‘The passport.’ Sam forced himself to look up. ‘It’s gone.’

The man’s eyes were hard. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘The passport, belonging to Alejandro del Potro,’ Sam said, pushing hopelessly at the clothes. ‘I don’t understand, I put it in myself, this afternoon. I haven’t—’

I haven’t taken my eyes off it, he was going to say, but that wasn’t true. He had. He’d left it at Interpress, and Norton had been the one to fetch it from the back room … He let out a noise of frustration. ‘That bastard, he took it.’

‘Who?’ The man leaned forward.

‘Ellis Norton, a journalist from Interpress.’

‘A journalist.’ The man’s face was tightening with anger. ‘What have you told him about me? What do you know?’

‘What could I have told him?’ Sam shoved himself to his feet, his temper flaring, kindled by Norton’s actions, by the way his story was being twisted into something rotten. ‘I don’t even know who you are! Arthur Langham has been dead for fifty years. That’s why Norton took the passport. He wants to know who you are and what you had to do with Langham’s death. And so do I.’

The man stared. ‘I never said I was Langham,’ he spoke slowly.

‘But you let me believe it.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’ Sam swallowed, trying to tamp down the anger. ‘So I would give you the case? It never even belonged to you.’

The man didn’t answer. He just stood, staring down at the suitcase, with its old, jumbled possessions.

‘What will he write about me,’ he said, eventually, ‘this journalist? How much information does he have?’

Sam sagged a little. ‘I don’t know. He wanted to talk to his bosses, start digging for more information about Langham. I asked him to wait until I’d spoken to you, but obviously …’ Sam shook his head. Despite everything, he felt guilty. ‘He thinks that Langham’s death wasn’t an accident. He thinks it might have been suicide. Or – or murder.’ He glanced at the man. For all he knew, Norton was right, and he was talking to a killer. ‘He probably thinks it will make a great story, get him the front page.’

The old man shook his head. ‘Why did you have to stir this up? You don’t know what you’ve done.’

‘Then tell me. Tell me what really happened, who you are, and maybe I can stop him. Please.’

For a long moment, the man held his gaze. There was defiance in that expression, and anger, and something else as well; a hint of resignation.

‘There’s brandy on the bar,’ he said.

Sam knew an instruction when he heard one. He went to fetch it, searching through the forest of bottles until he found one marked Fundador.