"How long did you get with her?" asked Minogue.

"Mrs Hartigan? Three-quarters of an hour, sir. She's a bit out of it."

Keating edged up to the doorway and looked at the carnage in the kitchen again.

"Lunatic," he said.

"Money," Minogue echoed. "Tip-off from someone who knew or thought the old man kept money in the house… Expected to find money and didn't. I wonder about that. Or came with the intentions to kill… You told the Stepaside lads doing the local interviews to look for psychiatric cases around here?"

"Didn't have to. They copped on straightaway. They're on deliverymen, postmen, too. Any repairmen fixing the house. You know, Combs must have been out," Hoey said. "The smashing and breaking would have raised an awful racket. Like I say, there was some stuff under the body, so the job was underway when he came home. Even if it was a solo job, he'd have seen the car lights and known to get out cause the victim was coming home."

"Drove, I suppose," said Minogue. "Hardly out for a walk in the dark. And if the robber saw the old man's car, he wouldn't have started his job at all. Okay, so. Would he have seen the car lights at the end of the lane, where the victim's car was found?"

"Likely, sir," Keating argued. "This is an isolated spot, after all."

"Why didn't the victim drive up the lane and park by the house?"

Hoey shrugged.

"Turning space is a bit tight around the door here, sir… I don't know."

"All right," Minogue sighed, shaking himself out of his speculation. "Enough of this headbanging. Let's start on filling in the blanks on this poor devil. See if we can place him for this past few days. I better start me prowl. Give us that Polaroid, Pat. Just in case." spacebarthing

Minogue entered the house.