‘What is it, Kenny?’

She had a feeling like a cold hand grabbing her neck. Something was up here, she knew it.

‘It’s Dan. He went to see Flowers about you and Kelly.’

Kate bit her lip. ‘I see.’

‘Well, Flowers wasn’t interested, you know. So Dan took it one step further, Kate. He took it to the CIB.’

Kate felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach.

‘I thought you ought to know. I found out through an old friend of mine, so no one at the station except me and you know about it, OK? It’s not even definite that they’ll investigate it, but just in case I thought you had a right to know. That ex-husband of yours is an Asshole with a capital A.’

Kate nodded. She couldn’t have agreed more.

Evelyn opened the door, her face troubled.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘You must be Kate’s mother. I’m Kenneth Caitlin.’

‘A Kerry man by the sounds of it?’

He smiled at her and the little exchange gave Kate time to get her head together.

‘Come through and have a drink, Kenny. This is my daughter Lizzy, and my mother’s already introduced herself.’

‘I’ll be away home, Kate, I can see you’re eating.’

‘You’ll do no such thing. Get that awful mac off and come and have a bit of stew, there’s plenty.’ Evelyn’s voice brooked no argument. She had been intrigued by Kate’s description of this man, and now she could judge for herself.

Caitlin had smelt the delicious aroma of the stew as he had walked up the garden path, and seeing the three faces smiling at him he hesitated only a second longer. Then he took off the mac and placed it on the sofa.

‘If you twist my arm up me back, it does smell good!’

Kate was glad he stayed because he took over the main thrust of the conversation and she could think.

The Criminal Investigation Bureau.

Bugger Danny Burrows!

Patrick was sitting at the dining table just finishing his meal when Willy announced that he had a visitor. He wiped his mouth with an Irish linen napkin. When he heard the name of his visitor, his left eyebrow rose a fraction.

‘Show him in here.’ Willy nodded and left the room.

Now what would Peter Sinclair want visiting his house?

Sinclair walked into the room. He was small, wiry, and held out a perfectly manicured hand to Patrick. He stood up in greeting then offered Sinclair a seat, poured him a brandy and sat back in his own chair.

‘To what do I owe this honour?’

‘I had to come here, Patrick. It’s about the piece of skirt you’ve been running around with.’

Immediately Sinclair knew he had said the wrong thing.

Patrick’s face hardened.

‘And what piece of skirt might that be?’ As if he didn’t know.

‘Detective Inspector Kate Burrows, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Patrick’s voice was low and the menace in it was not lost on Sinclair.