“Great,” said Minogue.

Tynan looked around the restaurant.

“And how are you all?” he said.

“Good,” said Minogue. “Jimmy’s as ever. You know the style.”

“I meant Kathleen and the children.”

Minogue squirmed a little in the seat. “Great. We’re empty-nesters now. Discretionary income up. We’re getting quite selfish, I suppose.”

“Oho,” said Tynan with no real enthusiasm. “And the children?”

Minogue knew that Tynan had no children. Tynan had studied for the Jesuits many years ago. Rachel Tynan was a Protestant, a former teacher. Her laughter and pottery studio intrigued Minogue. He had watched Tynan at functions, exchanging asides with his wife between speeches, she laughing, he with a straight face. Tynan the cold fish, many thought; Rachel Tynan, whose face reminded Minogue of a peach.

“Oh, we monitor them at a distance. The routine seems to be that I reassure Kathleen. Then I get the willies myself when I see what they’re actually up to.”

Tynan took some more coffee from his cup and sat back.

“I need to pay yous a visit soon.”

Minogue nodded as though considering the news.

“Throw around a few ideas, you know,” Tynan added.

“Great,” said Minogue. Had Kilmartin been tipped off about this?

“Busy enough, are ye?” asked the Commissioner.

Was this a probe? “There’s always work. But we still don’t kill one another that much, don’t forget.”

“Compared to…?”

“Well, compared to the really civilised countries, I mean.”

The Commissioner continued his survey of the clientele in the restaurant.

“We need changes, that’s clear,” he murmured. “It’s a matter of how and where at this stage.”

“So they say in the press, John.”

Tynan gave him a glazed look.

“The Delahunty Factor, you mean?” Tynan asked, his mouth set tight. Minogue nodded.