In the hall, a coin-operated telephone was mounted on the wall above the big, scarred oak table that stood stolidly on four thick legs, like a retired beast of burden. She delved in her purse and came up with three single pennies. She liked the dull, brownish smell of the coins; it reminded her of Saturday morning trips to the sweet shop with her pocket money warm in her palm.

She consulted the tattered telephone book chained to the wall, and dialled the number of April’s uncle, William Latimer, at his home in Blackrock. The maid answered. Phoebe thought she remembered her, a tubby little redhead with a supercilious manner. She said Doctor Latimer was not at home but in the Dáil. Her tone implied that only a simpleton wouldn’t know where the Minister would be in the middle of a weekday afternoon.

Phoebe found more pennies and called Doctor Latimer’s parliamentary office. In the last election, he had kept his seat with an increased majority and had been appointed Minister of Defence. It was common knowledge that this had been his goal since he had first entered politics. The Latimers were a warlike clan, who, after independence came, had taken on the mantle of bourgeois respectability. Bill Latimer was still well known for – indeed, thrived on – his uncompromising republican opinions.

‘He’s in the Chamber,’ his secretary said brusquely, when, after a long delay, Phoebe was at last put through to her. ‘There’s an important debate going on.’

‘Please give him a message,’ Phoebe said. ‘This is—’ She hesitated. She was probably the last person in the world Bill Latimer would care to hear from, given that she had been in the car with Quirke and Oscar Latimer that fateful morning on Howth Head, the morning when Oscar killed himself. She took a deep breath. ‘My name is Griffin,’ she said, ‘Phoebe Griffin.’

‘Will the Minister know who you are?’ the secretary asked, sounding sceptical.

‘Yes, I’m sure he will. Would you tell him I wish to speak to him urgently?’

‘Oh, yes?’ The voice on the other end of the line sounded more sceptical still. ‘May I ask what the matter is you wish to speak to him about?’

‘His niece, April Latimer.’

Silence, and then:

‘Please call back in an hour.’

Chapter 21

Phoebe entered the tea lounge in the Shelbourne Hotel and was shown to a small table below one of the three broad sash windows that looked out on to the railings of St Stephen’s Green on the other side of the road. A few other tables were occupied. The clientele here was composed mostly of weather- beaten, tweedy gentlemen and delicately preserved elderly ladies with skin like faded, rosy-pink parchment.

She ordered tea and cakes.

The soft spring rain had gathered its forces and started up yet again, and was gently greying the trees behind the black railings over there.