The picture was black and white and grainy, as if taken in low light, but he could tell it showed the entrance of The Hold. Two blurred figures were standing by the door. He squinted, trying to make them out. Only when he saw the shape of a cigar did he realize that one of the figures was Bet. Bet and Kline, his head near hers, as if in quiet conversation. Sam’s fingers tightened on the print. What the hell was Norton playing at? Abruptly, he remembered the intent way the journalist had stared at Bet across the bar, the way he’d feigned drunkenness as he declared, I’ve just been hearing the most marvellous stories from Giles. He said that you were a smuggler!

‘Bastard,’ Sam hissed.

‘Hackett!’

He shot up from the chair, the picture still clutched in his hand. Norton was striding across the office, pale beneath his sunburn. ‘What in god’s name are you doing?’

People were looking now, but Sam didn’t care.

‘What in god’s name are you doing?’ he said. ‘What the hell is this?’

He threw the photograph at Norton, who barely managed to catch it. When he saw what it was, his face went even paler.

‘It’s my job,’ he said, with deliberate control. ‘I’m doing my job, Hack, investigating what I think needs to be reported. This isn’t personal.’

‘Yeah, right.’ People were standing now, craning to see what was going on. Let them, Sam thought recklessly. ‘Stalking isn’t doing a job. Neither is stealing from my suitcase. It’s theft.’

‘That suitcase wasn’t yours,’ Norton snapped. ‘And that passport is a fake. I called the consulate, they have no record of any Alejandro del Potro—’

‘I asked you to wait.’ Sam stepped towards Norton. ‘There are people who could be hurt by what you’re doing!’

‘People who deserve it.’ Norton shook his head, as if Sam were a child, throwing a tantrum. ‘You have no idea, do you, the kind of people you’re dealing with? I found Langham’s record. He was a crook, just like this del Potro character, or whoever it is living in that house.’

‘You don’t understand!’ He was shouting.

‘No, you don’t. You’re so bloody naive. That lot at The Hold, Bet, Kline, all of them, they’re criminals. They’ve charmed you with their stories, flattered you into thinking you’re special, but I’m not fooled, I can see them for the scum they are—’

Before he could think twice, he raised his arm and punched Norton square in the face.

Between the Sheets

Take three quarters of a pony each of brandy, Cointreau and white rum. Add just a dash of lemon juice, shake well and strain into a glass. How you drink it is nobody’s business.