‘Don’t.’ She looked at me, her face set. ‘For god’s sake, don’t talk about it any more.’

She went ahead of me to make sure the way was clear. Before the front doors, we stopped, only for someone to yell my – Langham’s – name. We had only seconds. Hilde leaned in and kissed me on the mouth.

‘Go,’ she whispered, tears in her voice. ‘Just go.’

I turned and fled. Behind me, I heard Hilde’s voice, falsely bright. ‘Oh, don’t try and stop him. He has some mad idea about taking out the yacht. I certainly can’t dissuade him …’

Ten to two. I slipped through the gates of Dar Portuna, the scent of jasmine catching at my jacket like the hand of a lover. In the dark, dusty street, I swiped tears from my face.

Don’t think, I told myself savagely. Hacer de tripas corazón.

I reached the Hotel Continental in record time, with minutes to spare. I had almost run through the dark streets and was breathing hard, my chest constricted by the brassiere. The wound on the back of my head had started to throb again, tiredness and anxiety making me sick. Would Langham arrive with blood on his hands, staining his fine, white sleeves? With Cabrera dead, would I finally be free from my past?

The illuminated sign of the Hotel Continental cast pools of red and green light on to the street. I edged into it, for comfort, glancing at the pocket watch. Three minutes to two.

From the terrace above, I could hear the sound of gentle conversation, smell wafts of tobacco. I wished I was one of those guests; tipsy and oblivious to everything except the warm darkness and the ship lights that twinkled on the strait. When a figure in white stepped to the edge of the terrace, I almost cried out, but it was only a waiter in a neat serving jacket, clearing one of the tables. He saw me, though, and seemed to hesitate. Then he was gone.

It didn’t make my nerves any better. I had made up my mind to walk to the other side of the dark street, to listen for footsteps when a door creaked open in the lower part of the hotel terrace, and the waiter emerged.

‘Monsieur Langham?’ he called. The green and red glow didn’t make it easy to see. ‘Are you there? It is Monsieur Langham, isn’t it?’

My skin prickled. Was this part of the plan he hadn’t told me?

‘Yes,’ I said, keeping my voice low, doing my best impersonation of Langham’s familiar, clipped accent.

The waiter came forwards. I tipped my hat even lower, pretending to look at the watch.

‘Here it is, monsieur. As you asked.’