sleep.
'Yes,' she murmured. 'A terrible ordinary man, if people only knew. Odd, certainly, but what of it? I remember him one day he had me in fits of laughing; he heard something on the radio and he turned it up loud. I came in from the kitchen to see what the commotion was and there he was, a glass of whiskey in his hand, sort of dancing around the room. Some chorus, a man's chorus from Russia. They were singing 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary' in Russian. Their language, you see. He thought that was priceless. He once told me that I was a socialist but I didn't know it. But not in a nasty way, more a bit of tickling and fun. An educated man, you see. Never had to say it, you just knew it.'
Hoey caught Minogue's eye.
'I'll tell you something now,' Mrs Hartigan went on without prompting. 'I forgot he was an Englishman half the time. Such a nice way about him when he wanted to be…'
'Was he less than nice by times?' Minogue asked.
'Oh, I don't mean anything like that. I must say, I don't blame him a bit for being fond of a drop.'
'You met none of his family or relatives,' Minogue tried.
Mrs Hartigan shook her head.
'He didn't have any, he told me. But he had friends, I suppose. I don't know. I never saw any in the house at all.'
Minogue counted to three before addressing her again.
'Mrs Hartigan, was Mr Combs homosexual?'
'Do you mean about women, that he never married…?' her question tapered off.
'A man who's not attracted to women, but to men,' said Minogue. 'Have you ever…?'
'Of course I have. It's on the television all the time,' she murmured. 'But I can tell you policemen, because I know you want to do right by Mr Combs. Yes. I wondered sometimes if he was-'
She looked up again and swivelled her eyes slowly toward Hoey.
'But I never seen one thing to suggest to me that he was one of them. I can tell you that for certain. People'll always talk, make up stories in their imagination. But I suppose I wouldn't know what to look for, I mean how would a body know? A woman of my age especially?'
Hoey cleared his throat. Mrs Hartigan's expression looked to be caught between a smile and mordant gravity.
'Certain types of books and such? Pictures and things, perhaps? A manner of speaking about people?' he said.
Mrs Hartigan's face contracted into a frown.
'No such thing as I ever came across. Oh no. He wasn't nervous around a woman the way a lot of men are, even married men are. He knew how to make you laugh when he wanted to. And it's not like we don't know about such matters as regards sex and so on, you know, what with the telly and everything.'
'Did he mention any places he liked to go to in Dublin, Mrs Hartigan?' Minogue asked.
'No, he didn't, as a matter of fact. It was like I was explaining to this nice young man here the first time this evening…'
Hoey sat back in his chair. Minogue waited out her ramble.
'Nearly two years you did the housekeeping for him?'
'That's right.'
She dabbed at the corner of an eye, heaved a sigh and went on in a lower voice.
'It's hard and you being old and having nobody. You lose interest, I think. Even if you have your hobbies and a bit of reading. You need the contact. But he didn't, not much anyway. Or not as much as we're used to here. Mr Combs was interested in the place here, though; he was often flummoxed by some things here, I remember. Him asking me about the politics and the way the country is run. He'd smile and shake his head when I told him. I think he liked it here.'
Minogue waited out her derailed train of thought. As though roused from sleep, she started and looked glassily from Minogue to Hoey.
'Here I am rambling along. Maybe it's not what you want to hear.'
'You're doing grand,' Minogue whispered. 'But look, can you go back in your mind to recalling any visitors. Anybody he talked about?'
She cast her eyes to the ceiling and held her gaze there.
'I know you asked me that before, this young man with you. Try as I can, isn't it odd? He didn't seem to need people, like individual people. He liked to know about people in general, he said. Human nature. I remember him saying to me once… it stuck in my mind. He liked it here, you know. 'A pity I didn't come here when I was a lot younger' says he to me once. For all I know he kept up his friends back in England with his letter-writing and so on.'
'Any phone calls that you remember as being peculiar?'
'No. No. An old-style type of a man, always writing letters and educating himself. That's what I thought of him. A cultured gentleman, I always said to Joseph.'
'Letters to…?'
Mrs Hartigan's eyes focused suddenly on Minogue.
'I never in my life read another body's letters or the like.'
'I beg your pardon, Mrs Hartigan. I merely meant if you had seen the outside of the envelope. A name, an address.'
Mrs Hartigan shook her head curtly. Minogue diverted.
'Something a little different now for a moment, Mrs Hartigan, if you please. Did you ever think or believe that anybody was snooping about the place, maybe sizing the place up for burglary? For instance, did you have anyone coming to the door looking for directions or that class of thing?'
'Oh,' she sighed, 'I'd have to think about that one. Me mind is very slow now. The doctor told me I'd feel like lying down… let me think.'
Minogue stretched his legs out straight while he waited.
'Joe,' Mrs Hartigan called out. 'Joe.'
Joseph Hartigan slid into the parlour.
'Are yous finished?' he asked.
'Joe. A sup of tea. I can't think at the moment. And these gentlemen, too…'
Minogue looked at Hoey. A tight smile of yielding and Hoey nodded.
'Yes, please,' said Minogue.
Until the forensic work began to trickle in, Mrs Hartigan was the best help they had.
Jimmy Kilmartin, Inspector Kilmartin, had lots of comforts around his hospital room but no visitors until Minogue arrived. Minogue noted the stack of Sunday papers and magazines, the bottles of Lucozade, tissues, slippers side-by-side under the bed and a radio with headphones. Kilmartin's room had a colour telly on a stand in the corner, too.
'They let you in, bejases,' Kilmartin marvelled. 'It's nigh on eleven o'clock.' He made an effort to sit upright in the bed.
'I had them check from the desk to see if you were still awake,' Minogue replied as he eyed the colour television.
'Nice place to be ailing, James.'
Kilmartin snorted.
'Ailing, is it? I never felt better. Too fresh to sleep, I am. Rarin' to go.'
Minogue handed Kilmartin a bag of muffins.
'Kathleen says to ask the nurse if you're allowed to eat these yokes. I had them in the car with me.'
'Gob and I'll try me best,' Kilmartin affirmed. 'And you'd no trouble getting in here?'
'No. The night duty boss is a girl from Feakle. I heard them playing twenty-five and knew the accent. 'Damn your sowl, why di'nt you lay the deuce and you with the knave in your fisht as well?''
Kilmartin laughed lightly.
'Jases. The Clare mafia at it again.'
Minogue wondered where Kilmartin's family was that they weren't visiting him. Sundays in Ireland involved
