As they entered the lobby Phoebe looked about for  Evelyn, but Quirke said she had probably got tired of waiting so long and gone to bed. Phoebe thought of pointing out that it wasn’t her fault the train had been late.

‘Oh, I was so looking forward to seeing her,’ she said.

In anyone else it would have been rude not to have waited up, she reflected, but Evelyn was not anyone else. All the same, it was a pity she wasn’t here. She had a moderating effect on her husband, who was, Phoebe suspected, a little afraid of her.

Strafford hung back, wary of coming between father and daughter. Quirke’s violent temper was legendary.

‘What about a nightcap,’ Quirke said. It wasn’t a question.

A porter had gone off with the suitcases. The receptionist, absurdly handsome, was tall and thin with oiled black hair combed smoothly back and a neat black moustache. His expression was one of polite disdain.

Phoebe and Strafford signed the register and handed over their passports, and Quirke led the way into the bar. They were the only ones there. A big, exquisitely detailed model of a sailing ship stood on a shelf behind glass. They sat at a low table. Phoebe could hear faintly from outside the sound of a wave softly collapsing. She had the sense of moonlight, too, though she hadn’t noticed a moon when they arrived. The foreignness of everything made her feel a little dazed, yet at the same time there was nothing she didn’t recognise – the ashtray on the table, the feel of the carpet underfoot, the glossy darkness in the windows.

An elderly waiter appeared out of the shadows, bowing and smiling. Phoebe asked for a glass of wine.

‘There’s a local white that you’ll like,’ Quirke said. He spoke a word to the waiter that she didn’t catch. Strafford would take only mineral water, and Quirke couldn’t mask his look of scorn. For himself he ordered a Jameson.

Strafford drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and looked about incuriously. Phoebe thought she had never known anyone so lacking in affect. That would be the Protestant in him, she said to herself, and immediately felt guilty.

The waiter came with the drinks, and little glass bowls of crackers and olives, and rolled pieces of raw ham stuck through with toothpicks.

Phoebe took a sip of wine. There were tiny bubbles in it. They went up her nose, and she had to suppress a sneeze.

She turned to Quirke. ‘So – April is alive, and you’ve met her.’

It was the first mention she had made of her friend. Quirke bridled.

‘I believe it’s her,’ he said defensively. ‘That’s why you’re here, to prove me right, or wrong.’

‘Did you say you had dinner with her, you and Evelyn? Did you tell her you knew who she was?’