None of these students had been with Walsh in the hours before he died. Minogue found out that Walsh's girlfriend, the one in the picture, if they called one another boyfriend or girlfriend anymore, would not be back until tomorrow. Her friends had packed her off, inconsolable, on the Belfast train. Nothing to it, Minogue thought, even if it was a nuisance that they'd got only brief statements out of the girl last Friday. Plenty of kids from the North attended Trinity. Although it could be done, no one was about to phone the Royal Ulster Constabulary up there to interview her on their behalf or keep an eye on her movements. She'd be rested and ready tomorrow.

The door, formerly ajar, swung open. In walked a tall, bearded president of the Students' Union.

"You wanted a word?" said the newly arrived.

'Intense' is the word, thought Minogue, rising to show some equality.

"If you please, Mr, Mr…"

"Roche. I'm Mick Roche. My Da's name is Mr Roche. I haven't inherited the title yet. No hurry either."

"Would you sit down please, er, Mick. I won't keep you long."

Roche sat down. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He smelled of cigarette smoke. His eyes were lightly ringed. No comb had afflicted his hair since rising from his or whoever's bed today. He affected a look of distance and disinterest. He didn't succeed in concealing a keenness and an alertness from Minogue.

"Spelled R-O-C-H-E, is it?" asked Minogue.

"Yes. An agreeable enough name excepting for a prohibition against narcotics of the same name," said Roche without a trace of humour. Practised that one, Minogue thought.

"Well now. I'm Detective Sergeant Minogue. I'd prefer you call me Matt. To tell you the truth, Mick, I have no interest in that side of things at all."