‘He said,’ Abdelhamid translated, ‘that you should not say her name so loud, and never after dark, not anywhere in Tangier. Even Americans are not safe from her.’ He smiled. ‘Aicha is a djinn, a spirit. She will call your name in the night and if you turn around, you will see the most beautiful woman in the world. She likes to drive men mad. So, if someone calls your name near the Bab al-Bahr, do not turn.’

Sam tried to smile. ‘I won’t.’

‘Ah.’ Abdelhamid sat back, his voice matter-of-fact. ‘The game is finished. Now we can ask Mouad.’

Mouad was an older, broader version of Abdelhamid, in his late sixties but still bulky with muscle, dressed in a sports jacket despite the heat. He had the same quick eyes as his brother, the same easy, mocking smile that widened when Abdel asked him about the writing case.

‘You think I remember one bag?’ he said. ‘We had fifty, at the shop, a hundred!’

‘But we had this one for a long time,’ Abdel insisted, speaking English for Sam’s benefit. ‘A small case, with gold letters. We had it twenty years, perhaps. You brought it in, I am sure.’

‘It belonged to an Englishman,’ Sam added hopefully.

‘English.’ The crease between Mouad’s eyebrows deepened. ‘Maybe it came from the English police, then. When the station closed, we took many things from there.’

‘What things?’ The word police rang in Sam’s ears.

Mouad shrugged. ‘Just things. They had a lot. Bags, coats, shoes. Perhaps taken from a person who did a crime, or as evidence. I am not sure. But when the English police left in … the fifties?’ He looked to Abdel for confirmation. ‘They sold all these small things, cheap. I bought some. Maybe that is where the case came from.’

‘Was that legal?’ The minute Sam asked it, he felt stupid. The brothers laughed.

‘They were not going to pay to send it back to England,’ Mouad smiled. ‘And anyway, no one cared. The crimes were old. The things didn’t matter any more.’

Sam frowned. If the writing case had been taken as evidence, what did that mean for the suitcase, abandoned at the hotel, as if someone had just disappeared? What did it mean for Alejandro del Potro? He tried to pull his mind back to the café.

‘And have you ever heard of a place called Dar Portuna?’ he asked. ‘Dar Nglîz, Abdel said it’s sometimes called. An Englishman lives there.’

‘Dar Nglîz.’ Mouad nodded. ‘Up by the wall, yes. You think the case came from there?’ He glanced rapidly at Abdelhamid. Sam turned, trying to see the other man’s face, only to find Abdel looking pointedly in the other direction. ‘No Englishman has lived at Dar Nglîz for a long time,’ Mouad continued slowly, still looking at his brother. ‘Some others, maybe, but not an Englishman.’