He picked up the beeper, looked again at the dot-matrix display flowing across the face and plotted his shortest route to the canal. At least he’d travel in style. He reversed his new car, a Citroen with electric everything and the new-car smell as potent as ever, out onto the road. He yawned most of the journey to Donnybrook where he nicked a red light at fifty-five, slowed a little for the bend and sped up again along Morehampton Road. He was awake and even alert in plenty of time to flout the no-right-turn at Leeson Street bridge. A satisfying rasp of tires came to him over the rush of night air in from the sunroof. He crossed Baggot Street bridge and parked under the trees where a small crowd stood. The yellow plastic cordon tape was up already.

Kilmartin was on him as he stepped out of the car.

“How’s James. Long time no see.”

Kilmartin yawned and peered in the window behind Minogue.

“Huh,” he grunted. “Hard to miss that UFO of yours there. How do you figure out all those fecky-doo buttons on the dash there? Anyway. Looks like Molly beat us to it. Jeepers creepers, why’d we buy those beepers?”

Minogue saw that Malone already had gloves on.

“Howiya, Tommy,” he said. “Long here?”

“Five minutes,” replied Malone. Kilmartin nodded at the gloved hands.

“You didn’t jump in for a swim and look already, did you, Molly?”

“No. I taped it off. Waiting for the lights. It’s a woman. I called the Sub Aqua.”

Kilmartin turned on his heel and made a slow examination of the street.

“Yeah,” said Malone. He nodded at a couple sitting on a bench being interviewed by a Garda. The girl was shivering.

“That pair there. It was the girl saw her first. Green stuff on it, weeds and things.”

Tings, thought Minogue. Gree-an.

“They better get married after that carry-on,” Malone added. “He’d dropped the hand.”