Kilmartin had heard from Hoey that Fine had been in his chambers when he was told about the murder of his son. No policemen had been to the house yet. Minogue had seen and heard the old Kilmartin then, the gritty Mayo giant who had been lost to the cattle-dealing or horse-racing profession in becoming a policeman; the Kilmartin who still defied the tailors of Dublin to encase him in suits which lessened the comic incongruity of city garb for him. When Jimmy Kilmartin had been recuperating after an operation, Minogue believed he had discerned a more thoughtful Chief Inspector, but the cajolery and cattle-fair persuasion now seemed to have returned in full force. “That bloody snake Hynes in there knew before we did, for the love of Jases,” Kilmartin had grumbled. “We’ll nearly have to be thanking him for not notifying next of kin before we get our hands on a case. I don’t like looking like an iijit.”

Uncharitably, Minogue wondered if the Chief Inspector was fretting less about the dead man’s next of kin than about Hynes making him look flat-footed. It was more likely that Kilmartin’s agitation had ballooned at the realization that he would be dealing with one of the leading members of the Irish judiciary. If Justice Fine were to but raise a ripple on his forehead about this investigation, Kilmartin might expect that ripple to be a tidal wave of disapproval by the time it reached him.

Kilmartin used a radio patch to phone from Hoey’s car. Fine was home by then, he found out, so Mrs. Fine knew now. It was at this stage that Minogue had had the first snare tripped on him, by his own agency in part. He had mentioned to Kilmartin that he knew Justice Fine peripherally. Kilmartin lost his choke-hold on the microphone as he waited for a message from dispatch and squinted at him. Minogue knew then that there was something afoot. He believed that had he looked closer he might have seen the horns sprout from Kilmartin’s calculating temples.