Phoebe Griffin. He had been putting off thinking about her. He knew there had been some trouble about her being Quirke’s daughter. Hadn’t he handed her over as a baby to his adoptive brother and his wife, to rear her as their own? Which was why her name was Griffin and not Quirke. She was an oddly self-possessed young woman, yet at the same time there was something about her that was tentative and remote. He found her slightly unnerving, in her black dress with the bit of lace at the collar, with her thin pale hands resting in her lap. She wore no make-up, except for a touch of unemphatic lipstick. She was interesting, there was no denying that, though for his part he wasn’t sure he would care to be the subject of her interest. He suspected it would sooner or later involve a mauling, though if she did sink her claws into him she would do so absent-mindedly, as cats sometimes do, unintentionally, when they’re thinking of something else.

He took his drink with him upstairs, and went into the bedroom where he now slept alone. He should think about packing a bag. He had no clothes suitable for a sunny climate – he was a homebody and didn’t care much for abroad, and avoided hot countries especially. Having gone through his wardrobe, all he could come up with were a baggy pair of khaki trousers he hadn’t worn for years, and a lightweight pale-grey suit smelling of mildew. He would have to buy things, short-sleeved shirts, slacks, suchlike. But not sandals. He drew the line at sandals. There was little to choose between sandals and a flock of china ducks flying up the wallpaper over the mantel piece.

He went back downstairs. He was tempted to have another whiskey, but didn’t. The two small tots of Jameson he had drunk had started up a buzzing in his head. He stood in the middle of the living room, looking out again at the garden. A shower of rain fell, it lasted only a matter of seconds, then the sun came out again, making the lawn sparkle. A cobweb in an upper corner of the window outside was laced with tiny, jewel-like droplets. He liked the Irish climate. His skin was pale, the Spanish sun would turn it pink in a matter of minutes. The hot, slightly tacky feel of sunburnt skin gave him the shivers.

Sunglasses. He couldn’t remember if he had a pair. Well, he could buy them down there, in San Sebastián. That name again. He wondered where the emphases fell. That accent on the final ‘a’ worried him. Sebastiaan?