Traffic on the N11 was sluggish, with a lot o odd, clumsy driving. To Minogue, it seemed as if every driver driving this main road south out of the city was clumsy or distracted today.

Kilmartin eyed a Porsche passing another car with a few feet only to spare, and then racing toward the next back bumper.

“That goddamned recession can’t come soon enough,” he said, mildly.

Red lights dogged them past Foxrock. Things only got worse by Cabinteely, with traffic lights on the blink, and a flustered-looking Guard on point duty directing stop-and-go traffic. Gamog, Minogue heard his friend whisper almost fondly when they got by at last.

Kilmartin craned his neck to look up through the steeply raked windshield at the sky over South County Dublin.

“A drop or two on the way,” he said. “A day for the old umbrella.”

This made no sense to Minogue. All an umbrella would do for a man up on Calary Bog on a day like today would be to pitch him airborne, and to fling him to hell back down to the coast.

They got a good stretch of open road, and were soon in sight of the roundabout at Shankill. Minogue drove hard through the curve. The Peugeot settled back on itself with ease on the far side.

“A fair bit of go in it,” said Kilmartin. “For such a dainty little car.”

He tried the radio then, but seemed to have little appetite for figuring out the buttons or the sophisticated display. He turned it off almost after a few moments.