"Was he less than nice by times?" Minogue asked.

"Oh, I don't mean anything like that. I must say, I don't blame him a bit for being fond of a drop."

"You met none of his family or relatives," Minogue tried.

Mrs Hartigan shook her head.

"He didn't have any, he told me. But he had friends, I suppose. I don't know. I never saw any in the house at all."

Minogue counted to three before addressing her again.

"Mrs Hartigan, was Mr Combs homosexual?"

"Do you mean about women, that he never married…?" her question tapered off.

"A man who's not attracted to women, but to men," said Minogue. "Have you ever…?"

"Of course I have. It's on the television all the time," she murmured. "But I can tell you policemen, because I know you want to do right by Mr Combs. Yes. I wondered sometimes if he was-"

She looked up again and swivelled her eyes slowly toward Hoey.

"But I never seen one thing to suggest to me that he was one of them. I can tell you that for certain. People'll always talk, make up stories in their imagination. But I suppose I wouldn't know what to look for, I mean how would a body know? A woman of my age especially?"

Hoey cleared his throat. Mrs Hartigan's expression looked to be caught between a smile and mordant gravity.

"Certain types of books and such? Pictures and things, perhaps? A manner of speaking about people?" he said.

Mrs Hartigan's face contracted into a frown.

"No such thing as I ever came across. Oh no. He wasn't nervous around a woman the way a lot of men are, even married men are. He knew how to make you laugh when he wanted to. And it's not like we don't know about such matters as regards sex and so on, you know, what with the telly and everything."

"Did he mention any places he liked to go to in Dublin, Mrs Hartigan?" Minogue asked.