‘It’s just a hat,’ he said.

‘But you look so handsome in it.’ He didn’t. Now she noticed his bandaged hand. ‘What happened to you?’

‘I got bitten by an oyster.’

Strafford had hung back, and now Phoebe turned and put out a hand to draw him forward, and in doing so she was, for a moment, for Quirke, the reincarnation of her dead mother.

‘This is Inspector Strafford,’ she said brightly, as if he was for sale and she was offering him as a bargain. ‘We were on the aeroplane together, and then the train. He’s reading  Tacitus.’

The two men shook hands warily. Quirke regarded the detective with a cold eye. They had dealt with each other on a number of occasions, distantly, in their professional capacities.

‘Hello, Strafford. Fancy meeting you here.’

The tone was drily ironic. Strafford said nothing, only nodded, smiled. The antipathy was mutual.

‘Did you have to wait long?’ Phoebe asked.

‘They told me you’d be late,’ Quirke said. ‘I kept the taxi.’

He looked cross. There were moments, not many, when Phoebe was a little afraid of her father. Something lay coiled in him that at the slightest pretext might rise up and strike. His past was the serpent, and it never slept.

‘Come on,’ he said shortly, turning away.

The taxi driver, who was swarthy and fat and somewhat smelly, took Phoebe’s and Strafford’s bags and heaved them into the boot. Strafford held open the rear door, and Phoebe, flashing a small smile of thanks, dipped past him and seated herself. He shut the door and walked around to the other side. Quirke was in the front, beside the driver, his hat on his knees. Seen from the back he was a monolith, large, square, silent. The driver started the engine, and the taxi, its tyres squealing, shot away into the night.

Phoebe was sorry she had come. She was angry at Quirke. He had urged her to come down here, and now he was in one of his moods and hadn’t a civil word to say to her. Strafford’s leg was touching hers. She was not sure if he was aware of it. She moved to her own side, and looked out of the window. They drove for some way beside a river, very fast, then turned abruptly and crossed a bridge and entered a narrow cobbled street.

‘This is the Old Town,’ Quirke said, without turning. ‘The seafront is over there.’

Bars were still open, and there were coloured lights, and, faintly, the sound of guitar music.

Oh, why did I let myself be persuaded to come? Phoebe thought, with an inward wail.

Chapter 37

The hotel was a happy surprise. She had expected something dingy and faded, certainly not this smoothly elegant establishment. Quirke said yes, it was nice enough. He managed a grudging smile.