‘Oh, leave it, will you, please?’

He was giving her a headache. He put out a hand to touch her but she pretended not to notice, and stepped away from him.

Damn, she said to herself. Damn damn damn.

Where was that taxi?

She walked away from Quirke, and approached Strafford where he sat under the awning, poring over his book.

‘You know, you really should go home,’ she said.

He looked up at her, pretending to be surprised. He was just like Paul when he brushed that limp wing of hair away from his forehead. She felt like kicking him on the shin.

‘Why do you say that?’ he asked.

‘Well, you’re not doing much good here, are you.’

This he considered for a moment, looking past her to the sea. Then he turned his gaze on her again and smiled.

‘Someone must watch, it is said. Someone must be there.’

She blinked. This was not the response she had expected from him, or anything like it. To her consternation, she felt her face go red.

‘Is that – is that a quotation?’ she stammered.

‘Yes. Kafka.’

‘Oh.’

All at once she saw him in a new light, at once sombre and bright. Shaken, in a way she didn’t understand, she turned and walked away from him rapidly, seeming to herself to stumble.

Someone to be there. It was what she longed for.

Across the road, a young couple were coming up the steps from the beach. The girl, pretty, her mouth painted a garish shade of scarlet, wore a loose linen dress, and was barefoot. The young man following after her carried a beach towel and a straw basket. He also had a book, Phoebe noticed, a paperback with an orange cover. He wore fawn trousers and shoes with buckles. She frowned, watching him.

Quirke came and stood beside her.

‘Do you know him?’ he asked.

‘It’s strange, I think I’ve seen him before somewhere.’

‘He’s not from these parts.’ He paused. ‘Orphanage boy.’

She turned to him.

‘What? How can you tell?’

He shrugged.

‘We know our own.’

Phoebe’s taxi arrived at last. The doorman stepped forward smartly and opened the door for her. She got in. The taxi drove away.

Now Quirke walked over to where Strafford sat.

‘You should go after her,’ he said.

Strafford looked up at him, feigning surprise.

‘What?’

‘Go after her,’ Quirke repeated. He gave a sort of laugh. ‘You’ll get to say “Follow that taxi”, like a real detective.’

Strafford closed his book and stood up.

‘What do you expect me to do, exactly?’

‘I don’t know. Keep an eye on her.’

‘Listen, Doctor Quirke, I really think—’

Quirke lifted a hand to silence him.

‘Just watch out for her, will you, please? I told you, I have a bad feeling. There’s a taxi, look – flag it down.’