Abdel steadied it in his hands, working at the rusty clasp. A few flakes came away on his fingers, but then it released and the lid creaked open.

A smell wafted out, pungent leather and musty paper. For a brief moment, it reminded him of the attic at his grandparents’ house; a warm-cold cinnamon smell of dust and objects long forgotten. He peered inside.

It was a writing case. At the bottom was a blotter, the corners holding a sheaf of blank pages, yellowed with age. In the lid there was a leather pouch for envelopes, another for cards, and a tiny paper calendar that told him the year was 1928. Alongside the blotter was space for ink, a pencil and a pen. The ink was dry in its glass bottle, the pen crusted with it, like old blood. But it was all there, as if someone had scrawled out a last letter fifty years ago and hastily packed away, intending to return and clean up later.

‘Where did it come from?’

Abdelhamid shrugged. ‘It has been here a long time, that’s all I know. Mouad found it, I think.’

‘Mouad?’

‘My second brother. He used to work the docks. He lives in Casablanca now.’

Sam touched the sheets of paper. This was how people used to write, for themselves, for each other. Not relying on springs or keys or ribbon, not sending brief biro messages on cheap airmail paper. They wrote tangibly, personally; putting themselves into every curl and dot and line.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said.

Abdelhamid smiled. ‘It has been lying here waiting for a writer. For someone like you. If you want, I could let you have it for maybe twenty dirhams …’

Bull Shot

Take a jigger of imported vodka and a gill of homemade beef bouillon. Add half a pony of lemon juice and three dashes of Worcestershire sauce. Season with salt, pepper and hot Spanish paprika. Shake well and serve over cracked ice. Not for the faint of heart.

I knew from the beginning there was something wrong about that day.

Put it down to intuition, to a thief’s gut instinct, if you like, although it was undeniable that the morning started badly. Not long after breakfast a horse had gone wild in the stable – for no discernible reason – and trampled one of the cats. I didn’t blame the horse. They say animals know things, and I believe the creature had opened his nostrils and snuffed in the scent of a city on the edge of hysteria. Anyone would have gone wild, smelling that.