"Letters to…?"

Mrs Hartigan's eyes focused suddenly on Minogue.

"I never in my life read another body's letters or the like."

"I beg your pardon, Mrs Hartigan. I merely meant if you had seen the outside of the envelope. A name, an address."

Mrs Hartigan shook her head curtly. Minogue diverted.

"Something a little different now for a moment, Mrs Hartigan, if you please. Did you ever think or believe that anybody was snooping about the place, maybe sizing the place up for burglary? For instance, did you have anyone coming to the door looking for directions or that class of thing?"

"Oh," she sighed, "I'd have to think about that one. Me mind is very slow now. The doctor told me I'd feel like lying down… let me think."

Minogue stretched his legs out straight while he waited.

"Joe," Mrs Hartigan called out. "Joe."

Joseph Hartigan slid into the parlour.

"Are yous finished?" he asked.

"Joe. A sup of tea. I can't think at the moment. And these gentlemen, too…"

Minogue looked at Hoey. A tight smile of yielding and Hoey nodded.

"Yes, please," said Minogue.

Until the forensic work began to trickle in, Mrs Hartigan was the best help they had.

Jimmy Kilmartin, Inspector Kilmartin, had lots of comforts around his hospital room but no visitors until Minogue arrived. Minogue noted the stack of Sunday papers and magazines, the bottles of Lucozade, tissues, slippers side-by-side under the bed and a radio with headphones. Kilmartin's room had a colour telly on a stand in the corner, too.

"They let you in, bejases," Kilmartin marvelled. "It's nigh on eleven o'clock." He made an effort to sit upright in the bed.

"I had them check from the desk to see if you were still awake," Minogue replied as he eyed the colour television.

"Nice place to be ailing, James."