Latimer had registered none of this, and stood, distracted, with his arms out behind him while Miss O’Reilly slipped the coat on him and handed him his hat. He was thinking of Phoebe Griffin, and of what she had reported that bastard Quirke saying to her on the phone the night before. Christ almighty, but would that fellow never stop popping up in front of him, like one of those bottom-heavy toys that won’t stay down no matter how hard they’re knocked over? Quirke had meddled when poor Oscar did himself in, and now here he was again, claiming to have found April, when to all intents and purposes April was dead and buried. Quirke was the proverbial bad penny.

‘Where’s my umbrella?’ he growled, and was startled when the secretary said nothing, only marched out of the door and then marched back in again and unceremoniously thrust the thing at him, looking as if she would rather have walloped him over the head with it. What had got into her, for the love of God, to put that face on her? Women! he thought, and made a champing motion with his lower jaw.

On the stairs he paused to light a cigarette. He had already told Miss O’Reilly to phone the Taoiseach’s department, on the private line. Whenever trouble reared its head, especially the kind of trouble he was facing into now, there was only one man Bill Latimer would think of turning to.

He went out through the side gate on to Merrion Street. The Garda on duty tipped a finger respectfully to the brim of his cap, and the Minister gave a quick nod of acknowledgement. The trees in Merrion Square were dusted with spring’s first green shoots, not that he noticed. He turned right and walked the short distance to the Taoiseach’s office, and climbed the steps. Another Garda, another salute.

‘Good afternoon, Minister,’ said the old fellow in the glass booth just inside the door. Pink bald spot the size of a half-crown, grey moustache tinged yellow at the fringes, a small stain on the front of his waistcoat that looked like dried egg yolk. What was his name? Murphy? Molloy? Moran? He couldn’t remember. Bad, that. Always get the names into your head and be sure to remember them, that was one of the first rules of politics, or one of his first rules, anyway.

He was making for the lift, then changed his mind and took the stairs. Had to let out his belt a notch this morning. Middle-aged spread, he thought grimly, and then had to remind himself, more grimly still, that he could hardly consider himself middle-aged any more. How long could he keep going before he began to slow down? In his secret heart he half hoped his crowd would lose the coming election. Bowing out would be less of a blow to his pride if the party was in Opposition.