Minogue made another quick study of the man’s face. The eyes were lazy and red from the drink, the pocked skin still oily. Thomas Martin Nolan, known to his few mates and the man he had killed three hours earlier as Jelly Nolan, seemed sober. Nolan’s eyes were fixed on a ventilation grate high up on the wall where grey lines of dust, years’ worth, edged the metal. He drew on his cigarette. Nolan was twenty-two but he looked five years older. His red hair was cropped close, and the ends of his thin moustache curled into the corners of his mouth. His body was already thickening from too much drink and stodgy food. Nolan fingered the studs in his ear before he squashed his cigarette into the saucer with his left hand. Then he examined his hands carefully, pausing to stare at the nicotine-stained fingernails. Although Minogue had all he needed from the earlier session twenty minutes ago when Hoey and he had done the interview, the Inspector decided that he might as well get as much as he could from Nolan before Legal Aid showed up.

Nolan cleared his throat. “Any more fags?”

Minogue shook his head. Hoey had left the room five minutes ago. “Well, fuck you and the horse you robbed to get to Dublin on, you culchie bastard.”

Minogue was suddenly seized by an urge to reach across the table and hammer Nolan in the face. He grasped the table-top and searched Nolan’s face again. Jelly Nolan had kicked a man to death outside a pub in Drimnagh. Nolan had known the victim, John McArdle, all his life. McArdle had worked as a deliveryman for a Dublin newspaper. He had loaned Nolan twenty quid a week ago and last night in the pub he had asked for it back.