Quirke was glad to be free of the restaurant, the four walls of which had seemed to be drawing steadily closer throughout the evening. He called out now a spuriously cheery, loud farewell, and pressed a hand firmly into the small of Evelyn’s back, preparatory to both of them making their escape, telling himself never, never again. Cruz, however, seeming belatedly to feel that the proprieties had not been fully observed, said that he and Angela would walk with them to their hotel. At this the young woman gave a start, and seemed about to object, but said nothing, and lapsed back into a sulky silence.

They crossed the street. The river flowed silently beside them, sprinkled with shivery lights. The footpath was narrow, and the two women moved ahead and walked on side by side. Quirke lit a cigarette. He was tired. In the night air the good effects of the wine were dissipating rapidly, and his hand had begun to pain him again, badly.

Cruz spoke of the history of San Sebastián. In the Napoleonic Wars, the city had been razed to the ground by undisciplined and marauding British and Portuguese troops. Quirke’s thoughts drifted. His eye was on the young  woman walking ahead with Evelyn. He wondered what they had found to talk about.

Angela Lawless. No, that name wasn’t right, it just wasn’t.

Once, in the past, another young woman with the same initials, A. L., had briefly loomed large in Quirke’s life. She had died, violently, at the hands of her own brother. A tragic and ugly business.

Recalling this other A. L., Quirke suddenly remembered that he had promised to telephone his daughter in Dublin this evening, to say hello and to tell her how much, supposedly, he was enjoying the holiday. She would be amused to hear of the ghastly evening he and Evelyn had just endured, all of it his fault for having suggested it.

Cruz had come to the end of his history lecture, and, after a pause, suddenly asked:

‘How did you find her?’

Quirke was startled.

‘My daughter?’ he said. Cruz looked at him in perplexity. ‘Sorry, I was thinking of my— I was thinking of something else.’

He thought of mentioning the other A. L., and the fact that Phoebe, his daughter, had been her friend.

Cruz was still looking at him, still frowning.

‘Come, Doctor Quirke,’ Cruz said, ‘you don’t expect us to believe that you are here in Donostia by chance? Do you think us so naive?’

Quirke stopped. He was baffled.

‘Doctor Cruz, I have to tell you I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Cruz smiled coldly, as they stood face to face under the night’s glistening dome.

‘Who are you, exactly, Doctor Quirke?’ he asked.

Quirke gave a helpless, spluttering laugh.

‘Who am I, “exactly”? That’s a question I often put to myself, but get no answer.’