Callinan nodded and plodded off. Minogue sought out Dillon.

“Parked cars too, Paddy. Both sides of the canal and the opposite sides of the street.”

Dillon wiped his brow again. Heat or concentration had made his tone querulous.

“Right ye be, Matt. God, it’s dasprat hot.”

Minogue eyed Dillon’s jacket again.

“Give me a Polaroid, Paddy, will you? I want a few things here.”

Dillon nodded toward the van. Another technician Minogue could see only in silhouette against the interior light was setting up tripods under the lamps.

Kilmartin coughed next to him.

“There they are,” he said. Minogue turned and saw two vans from the Garda Sub Aqua unit reversing up the footpath. Kilmartin continued to adjust the sit of his trousers by standing on one leg and stretching out the other as he pulled at the waist.

“Man alive. Taking a leak behind a tree in the middle of Dublin. It’s degrading. It was that bloody punch at Hoey’s wedding, I’m telling you.”

“Not the few pints and the small ones?”

“Shag off. Get a real job. Away we go, now. Are we right?”

Minogue winked at Malone and followed Kilmartin under the tape.

Kilmartin sat down heavily on the bench, tore off the plastic gloves and lit a cigarette.

“The hair’s caught all right. Give the frogmen another minute.”

The smoke from Kilmartin’s cigarette rose and was caught in the glare of the lights.

“Damn,” he muttered. “This’ll shape up to be a right pain. Between the bloody water and the filth all up and down here… Hope to God we nail an admission or bulletproof evidence well away from this kip. We’re sunk if we have to rely on site evidence here, man.”

Malone stepped up the bank, shielding his eyes from the glare around the lock.

“Hoi, Molly. Any breakthroughs on the case yet?”

Malone’s face didn’t register the jibe.