"There's myself, of course. Pat Keating's inside. Two scenes-of-the-crime lads still upstairs," Hoey replied. "The local station is Stepaside. We have two of their district detectives helping us. They're out on interviews right this very minute."

Minogue nodded and stepped back from the doorway.

"Jimmy Kilmartin says how-do, by the way."

"And how's he doing, then?" Hoey asked.

"He's good, Shea. Up and about in a few days. I might go and see him tonight if I have the time later."

"Great. Great," said Hoey. The enthusiasm was fulsome enough for Minogue to glance over. Keating came around behind them. Minogue looked at the Polaroid dangling from his neck.

"Have the photo men been through already, Pat?" Minogue asked.

"Yes, sir. I've run off about thirty myself. Prior to removal. I got close-ups of the neck marks as well."

"Any tracks or traces close to the house here yet?" Minogue asked.

"Not yet," said Hoey.

"Hmm. How did the killer gain entry?" Minogue asked.

"Your man usually left the back door unlocked, says the housekeeper," Keating answered.

Great. Minogue almost voiced his cynicism aloud. He looked to the outside wall. The house was stone-built, plastered and painted off-white. The windows looked new, and the gutters and the sills were in good condition.

"A few things strike me, though," Hoey began in a meditative tone.

"Fire away, Shea."

"Burglary gone wrong, that's easy enough to think. The old man is out, comes back to the house and interrupts a robbery. The killer might even have put the squeeze on him before killing him, to tell him where any money and so on might be hid. Odd thing is the destruction that carried on after the man was killed. The flour and bits of plates on the body tells us that easy enough. Cool one, the killer. Went around pulling out kitchen cupboards full of stuff."