The new Garda Commissioner, John Tynan, had made Kilmartin and other senior Gardai jittery. Kilmartin knew that Tynan was planning a major reorganisation of the Gardai. The new Garda Commissioner’s back was not for slapping and Kilmartin, the tribal chief with his repertoire of bombast and charm, still struggled to find a purchase on the metropolitan modern, Tynan. Minogue bumped into Tynan more than chance allowed. Wary of him, he still liked the Commissioner’s dry wit, especially its effects on the likes of Jim Kilmartin.

“But Jases, look outside, it’s bucketing. Are you going to hide at home and do a bit of wallpapering and painting or something?”

“A visit to Clare for a day or two. Then I was half thinking of somewhere like… Santorini.”

Kilmartin frowned but Minogue let him dangle for a few moments.

“It’s in Greece.”

“Well that’s very exciting, I’m sure.”

“Wouldn’t mind a week there if we could get a cheap seat. Morale, don’t you know.” He frowned back at Kilmartin. “Build morale, like.”

Kilmartin didn’t register receipt of the gibe.

“Have you court?” he asked instead.

“Ten days’ time,” Minogue answered. “State has no plan to call me up. Yet.”

“All right so. But listen. There’s something I heard last night that I didn’t like one little bit. Not saying there’s a fly in the ointment as regards you and Kathleen having a fling off in wherever.”

“Santorini. You have to ride on the back of an ass to get up from the ferry, I hear.”

Kilmartin’s brow creased again.

“Arra Jases you can do that below in Belmullet, man,” he scoffed, referring to his home town in Mayo. He narrowed his glance.

“I bumped into Tom Boyle at a shindig. You know Tom, don’t you? Got a kick up the ladder the same time Tynan got the throne.”

Minogue remembered a slim, dapper Chief Superintendent Boyle from a drinks party at Kilmartin’s new house in Killiney. Boyle now occupied Tynan’s former position of Assistant Garda Commissioner.