He sat down on the cane chair by the open window. The street below was swarming, as always. Didn’t these fucking spics ever get tired of rushing around the place and yelling at each other?

Behind him the Girl was saying something, asking him a question, by the sound of it, but he ignored her.

He lit a cigarette. The hot smoke rasped in his throat. He thought of having another drink from the bottle, but didn’t. Stay sober. Stay in charge.

Black dress, white collar, pale northern face. Where had he seen her, where?

He took out the gun from where he had hidden it under the mattress on his side. It was a German model, .32 calibre, not great, but it packed a punch and was accurate enough. Not a patch on the little beauty he had let slip into the Irish Sea, of course.

He was strapping the holster under his left arm when the Girl put a hand on his shoulder, saying something to him in a sing-song whisper. She wasn’t trying to get him in the scratcher again, was she? A couple of hours ago he had deliberately broken her wrist, and now she had the hots for him again? He turned his head sideways and looked at her. Leaning over him, she gave him a sly, swollen smile, and took the cigarette from his fingers and put it to her glistening, pouting mouth and drew in a slow drag of smoke and let it trickle out again at the corners of her lips. He shook his head. She was insatiable.

‘That thing between your legs will wear out from overuse, sweetheart,’ he said to her, and made to push her away again. Then he stopped, and frowned.

The steps up from the beach, the sunlit seafront, the high, white façade of the hotel, and a polony in a black dress with a white collar waiting there for a taxi.

Yes.

Chapter 45

Quirke was lying on the bed with his shoes off, trying to read Calderón – in an English translation, of course – and not enjoy ing it much. Why would a Spanish dramatist set a play in Poland? Life Is a Dream, that’s for sure. The telephone on the nightstand rang, and he snatched up the receiver before the first peal had finished – Evelyn was asleep, lying on her side with her back turned to him, the silk of her dress drawn tight across her shoulder blades. He was afraid she would wake – her sleep, for him, was a magical state to be preserved and guarded against all interruption – but he needn’t have worried. It took a lot more than a tinkle on the telephone to wake this woman.

It was Phoebe’s voice.

‘She’s here,’ she said. ‘Come down and meet us in the bar.’