He spent some time ransacking the flat in search of cash, but found nothing except Percy’s collection of dirty photographs. Some of the pictures were hair-raising, even to Terry’s less than innocent eye – no tarts, just fellows with enormous how’s-your-fathers doing the most amazing things to each other. There was a space behind a loose skirting board in the kitchen where he used to hide some of his own things, and now he stuffed the snaps in there, he wasn’t sure why – what did he care if the rozzers got their paws on Percy’s grubby secrets? – and hammered the board back in place with his fist. His fingerprints were all over the flat, of course, but that didn’t matter: it was a point of pride with him that he had never been nicked and his prints weren’t on file.

In the morning he took the train to Holyhead, and that night got on the mail boat and sailed away to Ireland. Even if they did manage to stick him with Percy’s killing, the Irish government would never extradite him – not to England, the old enemy. He was safe, he was sure of it. Or almost sure.

DONOSTIA

Chapter 9

Quirke was hauled into hazy consciousness by the medleyed sound of what seemed to be – could it be? – a band of minstrels playing on flutes and drums and squealing bagpipes. He opened his eyes and was dazzled by splinters of morning sunlight. Evelyn was sitting by the open window, smoking a cigarette and reading a Simenon novel, in the original French. She had been down for breakfast already. He hadn’t even heard her get up. Now she turned to him.

‘Good morning, sleepyhead,’ she said.

‘Is there really a band playing?’ he croaked. ‘Or am I imagining it?’

‘Yes, there is a band, going past. Traditional costumes, very gay and colourful. It must be a special day for the Basques, some festival. It’s charming – come and see.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

He sat up, gathering all the pillows on the bed and making a mound of them at his back. At once he was overcome by a fit of coughing. He coughed like this every morning; it was a sort of ritual his lungs went through, their version of calisthenics.

‘Jesus,’ he gasped, thumping a fist against his chest.

His wife shook her head at him.

‘You smoke too much,’ she said. ‘In fact, you should not smoke at all.’

‘You’re a fine one to talk.’

‘I smoke exactly six cigarettes a day.’

‘So do I,’ he said, with a straight face.

‘Ha!’

He gave her a death’s-head grin and reached defiantly for the Senior Service packet on the bedside table. He fumbled a cigarette to his mouth and lit it with the silver lighter that was one of the presents Evelyn had given him on the eve of their wedding.