled open the door, cursing at its weight. It took all his strength to lift it.

The smell that rose to meet them was fetid – dank and musty air, undisturbed for years.

‘I can’t see anything,’ Laura said, peering in. A cold tingle ran down her spine and she instinctively sat up and looked behind her to check nobody had crept in to push the two unsuspecting detectives into the open hole.

Ray withdrew his phone from his pocket and switched on its torch. She followed his lead and they shone the combined light into the space.

They saw steps, leading to an underground room. It was small, half the size of the kitchen it sat under. And it was empty, bar one item.

In the corner of the cellar was a bed frame.

CHAPTER 19

‘A picture of Steve Moore? God, I don’t know.’

The sound of Barbara Gavan’s children fighting in the background blasted down the phone line. The inspector waited while she thought about his request.

‘Would you pair be quiet, I’m on the phone! I’d have to go through my old photo boxes, Inspector. Neither myself nor Pauline were on anything like Facebook back then, so I don’t think there’s anything online. I certainly don’t have any pictures of him about the house. For obvious reasons.’

‘I understand,’ Tom said. ‘Take a look for me and if you do find one, just pop into the garda station in Waterford City and they’ll scan it into the system.’

Barbara promised she would.

‘Any joy?’ Michael asked.