It was easy to tell the visitors by the pallor of their skin and the tentative way they went about choosing a place on the beach on which to settle themselves. Quirke said they reminded him of a dog looking for a spot in which to do its business, and Evelyn frowned and clicked her tongue reprovingly.

For the bathers and the sun-worshippers, there was also the tricky matter of how to get into their swimsuits. Officers of the Guardia Civil, in their operetta uniforms, regularly patrolled the promenade, to make sure that no one, especially not a woman, was showing more than the minimum of bare skin. Since there was no official definition of what was and was not permitted in the way of undress, people could never be sure that they wouldn’t suddenly be growled at in that particular, guttural tone the Guardia adopted when addressing tourists. Though Quirke noticed that the ones who spoke the most politely were the ones who sounded the most menacing.

Behind him in the room Evelyn gave a small exclamation of shock. She was reading a Spanish newspaper. He turned to her with a questioning eye.

‘General Franco has refused an appeal by the Pope to spare the lives of two Basque nationalists,’ she said. ‘They will be garrotted tomorrow at dawn. Garrotted! How can such a monster still be in power?’

‘Better keep that kind of question to yourself, my dear,’ he said mildly, ‘even here in Basqueland, where they loathe the strutting little brute.’

It was lunchtime. Quirke had already noted that no matter how the hours dragged, somehow, inexplicably, it always seemed to be just about time for lunch, or for an afternoon glass of wine, for an aperitif, for dinner. He complained about this to his wife – ‘I feel like a baby in an incubator’ – as he complained to her of so many things. She pretended not to hear.

He noticed he was drinking less down here, or less, anyway, than he would have in similar circumstances at home. But could there ever be, at home, circumstances similar to these? Maybe, he thought, the way of life here, the slow mornings, the softness of the slightly damp, lacquered air, the general yieldingness of things – maybe it would bring about a transformation in his character, make a new man of him. He laughed to himself. Fat chance.

Already this morning he had made a fool of himself by mentioning something about the quality of the Mediterranean light.

‘But we’re on the Atlantic,’ Evelyn said. ‘Didn’t you know that?’

Of course he knew it. He had studied the map of the Iberian peninsula in the airline magazine on the flight coming down here, trying to take his mind off the rain clouds through which the frighteningly delicate aeroplane – an aluminium tube with wings – was making its turbulent way. How could he have forgotten what coast they were on?