Robert handed her a folder. ‘See for yourself.’

When she opened the folder, Katie saw that it contained at least a dozen photographs of a black Range Rover parked outside a white fence with a privet hedge behind it. The pictures had been taken at night, but there was sufficient light from a nearby lamp post and they had been taken with a camera with very high ISO sensitivity.

The Range Rover was half obscuring a sign so that all she could see was MacGr Gard Cen. A man in a black oilskin raincoat and a chequered cap was opening up the vehicle’s tailgate so that a grey curly-haired dog could jump out.

‘James MacGreevy,’ said Katie. ‘So he does have a dog. And the right breed, too. Or breeds. Holy Mother of God, just take a sconce at him, the poor little fellow. He’s a right old mash-up, isn’t he? Mostly Kerry Blue, I’d say, but with at least two or three other varieties mixed in.’

‘MacGreevy went to fetch the dog about half-past eight from his son’s house in Inishannon. It turns out his son’s a vet, so I can only assume that he was treating it for some illness or other. Anyway, he has it there now, back at the garden centre. We’ve seen him walking around the greenhouses with it just this morning.’

‘Right,’ said Katie. ‘Let’s apply for the necessary warrants and haul him in. And haul the dog in, too. Bill Phinner will be needing to take dog hair samples.’

*

She rang Detective O’Donovan so that he could come downstairs with her and question Doireann Greaney.

If Kyna had been available to join her it would have been ideal, because Kyna had such a knack for coaxing sensitive information out of suspects who were aggressive or cagey or wildly disturbed. All the same, Detective O’Donovan was blunt and plain-speaking and his directness had often triggered the most reticent of offenders into an unexpected outpouring of guilt and remorse. Detective Sergeant Begley had once told him that he had missed his vocation, and should have been a priest, taking confession every Sunday.

As she stood up to leave, Chief Superintendent O’Kane appeared in the doorway. She imagined that she could smell his Boss aftershave, even though she probably couldn’t, and she briefly pressed the back of her hand against her nose.

‘Kathleen – do you have a minute?’ From the tone of his voice, she could tell that it wasn’t a question.

‘I’m just on my way to interview the Pusher,’ she said. ‘Can it wait until later?’

‘Not really. I have to head off for Phoenix Park in a minute. I’ve been called for a meeting with the Director of Communications and Superintendent O’Hare, the Garda Press Officer. It’s likely that the Commissioner will join us, too.’