He stopped in the middle of the street, staring at the lobby. What the hell was he going to say? Norton might be a bastard, but he was on the right track, there was a scandal to be uncovered, Sam was sure of it. How was he going to convince Norton otherwise? He swallowed hard, and walked towards the building.

The reception was hot, a couple of fans shunting cigarette smoke about the place. The woman from the day before was pushing typewriter keys one at a time, struggling to stay awake.

‘Hello,’ Sam said, clearing his throat. ‘I’m here to see Ellis Norton.’

The receptionist blinked at him. ‘Mr Norton? I’m afraid he just went out.’

Sam hesitated. He’d come here ready for an argument. Did this mean he’d have to sit and wait like an idiot until Norton returned? Frustrated, he nodded and turned away, gritting his teeth when he pictured how Norton must have swiped the passport …

Sam stopped. The passport. Norton had taken it for a reason. It was proof, he realized, the only concrete bit of evidence Norton had that someone else might have been involved in Langham’s death: the only thing that named Alejandro del Potro. If he could get the passport back, Norton would have nothing, just speculation, rumours. No editor would accept an article without verifiable evidence.

Quickly, he searched through his jeans pockets until he found what he was looking for. A business card, crumpled and a little grubby:

ELLIS NORTON

JUNIOR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT

INTERPRESS

‘Actually, do you mind if I wait for him upstairs?’ Sam waved the card at the receptionist. ‘Ellis and I are working on a story together. I was here yesterday, remember? You gave me some money for a taxi.’ He felt as though his smile was creaking.

‘That’s right,’ the woman said, stifling a yawn. ‘You were in a rush.’

‘I’ll go wait at his desk, then.’ He moved towards the elevator, his heart beating faster.

‘Wait!’ The receptionist’s voice stopped him. She was leaning over the edge of the counter, holding a pen. ‘You need to sign in first.’

Trying to steady his hand, he took the pen and wrote a name in the register.

‘Thanks, Mr –’ she glanced down ‘– Langham. You want the second floor. I’ll tell Mr Norton you’re here as soon as he arrives.’

Sam nodded, and made for the elevator. He’d have to be fast.

The second floor turned out to be a messy open office space, blinds pulled down over the windows to keep out the fierce sun. He expected someone to stop him at the door and ask what he was doing, but no one did. He passed one man snoozing behind a huge stack of files, a woman who was working at a typewriter, her glasses sliding down her nose with perspiration.