“But that file’s static for over three years. I phoned Doyler in the whore squad. Left a message to look up any material they have to update us.”

Minogue looked up from the file.

“Did you ever get your hair done at a place called Casuals? The bit you have left, I mean.”

Kilmartin tugged at the end of his nose.

“Is this one of those knock-knock jokes or something?”

“A hairdresser’s.”

“Are you blind, man? Short back and sides since Adam was a boy. Yes, siree, as nature intended. Grass doesn’t grow on a busy street anyway, mister. Casuals, huh? Sounds like a front office for a bit of you-know-what. Phone-a-whore etcetera. Modern times, pal. Right there, Molly?”

Minogue glared at the Chief Inspector. Foe and accomplice both, Kilmartin could well turn out to be right in his guess. No Casuals in the current Dublin area telephone book. No Mullen in St. Lawrence O’Toole Villas in Crumlin either. Minogue clapped the phone book shut.

“Well?”

“Gone since the last book, or else there’s no phone in the house.”

“Phone Crumlin station. What’s his name is the nabob since the Christmas. Mick Fitzpatrick. Yep. Nice fella is Fitz. Temper though. Fitz and Starts we used to call him years ago. Oh, but don’t you call him that or he’ll rear up on you, Tell him I was asking for him.”

Minogue looked at the papers again. Irene Mullen, the mother.

“We’ll go out and have a quick look first ourselves,” he said. “It’s only ten minutes up the road.”

Kilmartin laid his jacket on a chair.

“Course you have Tonto here to translate for you.”

Minogue closed one eye and squinted at Kilmartin. The Chief Inspector beamed back. Minogue grabbed his notebook, rapped it once on the desk and headed for the car park.

Everything still seemed too bright and too slow. He could almost hear his eyelids closing and opening. He wasn’t hungry but he knew he should make the effort.