"Anything worth hanging onto, Doctor?"

"Well, this is the preliminary, you understand. It'll be all typed up and a few more tests will be in but that won't make much difference. You have the gist of it."

Both men were silent for a minute. Donavan turned his gaze from the window to Minogue.

"As an aside, er-"

"— Matt-"

"Yes, er, Matt… I have the feeling of some kind of intention behind this thing. Some kind of deliberation. Maybe it's the shows on the telly. Still, I think there's something to this one. Don't quote me now. That stuff is not my job at all. I'd expect anything."

Minogue was to remember this remark; not the words themselves, but the speculation on Donavan's face. Have to do some Sherlocking on this one.

Connors was leaning on the boot of the car outside trying to make his attempt at nonchalance outdo his sheepishness.

"Come on now and we'll go back to the Castle. Jimmy Kilmartin says he has a desk for me and odds and ends from the other lads in the Squad who were at it over the weekend."

"To be sure," Connors said spiritedly. He was grateful that Minogue had passed up on that very Irish liking to send a jibe his way.

CHAPTER THREE

On Tuesday morning, Minogue found himself at his new desk in Dublin Castle, HQ of the Garda Murder Squad. 'Found myself were the words that came to him as he settled into the chair, and those were the words he'd report his day to Kathleen with: 'Well, I found myself at this desk, you see.'

He tried the phone. Glory be to God, it worked. Would he have to start taking seriously the Minister for Post and Telegraph's threat to make the phone system work? He took another sip of tea. Jarlath Brendan Walsh, k/a Jarlath Walsh. He must have had a lot on his plate with a name like that. Saint Jarlath was a Galway saint. Minogue had known but one person before in his life by that name and the fellow had wisely called himself Jer.