Quirke and his wife exchanged another, larger look. By now it was plain, to Quirke at least, that there had been a row between Cruz and his girl, and a serious one, at that. Quirke surmised that Angela Lawless had been furious at Cruz for accepting the Quirkes’ invitation without having consulted her. Thinking this, he settled down to derive what pleasure from the evening that he might. He enjoyed occasions of social awkwardness, though he tried to hide it. The glassy crash of brittle surfaces shattering was sweet and intricate music to his ears. People revealed so much of themselves in distressful circumstances, and tonight had more potential than he would have dared hope for. A lovers’ quarrel was always good fun, sometimes even for the lovers. Evelyn, from whom he could conceal nothing, was eyeing him reprovingly, though not, he saw, without sharing a little in his sense of happy anticipation. After all, she was a shrink – that forbidden word – and here, potentially at least, was strife aplenty. He rubbed his hands and suggested a bottle of champagne. Cruz, ill-temperedly picking at crumbs on the tablecloth, frowned more deeply and gave his head a swift, dismissive shake, as if at a breach of good manners.

‘But you’ll drink some wine, surely?’ Quirke persisted.

‘Yes yes,’ Cruz answered shortly, to get the business out of the way.

Quirke summoned the waiter – it was the retired toreador again – and ordered the most expensive bottle on the list. When the waiter had gone, Quirke showed the list to Cruz and pointed out the vintage he had ordered, asking his approval, but really to make sure he would see the price. But Cruz hardly looked up from the little cone of crumbs he had built beside his plate. Quirke grinned. Things were shaping up nicely. Evelyn gave his knee a warning with a fingertip under the table. She knew these playful moods of his, and how often they ended not in laughter but tears.

A plate of fried sardines and a basket of bread were brought, to keep them occupied while they awaited the  tardy Doctor Lawless. A silence settled on the table, which the ar rival of the wine relieved only a little. Quirke invited the doctor to perform the ritual tasting, but he made a sharply dismissive gesture with his hand, and said he knew nothing about wine, his tone implying that those who did were of an irredeemably trivial cast of mind. Quirke signalled brusquely to the waiter to fill the glasses.

Evelyn was asking Doctor Cruz if San Sebastián was his home town, and if he spoke the Basque language. The doctor pushed himself back in his chair and, lifting his head, peered at her along the side of his finely chiselled nose, his eyebrows raised high, as if such a question verged on the insulting.

‘I am from Cádiz,’ he announced, with heavy emphasis. ‘In the south.’