He’d take a bunch for Madame Sarah, he decided. If he wanted to stay, he’d probably have to persuade her to overlook more late rent. He was about to break off a stem when something caught his eye, deep in the tangle of vegetation. A curl of metal.

Dropping the case, he shoved the branches aside. They caught at his hair as he tugged old stems away from the ironwork affixed to the wall, uncovering a D, then an a and an r until at last he stood, his nails green with crushed jasmine flowers, staring at the rusted letters:

Dar Portuna

Hop Toad

Take one jigger of Hungarian apricot eau-de-vie, the juice of half a lime and two dashes of Peychaud’s bitters. Shake well and drink very cold to make the heart leap and the tongue jump.

In Tangiers, there is always a way in. Whether it’s a soft word or a wink, a jackboot or a silver dollar in the palm, there is always something that will open the door.

I thought Dolores Moberly would be my key, and so I let her drag me through the night, let her waft brandy and broken French and Spanish into my face. I didn’t hear a word. I was too busy looking around, as we stepped heavily from the taxi.

We had pulled up alongside an ancient stone archway. From up here, I could see the lights of ships, glinting on the strait.

‘Where are we?’ I asked impatiently. I’d expected us to pull into a driveway, or alongside a grand entrance. Here, I could see nothing but a high, white wall, running away into darkness.

‘We’re here, darling.’ Dolores took my arm. ‘That’s Dar Portuna, look!’ She pointed to the wall, the tiny bag swinging on her wrist. ‘Funny name, isn’t it? Wait!’ She stopped dead on the dark road, listening.

Noises were drifting over the top of the wall: a treble of laughter, a splashing sound, a squalling jazz horn that broke the night open. I forgot the woman who held my arm and walked forwards, my nose to the air, because now I could smell cigar smoke and jasmine, heady in the night. The sounds and scents led us around the corner to a gate, where double wooden doors barred the way and an ornate, curling sign announced:

Dar Portuna

‘If I’d known we were coming to a party, I would’ve worn my silk,’ Dolores was murmuring, dabbing at her face.

Her two friends had trailed behind us, sullen and smoking. I tried the handle of the gate. It was locked. There was a bell, buffed bronze, and I jabbed at it without a second thought. Too late I realized that my suit was dusty, that the tie was loose around my collar, the woman beside me undeniably drunk. The door swung open.

‘Señor Langham—’