The waitress brought another cup. Latimer seized the teapot from Phoebe’s tray and poured out tea for himself, ignoring Phoebe’s own three-quarters empty cup.

She opened her handbag and brought out a packet of Passing Cloud.

‘What class of a yoke are they?’ Latimer demanded disparagingly, as she selected a cigarette from the packet. ‘I never saw them in that shape before. Oval, by God! What next.’

Phoebe clicked a little silver lighter into flame. She could clearly sense his disapproval of what she was doing – it wasn’t respectable for girls to smoke in public. He brought out a packet of his own – Player’s Navy Cut – and lit one.

‘My father telephoned last night,’ Phoebe said. ‘From Spain.’

‘What’s he doing there?’ Latimer asked, with a derisive snort, as if the idea of anybody being abroad were inherently ridiculous. He selected one of the little cakes and popped it whole into his mouth, and, munching, showed her again his awful grin.

This man’s reputation as a bruiser was well known. All the Latimers had something of his bullish, mocking manner – even April had it, if in a less aggressive, or at least a more subtle form. The men of the family, and some of the women, too, had fought in successive wars against the British. Now the British were gone and the Latimers and their like had taken over, and lost no opportunity to let everyone else know it.

Phoebe took a deep draw on her cigarette. She was angry at herself, and was having a hard time not letting it show. She bitterly regretted having contacted this big, brash man, who had swaggered in and sat now in complacent triumph among the relicts of an Anglo-Irish class that had been the rulers of his country for centuries. She felt like a swimmer on a high diving board whose nerve had failed.

‘I’m told you’ve something to say to me about my poor unfortunate niece,’ Latimer said, picking up her napkin and using it to wipe the cake crumbs from his fingers. ‘What has Doctor Quirke to do with that?’

‘My father,’ Phoebe said, her lungs contracting as she took the plunge regardless, ‘my father believes he has seen April. In Spain.’

He stared at her, and blinked once, slowly. Then he licked his lips and glanced quickly around the room. She was reminded, disconcertingly, of Paul Viertel’s way of casting a furtive glance out of the window as he was quitting her flat.

‘Christ almighty,’ Latimer breathed. ‘April – our April? Sure, how could he have seen her? – she’s dead this four year and more.’ He did again his grin that wasn’t a grin. ‘I’d say now, my girl, your da must be dreaming.’

Chapter 22