His colleague Seamus O Tuathail is more a Columbo man. A mildly rumpled figure, he politely posed a series of questions to Dunlop, often in a tone coated with a certain perplexity.

Then he wound his way around to catching the witness with the big one, but Frankie hadn't read the script.

He swatted away Columbo's deductions, and sniffed the air. Next, please. Even the great detective doesn't always get his man.

Then, there was Cormac O Dulachain, who displayed the light touch of Miss Marple, levering down the suspect's guard with an unthreatening approach, inviting his prey to come into the parlour for a cup of tea and a chat. But his efforts lacked the satisfactory resolution of a novel. Frankie responded agreeably to the tone, but he wasn't playing ball.

Last Wednesday, the three lawyers lined up to take on Frank Dunlop. Each represented a county councillor whom Dunlop alleges he bribed to have land rezoned in Ballycullen, south Co Dublin. Each fulfilled his brief competently, as have others, including the top earners at the Bar, in attempting to break Dunlop. None has succeeded.

Playing Frankie's game But then, they are not playing by the rules of engagement to which they are accustomed.

They are instead being forced to play Frankie's game, a moveable feast in which Dunlop has purchase on all the cutlery.

When cornered in April 2000 about his role in widespread corruption in planning, Dunlop pledged to come clean. Having done the state for millions and immeasurable social damage, he was now going to do the state some service.

Since then, he has illuminated many dark corners of the Dublin Development Plan of 1993, a vehicle for the biggest fraud ever perpetrated in the state. Dunlop was the key mover in that fraud.

The victim was the common good, in which interest planning was supposed to be regulated under the cornerstone 1963 Act.

He has testified to the systematic manner in which he bribed councillors. He has, at times, come across as somebody who has made a moral accommodation with himself over past crimes. But then, his forte is public relations, which involves getting people to buy whatever it is you're selling. And sometimes it isn't easy to discern whether or not he has left the spinning behind when he steps into the witness box.

Largely, all the tribunal has to go on is his word. The documentary evidence consists of phone records, diary entries, voting records in the council, all of which is very circumstantial. One of Dunlop's central contentions is that he paid in cash to bribe, and by cheque for a so-called legitimate political donation.

There is no documentary record of bribes. As a result, he holds the whip hand.

There is little doubt he was forking out bribes all over the shop, but to whom and how much are the variables that rely nearly entirely on his word.

In Dunlop's world, he was only working a system. His employers were, for the large part, honourable people. Like Christopher Jones, the owner of the lands in Ballycullen, which form the current module of the inquiry. Jones, according to Dunlop, would have to be of very low intelligence not to have known that he, Dunlop, was bribing councillors to rezone the lands.

Yet, Jones was "an honourable man".

Money-grabbers Councillors, on the other hand, are portrayed as grabbing individuals, always attempting to squeeze a buck out of Frank or his clients.

To Dunlop's mind, they are the problem. Were it not for grabbing councillors, the landowners would have no problem being turned into multi-millionaires overnight because it was all for the common good.

As for himself, he likes to give the impression that despite his crimes, he retained the type of honour peculiar to thieves. He never welshed on a bribe. "On any occasion that an agreement was reached between me and a councillor, that money was always paid, " he testified last week.

Has Dunlop left his compulsive lying habit behind him? Initially, he claimed that he was only paid 17,500 by Jones to lobby for the rezoning at Ballycullen. During the module it emerged that he was paid 60,000. He can't for the life of him explain the glaring discrepancy, but is sure it has nothing to do with his potential tax liability, the only plausible explanation.

He says he bribed nine councillors with 11,000, a grand a skull and two a piece for Don Lydon and the late Tom Hand, who signed the rezoning motion. All we have for this is his word. He is sketchy on details.

For instance, he claims to have paid the late Jack Larkin his money in and around Dublin county council's offices in October 1992.

Larkin, who was ill at the time, didn't sign in for meetings' expenses in the office between September and December.

Would a grabbing councillor come into town to pick up Frankie's bribe without putting his name down for a few extra bob?

In any event, the vote for the rezoning was popular across the council chamber, drawing support even from the Democratic Left members, and being passed by 35 votes to 14.

Sticking it to Rabbitte Then, there is the Pat Rabbitte stuff. Rabbitte says Frankie called unannounced to his home in the run up to the 1992 general election and left a two grand political donation. No strings attached, no mention of support for Ballycullen.

Last week Dunlop claimed he rang ahead, told Rabbitte he wanted to discuss planning matters and, when handing over the cash, thanked the politician for his support in the Ballycullen rezoning.

Rabbitte rejects this out of hand, pointing out that Dunlop was completely contradicting what he told the tribunal in private. Is Frankie's memory improving with time, or is he taking the opportunity to stick it to Rabbitte, perhaps inflict some damage, and by default once more become a player?

Who knows?

One aspect of the Rabbitte end of things demonstrates how pointless it has all become. Despite Dunlop's claims, the TD did not retain counsel to represent him and grill Dunlop. Instead, he issued a press release. Apart from the fate of a small group of ex-councillors . . . those still alive . . . there is now a perception that the tribunal is no longer an instrument to be feared.

At one stage on Wednesday, there were 18 legal professionals in attendance, seven media people and five members of the public. The proportions were symbolic of the inquiry's relative relevance through society.

The most depressing aspect of its death by a thousand meandering cross examinations is that little has been learned. In the Ballycullen rezoning, Dunlop used 11,000 to bribe councillors.

Jones himself says he paid over 45,000 in "legitimate political donations" at the same time. Which of these do you think exercised the greater influence on councillors performing their quasijudicial function?

These days Dunlop is gone, but little has changed in the planning system. Developers remain fevered democrats, shovelling legitimate donations at politicians to ensure that the elected representatives do right by the common good.