Minogue carried a box of matches to remind himself that he was a free man. If he chose to smoke, he would. Minogue offered his box of matches.

As he did so, he caught sight of Connors' glassy stare. That's what it was, the 'arm and the leg' bit. Minogue tried hard not to laugh.

"Detective, would you check with headquarters on the radio to see if there are further matters requiring our consideration, if you please? I'll be down presently."

Connors made no delay in leaving.

Donavan, wreathed in Amphora smoke, laughed gently.

"Is your man just after his dinner?"

"He's new to the department, Doctor. He is a very quick and able officer-in-the-making, I believe."

"Gob, he's quick at getting through doors. Ah, Nora says I have a warped sense of humour. God knows, maybe she's right. Do you know, there's nothing to this really. I mean, I put the radio on. There'd be the news, a bit of music, an interview or the like. I'd be pinning back skin or using the saw or dissecting one thing or another. I work on my own you know, me and the tape recorder with Radio Eireann in the background. I don't like working with an assistant. It seems rude, somehow. I'm trying to help the poor divil there in the room with me, but sure he's dead. Still trying to explain things even after the person is dead. But it helps. It's preventive medicine in a sense. Your pal will get used to it. It's not personal. You're in the presence of some final truth."

Minogue thought for an instant of the stories about Donavan. Maybe it was by default that he seemed to enjoy the living so much. Donavan was no fool. He was a philosopher who knew enough to be able to laugh. Good man at a wake. Maybe invite him to mine.