“Your business by the canal last night. Mary Mullen. She has a record. Had, I meant to say.”

Minogue opened the file and slid out the photocopies, a summary from the CRO.

“May your shadow never grow less, Eilis.”

He looked at Mary Mullen’s face. Four years ago: Mary Frances Mullen, eighteen. Twenty-two and a half when she was killed. She hadn’t been at all pleased to have her picture taken. Kilmartin had guessed right. Three arrests in one year for soliciting. Either she had quit then or she had smartened up enough to avoid getting caught again. The first arrest listed her occupation as hairdresser at Casuals, South Great Georges Street. The second and third listed her as unemployed. On her third conviction, Mary Mullen had been committed to the women’s wing of Mountjoy prison. There she’d served two months of a three-month sentence. Minogue skipped through the file. Under Associates, he read “Egans?”. Mary Mullen had not been co-operative. No admission of pimp, friends, associates. An arresting Guard had annotated in pen: “v. defiant and uncooperative; bad language, etc.” What had he expected, Minogue wondered.

Tommy Malone appeared by his desk.

“Here we go, Tommy. Mary Mullen. Last known address was in Crumlin.”

“Never saw heat like it,” moaned Kilmartin from the doorway. “Saw an ad today for one of those air-conditioner jobs to fit the window. I’m putting me name in for one.”

The Chief Inspector’s leather soles scraped and squeaked their way closer. Minogue didn’t look up. He finished copying the address and reached for the telephone book.

“Mary Mullen,” said the Chief Inspector.

“Nothing new in from the scene?” Minogue murmured. “Bag?”

Kilmartin shook his head.

“And don’t hold your breath on that either. See who’s in that file? Egans.”

“Gangsters, racketeers and thugs limited,” said Minogue. “Or unlimited, I should say.”