The sun caught on the dull gold of a tooth. ‘The station chief is a dear friend. He was very understanding. Hot-blooded young men get into scraps every day. And as for this –’ she peered down at the passport as they walked towards the Gran Café ‘– that took a little more explaining. I told him that you were a writer, with a predictable penchant for old things, and that you had probably picked it up at a junk shop. Why on earth were you carrying it around?’

He groaned. ‘It’s a long story.’

They must have made an absurd-looking pair, Bet in her tweed, he more grubby and rumpled than ever. Wearily, he told her what had happened. How he’d located Dar Portuna, and met the person who lived there. How he’d ill-advisedly asked Norton to check the archives, only to come up with Langham’s suspicious death. How Zahrah had warned him that the authorities would descend on Dar Portuna if they found out it was Ale’s secret address. How he’d been trying to shut Norton up.

The smoke spiralled around them, mingling with the smell of fresh coffee and morning pastries. Only when he started talking about the fight did he remember what he’d found in Norton’s desk.

‘Bet,’ he said, hastily wiping pastry crumbs from his mouth, ‘Norton had pictures of you in his desk, with another person, Kline I think it was, taken outside The Hold. It’s part of what made me so mad. He’s obviously been sniffing about, trying to dig up dirt on you too.’

For a moment, Bet’s blue eyes were sharp. ‘Photos? What were we doing in them?’

‘Talking, that’s all, from what I could see.’

Bet grunted. ‘I’ll have to have a chat with Mister Norton some time. He’s quite the annoyance.’

She reached down for her handbag and took out a newspaper. He recognized it as Tangier Today, one of the cheaper English-language titles. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Yesterday’s evening edition. He managed to get page five, above the fold.’

BACK FROM THE GRAVE?

MYSTERY OF DROWNED
MAN RESURFACES
AFTER FIFTY YEARS

Sam felt sick. He heard Zahrah’s voice again saying, You have to do better than try. He had promised he would try to keep Ale from danger, and here it was: proof of his failure. He didn’t want to look at the paper, every part of him wanted to hurl it across the room, but he didn’t. He had to see what the damage was. It was his responsibility, after all.

It was a dreadful article. Norton’s suppositions had been written up in lurid detail. The passport was made much of: the mysterious Alejandro del Potro who existed in no records, but who was undoubtedly linked to an underworld smuggling ring, and to Langham’s disappearance. Sam forced himself to read on.