She was instantly wary.

‘At a rather grand hotel, I believe,’ she said, purposely vague. ‘On the seafront, somewhere.’

‘Aye, he does himself well, your da.’

He finished his drink and stood up. She caught a whiff of his flattish, slightly sour odour – it was the smell of a man who had spent too many hours in smoke-filled committee rooms, and who didn’t send his suits to the dry cleaners often enough.

‘If your father calls again, let me know,’ he said, thrusting his arms into the overcoat the waitress was holding up behind him.

‘Yes, I will,’ Phoebe said.

She was lying. She wanted no more dealings with William Latimer.

When he had gone, the waitress looked at her timidly, showing her the bill.

‘He forgot to pay for the drink,’ she said.

Chapter 24

Terry Tice checked himself into a kip on Gardiner Street that grandly called itself the Gardiner Arms. He could have afforded something better. It wasn’t a question of money – he had plenty of that, from the jobs Percy had put his way during the six months they knew each other. But he might attract attention to himself if he put up at the Gresham or the Shelbourne. Stick among your own, Reggie Kray used to say, it’s the best camouflage there is. Reggie should have heeded his own advice, instead of mixing with the toffs. A great snob, was Reggie.

The old guy behind the desk in the Gardiner Arms had the look of a walrus, with fat shoulders and a sloped back and a tired moustache drooping at the tips. He was almost entirely bald, yet there was dandruff on the collar of his greasy uniform. He shoved the register across the desk and watched with indifference as Terry signed his name. He said there would be a five-quid deposit, and swivelled a slack-lidded eye in the direction of Terry’s expensive suitcase – pigskin, Harrods – but made no comment. A cigarette with an inch of ash at the end of it was stuck in the corner of his mouth. He didn’t take it out even when he was talking – which he didn’t do much of – and the ash stayed in place. Well, everybody has a skill, Terry reflected.

In a good mood, he was. Nice and relaxed. Yet he had a feeling too of – what was it? Expectation, it seemed to be. But expectation of what? A few days in Dublin wasn’t that exciting a prospect.

His room, on the first floor, looked down into a yard with dustbins in it. A mangy cat with orange fur sat on top of a soot-blackened brick wall, flicking its tail. There had been rain earlier but it was stopped now, and the day was blustery, with high clouds scudding across a clear blue sky. Spring. That must be why he had that fizzy feeling. On days like this, something always seemed about to happen. Something good.