She was sorry she had asked. He fiddled with a stack of papers on the desk. He was shy of social occasions. Quirke’s wedding he would have considered altogether too grand an affair for the likes of him. Hackett and his missus – a famously elusive entity – kept themselves to themselves.

‘Mind you, I do miss seeing him around, the bold Doctor Quirke,’ the detective went on. ‘We used to have the odd drink together, in the old days.’

They were silent, both thinking of ‘the old days’. They had always been easy in each other’s company, or almost always. Hackett leaned back on his chair. He shifted his legs under the desk and his boots squeaked.

‘So,’ he said, ‘you tell me Doctor Quirke believes he spotted the late Miss Latimer down in Spain somewhere?’

‘Yes. In San Sebastián. It’s in the north. Maybe you—?’ She stopped herself, and winced.

‘No,’ he said blandly, ‘no, I’ve only ever been to the south. Málaga. Maybe you—?’ Now she smiled. Touché! ‘And what,’ he went on, ‘was she doing with herself, down there, the ghostly girl?’

He was regarding her with a sceptical twinkle.

‘She’s working in a hospital,’ Phoebe said, a shade too loudly, conscious of sounding defensive. ‘That’s to say’ – she hesitated – ‘the person my father met is a hospital doctor. He cut his hand and had to have it stitched. She – April, or whoever – treated him. In fact, she didn’t, in the end – treat him, I mean. Someone else did – another doctor.’

She touched a hand to her forehead.

‘I see,’ Hackett said, though plainly he didn’t see at all. He was taking none of this seriously, or seemed not to be, at least – one could never tell, with Hackett. All at once her confidence deserted her, and she felt foolish.

There was a tap at the door, and a uniformed Garda entered. He was young and ungainly, with big hands and bigger feet. Hackett eyed him darkly.

‘You took your time,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a pot of tea, and a plate of ginger snaps.’ The young man bobbed his long, large-eared head apologetically, and withdrew. As he was shutting the door, he gave Phoebe a quick glance and shyly smiled. Hackett, watching him go, clicked his tongue. ‘I don’t know where they’re getting them from these days,’ he said darkly. ‘Straight out of the cradle, it seems like.’

Phoebe looked past him through the window to the airy view outside. Sunshine and cloud-shadow chased each other across the rooftops.

Hackett brought out a packet of Gold Flake. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked.

‘Please, go ahead.’

The detective struck a match and lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Phoebe thought of lighting one of her own ‘fancy ones’, but didn’t.