I guess she’s right, because my books have sold pretty well since then. They’re crime novels mostly, tales of smuggling and glamour and adventure, all set in a past age. Bet helps me when I’m stuck for ideas, says she has more tall tales than she knows what to do with.

But recently I’ve been thinking of writing something different, a particular story that has been nagging at me for a long time. I know how it begins. I was reminded of it just the other day, when my daily walk took me past the ragged old Hotel Continental. When I glanced up at the terrace, I swear I saw two elderly gentlemen sitting there, wearing beautiful white flannel suits. They stuck in my mind, so I decided to turn around, to take a closer look.

By the time I jogged up the steps, they were gone, leaving nothing but a pair of empty cocktail glasses. I asked the waiter if the old men were lodging at the hotel, but he didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.

Of course, I could have tried to find them. I could have tracked them down and asked where they had come from, where they were heading, Marrakech, Paris, Shanghai? I could have asked whether they were old friends who had previously lost touch, but who now, in their autumn years, saw each other clearly for the first time.

I could have told them they reminded me of people in a story I once heard. I could have asked whether that drink on the terrace of the Hotel Continental was the first or the last of many …

I could have, but I didn’t. Instead, I went home, sat down at my desk, and began to write.

Acknowledgements

Writing this book has been an adventure in more ways than one. Thanks must be mixed and measured according to equal parts, as follows:

To my dad, for his stories of camels and kif, travelling and trouble, airmail letters, near-arrests and Pete the Squeak.

To my mum, for her endless support and encouragement, and for helping me to find my own freedom.

To my sister, fellow traveller.

To the Coppells, for aiding and abetting.

To Grandma Iris and Pat, who can spin any yarn over a drink.

To Ed, for the Negronis.

To Darcy, for helping to shake up the good parts and strain out the bad.

To all at Transworld, for their work behind the scenes.

To Gareth, for giving this book its own recipe.

To Zahrah, for her spirit, and the use of her name.

To everyone at La Tangerina, Tangier, for the food, tea and welcome.

To Abdullah, for the tall tales.

To Charlie, Tim and Louis, for always opening the door, no matter how late.

To Alashiya, Maartje and Emma: partners in crime.

To Becky, for propping up the bar and listening to the same old woes.