Yes, he wanted to insist, they are. But of course, they were probably not. Whatever the key opened – suitcase or travelling trunk – it was no doubt long gone, crushed in some dumpster back in the States or mouldering in an attic in an English village. Whoever A. L. was, they probably owned a dozen keys far more important than this one. And yet, here was a piece of someone’s life, a sliver of it, from fifty years ago; perhaps, if he tried, he could find out more.

‘Could you talk to your brother Mouad?’ he asked. ‘See if he remembers where the case came from?’

Abdel’s frown transformed into a smile. ‘You are inspired by this,’ he declared, patting the case. ‘You see? I told you. Much better than a typewriter!’

Sam laughed with him. It was true, he felt inspired. The case, the key – they itched at his brain. He found himself speculating, imagining, eager for more. He could get a story out of it: a mystery of the casbah, beginning with a young man who finds a key … Either that, or he was just desperate for something to do. He shoved the thought aside.

‘So you’ll ask Mouad?’

Abdel jerked his head. ‘I will try. Come.’

Sam sat at the back of the café for twenty minutes, his feet twitching in his shoes, listening to Abdelhamid’s phone call, not able to understand more than a few words.

‘Mouad does not remember the case,’ Abdel said finally, hanging up the phone. ‘He says, if he sees it, maybe he will.’ He shook his head, seeing Sam’s disappointment. ‘He will visit soon, before Ramadan. Then we can ask him.’

‘When is Ramadan?’ Sam followed him out of the café.

‘August. The first days. You will still be here, then? You shouldn’t miss it.’

Sam tried to smile. He had enough money for another two weeks, but then … ‘I hope so,’ he said.

After saying goodbye to Abdelhamid, he wandered out into the heat of the Grand Socco. It was busy and baking, café tables crammed beneath awnings and faded umbrellas, all occupied by people trying to cool themselves with tea or Coca-Cola. He hadn’t eaten since the msemen Madame Sarah had given him the night before; had been filled instead with kif and excitement. Now, he found himself ravenous.

He bought a couple of crispy briwats, no idea what was in them. Shredded chicken and cinnamon, it turned out. A water seller ambled past, bent-backed beneath his plastic drum, brass cups clinking on the bandolier across his chest. Sam stopped him, and after a few long swallows of water, he began to feel better, more cheerful than he had for days.