Unwisely, Burke had thought himself equal to all comers, but under pressure early, he lapsed into chiding a rabid whinger, a self-styled citizen’s rights maniac who was widely hated by rank-and-file Guards, the very people on whose behalf Burke believed he was sallying forth: “It ill behooves Mr. X here to be criticizing hard-working Gardai who…” And that was enough.

Minogue recalled Delahunty from a seminar on something to do with Biometrics. Much like Burke, Superintendent Delahunty worked at being approachable. That only made things worse. Both men were being groomed for something new, however, something very high-tech.

There were a half-dozen cars, a lorry, people standing around. Minogue put down the windows. Engines had been turned off. The wind was uncertain here, but it seemed to be picking up. Radio traffic filtered through the hedges, along with a more subdued but steady racket from the bickering, warbling birds of County Wicklow.

He pulled on the handbrake. Tight, maybe too tight. He couldn’t ignore the squeak from the chassis as the Peugeot tried to roll back against the brake.

“I’ll see what the story is ahead,” he said to Kilmartin. “Are you coming?”

“I’m not,” Kilmartin replied. “I’m grand here. In your nice new French car.”

Minogue climbed out of the car, lit a cigarette, and began to stroll toward the other Guards. The first lungfuls of smoke invigorated him as much as made him dizzy.

There was a mocker’s gleam in Burke’s eyes. He shook Minogue’s hands a bit too heartily.

“Matt. Never knew you smoked.”

“Eoin, how’s things with you and yours.”