It had been a while since I’d watched a crime scene from outside the tape line, like a field undercover or a civilian. I’d forgotten just how the machinery looks in motion. The Bureau boys wrapped in their head-to-toe white, swinging their heavy boxes of sinister tricks, snapping their masks into place as they headed up the steps and vanished into Number 16, made the hairs on the back of my neck go up like a dog’s. Shay sang softly to himself: “Three big knocks came knocking at the door, weela weela waile; two policemen and a Special Branch man, down by the River Saille . . .”

By the time the uniforms had unrolled their crime-scene tape along the railings, even before they had it secured, people smelled blood in the air and came looking for a taste. Old ones in curlers and head scarves materialized out of doorways and clumped up to swap commentary and juicy speculation (“Some young one’s after having a baby and leaving it there.” “God forgive you, that’s terrible! Come here, Fiona Molloy’s after putting on a load of weight, d’you think maybe . . . ?”). Men suddenly decided they needed a smoke on the front steps and a look at the weather; spotty young fellas and pram-faced young ones slouched against the end wall, pretending not to care. A handful of razor-headed little kids on skateboards zipped back and forth, staring at Number 16 with their mouths open, till one of them banged into Sallie Hearne and she gave him a smack across the back of the legs. The Dalys were out on their steps; Mr. Daly had an arm out across Mrs. Daly, holding her back. The whole scene made me edgy. I’m not happy when I can’t keep track of how many people are around me.

The Liberties always did have a piranha sense for gossip. Back in Dalkey, if a crime-scene team had had the nerve to appear on the road without planning permission, no one would have been caught dead showing anything as vulgar as curiosity. One adventurous soul might have felt a sudden urge to trim the flowers in her front garden, and relayed anything she heard to her friends over herbal tea, but on the whole they would have found out the story when the newspaper was delivered the next morning. The Place, on the other hand, went straight for the information jugular. Old Mrs. Nolan had one of the uniforms firmly by the sleeve and looked to be demanding a full explanation. He looked like basic training had not equipped him for this.

“Francis,” Kevin said. “There’s probably nothing there.”

“Maybe not.”

“Seriously. I probably imagined it. Is it too late to—”

Shay asked, “Imagined what?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Kev.”

“Nothing. That’s what I’m saying. I probably imagined—”

“What are they looking for?”

“My bollix,” I told him.

“Hope they brought a microscope.”