"None, sir."

"Off to Pearse Street. We'll talk to the lads on the spot."

"What was the name of the student?" Connors asked.

"A fella by the name of Jarlath Walsh. Jarlath Walsh."

Kilmartin spent no more than twenty minutes listening to the reports from the two Gardai in Pearse Street station. Kilmartin had worked out of Pearse Street and he hated the building. It gave him the willies. It was old and grimy and cramped. Plenty of action there though, too much. A rough start for a Guard just out of the training college in Templemore. He'd be on the beat right in the middle of Dublin. Kilmartin hated it the day he stepped in the door those many years ago. He had hoped to be posted to a fair-sized town in the West, to be near his folks. He had lived and raised a family in Dublin, however.

He told Connors not to make any notes. It might discourage candour and memory. It would look impertinent too. These two Gardai were well senior to Connors though not in rank. They sat on the wooden chairs poking into their notebooks, their sky-blue shirts making Kilmartin think of Spain.

"About fourteen minutes after nine, sir," one of them was saying. No, no rocks nearby. The body was lying on its back. The forensic team was there at half past ten. Yes, there were some marks in the clay around the body, like shoeprints, dug in at the heel, sort of. That'd be that woman, Brosnahan, leaping around like a madwoman, Kilmartin thought. Shouldn't be so hard on her. Twigs broken and bent back, yes. Nothing in his hands. Sure it was a he straight away? Yes, the lower part of the face was intact. A bit of a moustache. A white plastic supermarket bag, they'd be for the notes and books. Why did a student have to use that as a school-bag? Trinity College students not able to afford school-bags? Four hundred years of Anglo-Irish privilege walled up in the place and a student couldn't afford a bag for his books?