“What?” asked Kilmartin.

“He had his hand in her knickers when she saw it.”

“Saw what?”

“The body.” Malone had left just enough of a pause to suggest humour to Minogue.

“Was that all then?” asked the Chief Inspector.

“Hard to say. He might’ve gone the whole hog if she hadn’t started screaming-”

“I didn’t mean that!” barked Kilmartin. “I meant if she saw or heard anything in the bloody canal!”

Solemn-faced yet, Malone shook his head.

“I just had a few questions with them,” he murmured. “Then I let what’s-his-face get on with an interview. The uniform from Harcourt Street. Fallon.”

Kilmartin looked up and down the banks. Streetlights played on the sluggish waters under the trees, themselves looming, black masses darker than the night sky. Minogue smelled beery breath from the gawkers. He looked at the banks and spotted small pieces of styrofoam, coloured and slick things he took to be plastic bags. Kilmartin was talking.

“Why’s there not more of her on the surface, I’d like to know.” He grasped the railing leading up to the boards which formed the lock’s foot-bridge.

“She drifted maybe,” said Malone. “The hair got caught in the lock. Then the undercurrent pulled the feet and the legs in tight?”

Minogue noted Kilmartin’s expression. Malone might well be right. A body in water often floated almost upright. Kilmartin was looking from light to light.

“Several lights out of commission,” said Minogue. “It shouldn’t be so dark here.”

“Gurriers no doubt,” Kilmartin grunted. “Pegging rocks at the street-lamps. Is this news? Dublin’s fair city, my arse. Any sign of our crew yet?”

“Here they are now,” said Minogue. Kilmartin looked over the other side of the lock-gate. A cascade of water arched from the brimming canal below his size twelve brogues and splattered far below. He turned back to Minogue and looked over his shoulder at the crowd.