Hackett, his face half turned away, was watching her aslant. His gaze was the same as that of the bird outside on the window sill, at once blank and measuring.

‘But her brother confessed that he had killed his sister—’

‘Yes, but—’

‘—and that he had buried her body in a place where it would never be found. Isn’t that so?’

‘That’s what he said, yes. But he wasn’t in his right mind. It was all a fantasy, don’t you see? The poor man was sick in the head. A minute after confessing, he drove the car over the side of a cliff into the sea and drowned himself.’

‘But since he knew he was going to do that, why would he tell you lies about having murdered her?’

‘It’s what I’ve said – he was mad.’

Hackett flicked ash from his cigarette towards the ashtray, and missed.

‘Would even a madman make up something so outlandish?’

‘Of course he would. That’s what being mad is, you imagine mad things and think they really happened.’

At that moment there came another tentative tap at the door, and the tall young Garda entered, bearing a tray with tea things and a plate of biscuits. With his forearm, Hackett swept aside the jumble of papers on his desk, half of them tumbling on to the floor. The Garda set down the tray and made a hasty retreat, not risking a glance at Phoebe this time.

‘Will I be mother?’ Hackett said.

He poured the tea, and leaned far back on his chair, cradling the cup and saucer on the ledge of his little high round belly. Phoebe took a sip from her cup. The tea was lukewarm, and tasted like leather. If Hackett managed to spill it on himself, at least it wouldn’t scald him.

‘But would she go off like that, without a word to anyone?’ he said.

Phoebe looked past him again to the window. The seagull had departed without her noticing. Raindrops pattered against the glass, though the sun was shining. She had never understood the fuss people made about springtime. For her it was the season of ill-content, of unassuageable agitations. In this, as in other things, she knew herself to be her father’s daughter.

‘He asked if I would come down to Spain,’ she said.

Hackett let the front legs of his chair fall forward and himself along with them, still managing not to spill the tea. He stared at her. ‘What for?’

‘Well, to verify that it is April.’

Hackett set the cup and saucer on the desk before him with slow deliberation.

‘And will you go?’ he asked.