A terrible jangling broke the silence, made my bones leap in my skin and my heart blunder into panic. It was the bell, I realized, the bell at the gate. People hardly ever rang it. Bouzid usually knew who was coming and when. The tie slithered through my fingers. As I stooped for it, I saw something crammed into the bottom of the wardrobe.

Had it not been for the colour, it wouldn’t have caught my eye, but that shade of cream linen was lodged in my memory for ever. It was the suit Langham had worn the first day I saw him, in his shining car. Despite my fear, I reached down and tugged out the jacket. It was in a terrible state; it made me angry to see it so ill treated. I began to shake it, wondering if anything could be done, only to stop. One sleeve was stained, spattered cuff to elbow with something dark and rust-coloured.

Dried blood.

The bell jangled again, for longer this time, and I shoved the jacket back into the wardrobe, slung the tie over the rack and ran from the room, slamming the door behind me, my heart pounding down the stairs before I had reached the landing.

What had happened to the suit? I frantically tried to smooth my face, so that whoever was at the gate would not see the guilt or the blood spatters in my eyes.

I needn’t have bothered. It was only a small boy, perhaps seven or eight years old. He stared up at me from behind a huge, flat box.

‘For Señor del Potro from Señor Souissa,’ he told me gravely.

Souissa … my mind scrambled before I recognized the name of the tailor.

‘Is he your papa?’ I asked.

The boy nodded with such wide eyes that I wondered whether his papa had spilled my secret.

As soon as I got the package inside, I forgot all about the tailor’s son. In the safety of my locked room, I loosened the string around the box, my hands clammy with anticipation. I’d requested a British-style suit – Langham was British after all – and for a moment, I was afraid that the tailor might not have been up to the job. But as soon as I lifted the tissue paper, I knew I had chosen well, for here it was: a suit of pale tan flannel, as unobtrusive as fine leather. A jacket with notched lapels, a single-breast waistcoat, wider cut trousers that hugged the waist. Three ties, deep red, pale gold and cocoa brown, and shirts, gloriously smooth and unstained. Underwear too, and socks in black and tan. I didn’t want to think about how much it would all cost. When the bill arrived, perhaps Langham would summon me into his office to explain myself. Perhaps he would close the door, leaving the two of us alone …