Framed photographs of weddings and children were marshalled on a dresser next to the door. Mrs Hartigan perched in the corner of a thickly stuffed sofa. A restless poodle lay across her oblivious feet. Two patches of colour stood out on her pallid cheeks. Her eyes were ringed red. Below the eyes her face seemed to sag. Like a stroke-victim, Minogue thought. Hoey sat next to a new television set while Minogue fell back into a tired spring armchair.

"To be sure, Mr Hartigan," Minogue looked up at the grizzled pensioner in the doorway. "Rest assured that your good wife will suffer no duress."

Hartigan scratched skeptically at a leathery ear.

"The doctor says she should be taking it cushy. She has blood pressure."

"Mr Hartigan. Our best opportunity for catching the person who committed this crime is with quick work. As much information as we can gather, as quickly as we can gather it."

"It's wicked," Mrs Hartigan interrupted. Her fixed stare hadn't shifted from the fireplace. "To do that… and the mess. It was like… I don't know what."

Hartigan withdrew, closing the door soundlessly. Minogue didn't care that he might be eavesdropping from the hall. Hoey flipped open his notebook to a fresh page.

"I spoke to this nice young man, didn't I?" Mrs Hartigan said drearily.

"You did, ma'am," Hoey said. "A little more might be the key. We won't tax you with repeating things, though, so we won't."

Minogue gathered himself at the back of the chair.

"Now, Mrs Hartigan, I know you didn't see Mr Combs since last Friday. But do you know what he did on his weekends? In general, like. A Saturday."

"Well. I told this nice man here that Mr Combs took a drink. He liked a drink. That's not to say… But Joseph, my husband, saw him the odd time in the pub. Up in Fox's pub."

"Did he entertain visitors?"

"No, he didn't. I don't know what he did the days he'd go into Dublin, though. Or on his little trips out for his drawing and painting. Did I tell you that he liked the horses?"