An icy gust came through the door with him. A heavy-set constable, in the act of tearing a sheaf of telegraph paper off a printer, shouted above the din without turning around.

‘Shut the bloody door.’

Swallow grinned tolerantly. The men who worked the ABC office were notoriously ill-tempered. Virtually without exception they had been taken off the regular roster and allocated to telegraph duty because they were unfit for outdoor work.

When the constable did turn around, Swallow recognised Pat Cummins, the C-Division constable who had encountered the man running from Chapel Court on the night that Helena Moyles was murdered.

‘I didn’t know you’d got off the regular, Cummins. When did you start here?’

‘Sorry, Inspector, I didn’t realise it was yourself,’ he began apologetically.

Swallow raised a hand.

‘Don’t worry about it. I’d say you’re glad to be indoors. Diabetes is a tough condition.’

Cummins shrugged resignedly.

‘It knocks th’ energy outta you. You’re no good on the street then. You’re only a danger to yerself. But no use complainin’. Dr Lafeyre put in a word with the surgeon at the Kevin Street hospital right away after Nellie Byrne was murdered, and he got me back in here.’

‘Got you back? Did you work here before?’

Cummins nodded.

‘I’ve not been well for maybe three years. So I had more than a year of light duties here. Then the surgeon said I was fit for outdoors again. I was only back on the regular a few weeks before that night.’

‘Still no name for the fellow you saw at Nellie Byrne’s?’ Swallow asked.

Cummins shook his head.

‘No, sir. Sergeant Mossop took me around all the big stations to see if I could recognise any of the “polismen”. Ah, sure maybe it was only in me imagination that I thought I knew him. You know, th’oul diabetes can muddle the thinkin’ a bit on top of everythin’ else.’

He reefed a sheet of flimsy off one of the clanking telegraph machines.

‘Now, what can I do for you, Inspector?’

Swallow handed him the circular he had drafted earlier.

‘A routine notice from Chief Mallon. He wants the divisions to start tightening up on street traders’ licences.’

Cummins chuckled.

‘I’d wish him well. Them ladies don’t take too readily to payin’ out for that kinda thing. Can’t say I blame them. But sure, I’ll get it off within the half hour.’

He reached for a wire tray piled with telegraph paper tear-offs.

‘By the way, there’s an unusual wan in here for G-Division. I suppose you might as well take it back with ye.’

He rummaged in the tray.

‘It’s down here somewhere. From Berlin no less. Th’ English is good though. Near enough word perfect. It’s for the attention of the Kriminalpolizei. That’s you lads, I suppose.’

Swallow nodded.

‘I suppose so. Is it anything serious?’