‘Conor Latimer, the father, shot himself,’ Quirke went on. ‘That was in ’47. Big scandal, and of course it was hushed up – tragic accident, terrible loss, the usual. Conor, it turned out, had been interfering with his children for years, both of them, April and the brother. Which probably accounts for the two of them carrying on together the way they did after the father was gone.’ He held up his glass and gazed at the remaining quarter-inch of whiskey, in which a spike of amber light trembled. ‘April got pregnant by the brother – did you know that? Did a job on herself to terminate it, nearly bled to death in the process.’ He made a wry face. ‘Nice tale of family life, eh? And you wonder why the girl ran off.’

Strafford was keenly aware of the vast dark space of the sleeping hotel all around him, and of the night outside, and the dark sea. He really was very tired. Quirke, he could see, was itching for a fight. He knew very well the source of his rancour. He was afraid he had made a fool of himself. Even if the woman he had met was April Latimer, would it not have been better to keep silent? He had probably been at least halfway drunk when he telephoned his daughter, and now he was stuck with the consequences. He said:

‘You don’t like me, do you, Strafford.’

Strafford sighed.

‘I neither like nor dislike you. What does it matter?’

He wondered how much Quirke had drunk this evening before setting out for the station. His eyes were blurred, slow-moving, the lids swollen.

‘What do you think of my daughter?’ he asked.

Strafford made to speak, but paused. He envied people who drank. It must be like putting on a mask. With a mask to shield you, you could say anything you liked.

‘Doctor Quirke, I was told – not asked, no – I was told to accompany your daughter on this trip. I’m not sure why, as I said. Chief Superintendent Hackett works in mysterious ways, as you know. But I’m here now.’

There was silence, then Quirke drank off the last of the whiskey and stood up. Strafford was surprised to see how steady he was on his feet. Perhaps he wasn’t drunk at all, perhaps he had only been pretending. That would be another kind of mask.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said shortly, doing up the middle button of his summer jacket. ‘I didn’t mean to provoke you.’

Strafford smiled.

‘I’m not provoked.’

‘Yes, well.’

Quirke turned and walked away across the lobby. Strafford waited a second, then followed him. The lift door opened with a skeletal rattle. They stepped into the cage and stood side by side, hands clasped before them, like a pair of mourners on the way to a funeral. The lift jerked into motion.

‘It is her,’ Quirke said, his gaze fixed straight ahead. ‘It is April Latimer.’