The fellow on the phone agreed to meet that night in The Hangman. Said he’d bring the gadget with him. Thirty quid, no questions asked. Terry got him down to twenty-five.

‘No, not for anything in particular,’ he said. ‘I just like to keep one on me, in case someone needs a ventilation job done.’

That had given them both a chuckle.

Chapter 25

Phoebe was furious at herself. What had possessed her to go to William Latimer, him of all people, and tell him about Quirke’s phone call? She felt shaken, and when she lit a cigarette her hands were shaking so much she could hardly keep the match flame alight. After paying for the tea, and for  Lati mer’s drinks, she had fled the Shelbourne and come to the Country Shop, which was nearby – she needed somewhere quiet to sit and think. She hurried down the basement steps and into the café and went straight to her usual corner table.

She had a fluttery sensation in her chest, as if dozens of butterflies were trapped in there and panicking.

The plump waitress with a wen at the side of her nose gave her a friendly smile. A lapel badge said her name was Rosita, which seemed unlikely – she didn’t look at all like a Rosita, Phoebe thought. She had worked here at the Country Shop for longer than Phoebe could remember – certainly since the days when she and Jimmy Minor used to meet here. Jimmy had been a born newspaper man, a newshound to the tips of his co-respondent shoes, as he used to say. Jimmy was a great movie-goer, and knew how they talked in the pictures – though she suspected he had never even seen a pair of co-respondent shoes. A story he was following, that involved Quirke, as it happened, had been the death of him. Phoebe remembered the day, remembered the very moment, when she heard that his body had been found floating in the canal at Leeson Street Bridge. He had been beaten to death and thrown into the water, like a dog, she had thought at the time. Like a dog.

Now for a moment she closed her eyes, steadying herself. She had known too much violence in her life. It was because of Quirke, because of being his daughter. He was a good man but a carrier of wickedness, like Typhoid Mary.

‘Are you all right?’ the waitress asked solicitously.

‘What?’ Phoebe said, lifting her eyes to the girl’s kindly face. She made herself smile. ‘Oh, yes, yes, I’m fine. Thank you.’

She looked around the room. She had come here with April too, a few times. But the Country Shop, the clientele of which consisted almost exclusively of housewives up from the country to do a day’s shopping, was far too dull for the likes of April – if there was anyone like April, which Phoebe was inclined to doubt.