“How peripherally, Matt?”

“Um. I was in the Jewish Museum several months ago and I saw him there. Very peripheral entirely.”

“ ‘The Jewish Museum’? In Dublin, Ireland? Europe? Go away out of that, there’s no such place. Sure there’s hardly a Jew in the country,” declared Kilmartin.

“You might not see it as you drive by. It’s also a synagogue too, by times. It’s of part a terrace row of houses in up near the canal. A galloping horse would miss it.”

“Go on, anyway,” said the galloping horse.

“Visitors sign their name in a book by the door. There he was, sitting there, reading the paper. I recognized him. Very ordinary-looking fella.”

“No robes?” tried Kilmartin.

“They don’t sleep in them, Jimmy. It’s only Special Branch men and defrocked Jesuits sleep in their clothes.”

“That’s it, then?”

“Well. He said something to me as I was signing the book.”

“What?”

“He didn’t look up from the paper, that’s what made me laugh. ‘And how’s tricks with the bold Inspector Minogue this fine day?’ he said.”

“Go on with you, he did not.” Kilmartin’s jaw slackened. Hoey was staring too.

“I was surprised, to say the least of it. I signed me name anyway and I asked him if we had met. He said no. I asked him how he knew me so, and he said my name came up in a dinner conversation, in connection with that Combs thing.”

“Ho ho, bejases and I’d say it came up all right.” Kilmartin shook his head. “And you minding the shop for me. Wanting to give External Affairs and every other public servant on the island heartburn, bad luck to you.”