“Ha ha, men,” Hynes shouted, rolling his bonhomie across the room ahead of him. “The very men I was looking for. I was told that yous were at the scene but minutes before I arrived.”

Kilmartin glanced at Hoey.

“Are we just in time to have a nice little pick-me-up?” Hynes beamed.

“A kick-me-out-on-me-arse, you mean,” muttered Kilmartin.

“Landlord, landlord!” Hynes cried spiritedly. The waiter reappeared, looking more the ascetic monastery novitiate than before. Hynes ordered a Johnnie Walker and flipped a finger at the three policemen.

“No drink here,” Kilmartin declared.

Hynes shrugged and sat down, his hands on his knees.

“A few words, Chief Inspector, for attribution? And Sergeant- whoops, Inspector Minogue… fresh and well you’re looking,” the reporter smiled again.

“We were sitting down here discussing how nice it is to be nearer to retirement, Mr. Hynes,” Kilmartin drawled. “To have able and expert policemen in the Technical Bureau to go over the ground for us. To be looking forward not to be straining to be polite to certain members of the public, to certain organs in society.”

“Which organs, now?” Hynes guyed.

“Arra, don’t be offering me occasions of sin now, Mr. Hynes, if you don’t mind. My colleague here has a refined sensibility. I meant the media, specifically the press. There were times when journalists didn’t run berserk with the smell of blood to titillate their readers.”

Minogue doubted that the bibulous Hynes had sought Kilmartin out merely to torment him. The reporter must have heard less than he wanted down on the strand.