Laughter erupted from around Kilmartin. Minogue had missed the punch line again. Now Kilmartin was heading their way. Minogue tracked the chief inspector’s approach, the slow rolling gait, the faked punch to the stomach of the laughing sergeant, the clumsy headlock and guffaws. High spirits entirely, and why not: Kilmartin was away on three weeks leave as of this evening. He could nurse his sore head on the plane to Boston tomorrow. As of one hour ago, in fact, Minogue had become acting head of the Murder Squad.

Kilmartin drew up opposite Malone.

“Well now, Molly,” he said. “Anudder one, den? My twist and all, now.”

“No,” said Malone. “Thanks.” Kilmartin turned to Hoey.

“Coke, Sergeant?” Shea Hoey seemed to consider it. Kilmartin eyed him.

“I don’t want you drinking your way into Bolivia now, but,” he added.

The barman pointed the remote at the TV across the room. An ad for a hamburger chain came on. Minogue wished he’d eaten before the three pints. He thought about sausages in Bewleys. What day was it today anyway? Thursday he was to meet his daughter Iseult for lunch. The baby was due in three months. Trimester, that was the word: her last trimester.

The spinning globe and floating letters slowed and jumped off the screen. Small pictures then turned into movies as they sprang to the front. A military vehicle unloaded food next to a dusty track. Sudan? Or was that last year? Next was a dusty plain. The camera moved from a close-up of bleached bones to a shimmering horizon. Next came a scene of a riverbank protest. Had to be Ireland. Yes, slurry had killed thousands of fish in Cork.

“Oh I know when my money’s no good,” said Kilmartin and moved off to the Guards at the far end of the bar.

Too lazy to get up, Minogue watched Hoey begin to flip a beer mat. As well as studying for his sergeant’s exam, Hoey had taken to conjuring tricks.