‘Easy,’ he said to Márquez. ‘Not where it shows.’ He sat back and looked into my face. His smile was turning down at the edges. ‘Monsieur Langham and I have had a disagreement which needs to be resolved. He refuses to meet with me himself, so you are going to help me set up a little rendezvous.’

I stared at him, the blood pounding in my head.

‘No.’ I hated how my voice shook.

Cabrera leaned forwards. ‘You don’t have a choice, Alejandra.’

That name … There was nothing I could do to stop the horror that flooded across my face. How did he know?

‘It’s all right.’ Cabrera was still too close, I could smell his stale sweat, his pungent cologne. ‘Souissa’s given us all the details.’ He flicked a hand towards my chest and laughed when I recoiled. ‘I admit, I was surprised. I’d never have guessed. You make a better man than you did a whore, I’ll wager.’

He took a case of cigarettes from his pocket, and offered me one. I didn’t move. I was imagining smashing them into his face.

‘But you should’ve chosen a better name. Del Potro. Anyone from Andalucía who moves in certain circles knows the Hostería.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘It was all over the Spanish papers, you know, for a while. The Córdoban Murderess, the puta cook turned killer, vanished in the night, last seen heading south.’ He laughed out some smoke.

In that moment, I would have gladly become the murderer everyone said I was and taken a bottle to his throat.

‘All right,’ I spat. ‘Name your price.’

Cabrera smiled. ‘Good girl. Let’s talk business.’

Tangier

July 1978

Sam had heard many stories about wild times on the road during his travels; run-ins with border police in Spain and train cops in France and narcos in Italy. They were one thing. Actually waking up after a night in a Moroccan jail was quite another.

Idiot. He sat up from the thin mat, his neck cricked out of shape. Goddam idiot.

His knuckles still ached a little from the impact with Norton’s chin. Or was it from the wall he’d collided with, as the security guard shoved him down the stairs? He didn’t remember. It was all so messy. Norton had yelled about police, sure, but Sam hadn’t thought he was serious until the security guard had dumped him in front of two bored-looking Moroccan cops.

When trying to explain didn’t work, he’d handed over all the money he had on him, in the hope they’d let him go. For a minute, it looked like they would. Then, one of them had pulled the old forged passport from his pocket and their expressions had changed. They’d looked at each other, and shrugged, had hauled him off to the lock-up instead.