jacket and handed it to him. ‘Write down every single person who comes to this scene, starting with all of us. Obviously, don’t disturb anything, be careful where you’re walking or standing. Or breathing. We absolutely cannot put a foot wrong here, I don’t need to tell you.’
Richie nodded, but there was panic in his eyes. O’Connor hesitated, then let it go.
Mick Harrington made it home into the arms of his wife and sobbed like he had never sobbed before. Robert stood at the top of the stairs watching him, thinking something had happened to his granddad, until he saw how both his parents turned and looked up at him.
Joe Lucchesi slipped gently in the front door at Shore’s Rock and shook his head slowly when Anna walked towards him. He grabbed her and they clung to each other. Then they held hands and walked down the stairs to Shaun’s bedroom.
Martha Lawson howled until her throat went dry, collapsing onto the floor of the hallway, her hands over her ears, repeating the word ‘no’ over and over again in short, wrenching bursts. Frank, O’Connor and Brady hadn’t even spoken and had to step around her to make their way into the house. Frank was visibly shaken by her reaction. He bent down and reached his arm around her shoulder, half-hugging, half-dragging her up from the floor into the living room and on to the sofa.
‘Get some tea, someone,’ he said. O’Connor looked at Brady, then took a step towards the kitchen.
‘I don’t want tea,’ Martha shouted. She threw her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. Where is she? Where did you find her?’
‘In the forest,’ said Brady quietly. ‘By Shore’s Rock.’
‘What?’ she said. ‘But did you not look there already?’
‘Yes, we did,’ said O’Connor. ‘But maybe not quite that far in. It’s very hard to get into.’
‘Obviously not that hard,’ she shouted, ‘if Katie got in.’ She let the thought hang there. ‘Oh my God,’ she said suddenly. ‘What was she doing there? What happened to her? Did she fall? Did—’
‘We don’t know yet,’ said Brady gently. ‘The State Pathologist—’
‘—Dr Lara McClatchie will carry out a post-mortem on the body later today,’ finished Martha. ‘I know the rest of that sentence,’ she sobbed. ‘I hear it on the news. And I think, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that poor family” and now, look at this! I’m the poor family. I’m the poor family.’ Suddenly she jumped up from the sofa and bolted into the hall, grabbing one of Katie’s jackets from the coat stand. She yanked open the front door and staggered into the night. ‘I have to go to her,’ she said desperately. The men were stunned, but O’Connor managed to rush after her. He didn’t need to. Martha was kneeling face down in her garden, hugging Katie’s jacket to her, the drizzling rain falling gently onto her nightdress.
From nine the following morning, people from the village started to make the trip to the forest, parking their cars where the road had been blocked off and walking as close as they could get to the activity further up the hill. O’Connor had assigned one of the more sombre young guards from Waterford to stand at the cordon, accepting whatever bunches of flowers and teddy bears they wanted to lay near the scene. Once the collection had built up, cameramen and photographers edged forward to get the best shot.
Richie stood with his back to the station door, rubbing his face furiously. He had stayed with the body most of the night until he was relieved by a guard from Waterford. He turned when he heard footsteps behind him and saw a brunette standing in the doorway. He was taken aback by her height; she was at least six foot. He instinctively looked at her feet. She was wearing flats – khaki trainers with black stripes. He looked back at her face. She was outdoors attractive, with a healthy sallow complexion, thick eyebrows, full lips and no makeup. Her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail.
‘We’re not really open,’ said Richie. ‘But if it’s an emergency—’
She frowned. ‘Hmm. I think it’s gone beyond an emergency,’ she said, her accent West Brit. ‘I’m here about the suspicious—’
Frank had been trying to move out from behind the counter, but was too slow.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, nodding towards Richie. ‘Good morning, Dr McClatchie. I’m Frank Deegan, the sergeant here.’ He shook her hand, then turned to Richie, ‘This is the State Pathologist. This is Garda Richie Bates.’
Richie blushed. ‘I’ve—’
‘Only ever seen me on TV. I don’t look the same in real life apparently.’ She smiled.
‘Uh, yeah.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said.
‘You’re very welcome, if that’s the right way of putting it,’ said Frank. ‘Let me bring you up to the scene.’
‘Please, call me Lara.’
Frank guided her outside, past her old black Citroen and into the Ford Focus. He filled her in on the drive. Two news vans had arrived since he had left earlier, their reporters and cameramen loitering outside. Frank drove past and pulled up behind the Technical Bureau van. The first thing they were hit with when they stepped out of the car was the smell of vomit.
‘Someone always throws up at the scene,’ said Lara. One of the forensic scientists sidled up to her.
‘Actually, that was Alan,’ he said, referring to one of his colleagues, ‘it had nothing to do with the body. He was just on the piss last night.’
She stifled a laugh, then glanced past him into the van. ‘Can I get my gear?’
‘Sure.’
Over her black trousers and jacket, she pulled on the standard issue XL white suit, which was great for her height, but she’d never want to hit the full width, like some of the chunkier guards. Next came the shoe covers, then gloves and finally she pulled up the hood on the suit to stop her hair getting caught in the branches on the walk through.
‘Do you have a bag somewhere?’ asked Frank.
‘No,’ she said, ‘just this little plastic one in case I need to take anything.’ She held it up. ‘My job is done at the morgue, really.’
They walked up to the blue and white crime scene tape. The guard there wrote down her name, Frank’s name and the time.
‘Who are these other people?’ she asked, looking around her.
The guard pointed to each one distractedly. ‘They’re a couple of the guys down from the Waterford squad, that’s, uh…actually, that guy’s my cousin, he works with the paper.’ Lara stared at him. Frank led her to the body along the path mapped out with tape, then went straight back to talk to the guard at the entrance.
Close to the body, another guard was pointing to a footprint while someone called out, ‘That’s fresh. It’s the Mountcannon guard’s print. When himself and the sergeant got here. I wouldn’t worry about it. They said there were none at the scene already.’
‘Hello, Alan,’ said Lara to the forensics guy. ‘How was last night?’
‘Don’t talk to me,’ he said.
She looked around. ‘This is dreadful.’
‘The crime? Or the fuckwits – excuse my language – stomping around the scene?’ He looked calm, but she knew better.
‘Both,’ she said.
Alan nodded past her. ‘Your man over there’s a journalist, by the way, and he’s got a little camera. So remember not to smile.’
She twinkled her brown eyes at him. ‘That’s my crime scene smile. Only for the initiated. It’s like your measured fury. So no-one on the news looks at you and thinks: “suspect”; no-one looks at me and thinks “silly woman doing man’s job.”
Frank watched as Dr McClatchie crouched down beside the body, then stood up and walked slowly around it. Everyone watched her as if after each move, there was a chance she would turn around and say, ‘Right, everyone.
