‘You found a suitcase,’ Abdelhamid said, when the hubbub died down. He lit his pipe, and drew on it a few times before looking at Sam, smiling. ‘My friend’s boy, Mohamed works there. He told me about a visit from a mad American, who said he was a writer.’

Sam grimaced. ‘I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.’

Abdelhamid waved his words away. ‘I said to myself, if Hackett finds anything worth selling, he will bring it to me. If he does not …’ He shrugged.

‘Still, I should’ve told you.’

‘You have told me now,’ Abdel said, and drank his coffee.

Sam did the same. He began to feel at ease for the first time in days, the genial noise of the match, the kif and the coffee melting his tension like glue. He glanced over at Abdelhamid. The man was a bit of a crook, no doubt, but he was straightforward about it; he’d never tried to fleece Sam, always charged fair prices for kif. If anyone knew Tangier – as it was now – Abdelhamid did. Which meant he might know of Dar Portuna. Sam scraped the spoon through the coffee residue. Could he trust him? That whole world seemed so secretive; Dar Portuna, Langham, even the woman, Zahrah. He looked up to find Abdelhamid watching him, and swallowed. He had to be careful.

‘Have you …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Have you ever heard of a house called Dar Portuna?’

Abdelhamid rubbed a hand across his greying stubble. ‘Dar Portuna,’ he repeated. ‘No, I do not think so. Where is it? In the city?’

‘Yes, up in the casbah, by the old walls. Near the Bab al-Bahr.’ Abdel’s face changed, recognition replacing thoughtfulness. ‘You know it?’ Sam asked.

‘A big house, white walls all around?’

Sam nodded.

‘I know the house.’ Abdelhamid frowned. ‘But not this name, Portuna. We have always called it Dar Nglîz. The English House.’

‘Yes.’ Sam gripped the coffee glass. ‘It belongs to an Englishman. A man called Langham?’

‘Langham.’ Abdel shook his head. ‘I don’t know that name.’ He cleared his throat. ‘People always said Dar Nglîz was cursed. It’s a good story.’

‘Cursed?’ In the noisy, sweat-thick café, the word seemed ridiculous. ‘What do you mean?’

Abdel leaned forwards. ‘Cursed by Aicha Kandicha. People say you can hear her voice, by the Bab al-Bahr. It is the sea gate, and the sea is hers.’

‘Who’s Aicha Kandicha?’

One of the other men turned around when he heard that, looked at Sam, and said something in Darija.