Minogue in Bewleys was a happy man. The stained glass below the restaurant’s skylights seemed to be moving. Clouds, he judged. He stood in line for coffee and noted that the racket from dishes and chairs and cutlery seemed muted today. Minogue had just deployed his coffee and bun when the clink of china on the marble table-top drew his head up from his newspaper. John Tynan, Commissioner of the Gardai, edged into the booth next to Minogue.

“Damn,” said Tynan and headed out again. “Sugar.”

Minogue tried to gather his wits as he studied Tynan’s well-tailored frame marauding around the cashier’s desk. What was Tynan doing here? Coincidence?

“Slow day?” said Tynan. He sat on Minogue’s side of the table.

“It’s always murder,” said Minogue. “I’m charging the batteries. I was late into the night on a case. Just a break to, em, build morale.”

Tynan eyed Minogue while he stirred his coffee.

“‘Building morale’? I phoned the Squad and was told that you were, quote, ‘doing research.’”

“Eilis might have given me the benefit of the doubt.”

“Anyway. I’m on a walkabout myself.”

Minogue smiled.

“That’s it. Look surprised. No minders, no gun in my pocket.”

Tynan plucked a slim cellular phone from his jacket pocket and showed enough of it for Minogue to recognise the device.

“What do you think?”

The Inspector knew of Tynan’s ways. The new Garda Commissioner had taken to walking about town in civvies, getting a feel for how Dublin was policed. It didn’t seem to bother him that he was annoying several senior civil servants and Gardai with his perambulations.