“Ow,” said Sweeny.

“You’re telling me,” Minogue whispered. “He was lying somewhere for a while. That’s a start, I suppose.”

“But he’s not long in the water, I’m thinking,” said Sweeny.

Minogue nodded. He had seen no marbling on the neck at all. Easing the pencil out from under the flap of shirt, he replaced the plastic over the body, and felt the first currents of discouragement move in on his thoughts. Whatever physical transfers had occurred between the victim and the killer at the murder scene, he thought, had most likely been washed and scraped away by the sea.

“Wasn’t bound or anything when he was found?” Minogue heard himself ask.

“No, sir. There’s no marks on the wrists. It’s an execution, isn’t it?”

Minogue kept his gaze on the sea.

“Tell you the truth, I don’t feel up to checking the body proper this minute now,” Sweeny whispered. “I’ll leave it for yous professionals on the Squad.”

“Thanks,” said Minogue.

A doctor, to judge by the BMW he had left moored next to the squad cars, was walking down the beach toward the body. He was youngish, earnest and grim, swinging his bag as he hurried with a Garda in tow. Minogue didn’t recognize either man. He stood and looked inland. Cliffs: the steep hill of Killiney above, a few feet short of the official status of mountain. The sky felt close, almost malicious.

A van drew slowly on to the beach. Seeing he could go no further, the driver reversed toward the squad cars. Minogue knew one of the scenes-of-the-crime policemen who stepped out of the van and began donning boiler-suits. Kilmartin left the group of policemen and began walking toward the van. Minogue found it impossible to remember the dead man’s face. His concentration had been stolen by the wounds, and he wondered what kind of a gun or a bullet had caused that. Three shots at least. Revenge? For what? How had the body turned up here? A pair of seagulls scratched the dull mid-morning with their screaming overhead.