He blinked, trying to process it all. ‘I think so.’ He looked at her, but she was stirring sugar into her coffee, avoiding his gaze. What did she mean, certain kinds of trouble? He remembered Abdelhamid’s furtive glance at Mouad. Both of them knew something of Tangier’s underbelly. Had they heard of Ale? Not for the first time, he felt as if there was a whole other world he couldn’t see, operating in plain sight. ‘You know I’m writing about Langham and Ale and this house too, don’t you?’ he asked cautiously. ‘Not an article, a book. A novel, maybe.’

She took a piece of bread. ‘That’s different.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s fiction.’ She smiled at him then, in a way he couldn’t quite decipher. He opened his mouth to ask her what she meant, but she was pulling the bowl of fruit towards her. ‘Anyway, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you stop this newspaperman from letting half the world know where to find Ale. Can you do it, Sam?’

It was the first time she had said his name. He fought the urge to smile stupidly.

‘I’ll try everything I can, I promise.’

She nodded, and carried on eating.

They were both silent as they worked their way through the bread and fruit. Sam couldn’t stop himself from sneaking glances at Zahrah’s face, and eventually, she caught his eye. He looked back to his plate hurriedly. Another mystery to unravel.

He made short work of the food, despite the rich meal he had eaten with Ale the night before. There had been bowls of olives marinated in herbs, a rich potato tortilla, a dish of softly stewed aubergines and pomegranate that he couldn’t get enough of.

‘The food last night,’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘Did you make it?’

‘Of course.’

‘It was wonderful.’

A hint of a smile returned to her face. ‘Ale always says that food is important, that if you can cook, you can discover what people want, and then, you can know them for what they are.’

Sam stopped, in the middle of mopping up all the traces of oil and soft cheese from the bowl with his finger, and swallowed, wondering what she thought he was.

Together, they tidied up, putting the plates into the huge chipped sink. Maybe it was the food, but Sam felt a glow of warmth, completing that simple chore alongside Zahrah. Abruptly, he wanted to stay, wanted to ask if she would teach him how to cook something, so that he could remain in her company in that bright, worn kitchen.

But eventually they were done, and she was stepping into a pair of sandals, taking a djellaba down from a hook behind the door and dragging it over her head, to cover her faded t-shirt and shorts. ‘Ready to go?’ she asked.