She waited, biting her lip. She could feel the beating of her heart.

There was a sort of hissing on the line, and the sound of people speaking in the background. An electric bell was ringing somewhere far off. Then she heard footsteps approaching. Rubber soles on rubber floor tiles.

‘Sí?’ It was a woman’s voice. ‘Quién es este, por favor?’

‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘I don’t speak Spanish. My name is Phoebe Griffin. I want—’

The line went dead.

Chapter 40

Down on the beach, not far from the Londres, Terry Tice was lighting a cigarette. He held the match in his cupped fists, for there was a breeze coming in from the sea. He was sitting on a big striped towel, with his elbows resting on his knees. He gazed idly out over the bay. He was wearing his fawn slacks and the striped shirt with the big sleeves, which he still wasn’t sure about. He didn’t see the point of beaches, and hadn’t even taken off his shoes, never mind his socks.

He felt conspicuous, with his white arms and whiter shins. Even as a kid he used to avoid the seaside, and when he was there, about the only pleasure he found was in kicking over the sandcastles the other kids had made.

People looked so stupid here, the tourists especially, the fat women as pale as suet, the men with the cuffs of their trousers rolled up and knotted handkerchiefs on their heads to ward off the sun. Then there were the he-men, flexing their muscles, as if they all thought they were Johnny Weissmuller. As for swimming, that really was for chumps. Imagine floundering around up to your neck out there, with them all screaming around you, and throwing water in each other’s faces, or standing with their hands on their hips and that faraway look on their faces that told you they were taking a piss.

The Girl was stretched out beside him, wearing a shiny black swimsuit that made her look a bit like a baby seal. She was lying on her front, her face turned to one side and her cheek resting on the backs of her hands. She was asleep, or at least she had her eyes closed.

She was a little beauty, he had to admit it. Her skin was a shade of dark gold, and warm and slightly rough to the touch. Her hair fascinated him, it was so black and darkly shiny. He had never seen hair like it, except on certain tinker women in the west of Ireland, when he was over there, at Carricklea. They used to come around every September, selling handmade tin cans for collecting blackberries in.