From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Norton shake his head.

‘Are you sure you didn’t imagine the whole thing? Maybe you never even wrote a letter, just sat there daydreaming after a bit too much –’ Norton mimed smoking a joint.

‘Of course I didn’t imagine it,’ Sam snapped. ‘I wrote the damn letter. How else did I get ink on my face?’

Even so, he felt a prickle of uncertainty. It was true, he’d lost himself in the act of writing, had scrawled out a confession to an unknown person without meaning to. But he had written. Hadn’t he? ‘Anyway,’ he said, rubbing his neck. ‘I didn’t smoke much this morning.’

‘But you did afterwards?’

‘Sure. I was freaked out.’

Norton sighed. He looked more relaxed today, in chinos and a shirt and some sort of cravat, a jacket slung over his shoulder despite the temperature. The sun had set but the streets still held their late orange heat. ‘This letter,’ he said, ‘did it have anything important in it? About you?’

Yes, Sam wanted to say. But he knew what Norton meant: name, address, social security number. He shook his head.

‘Then why are you worrying?’ Norton stopped. ‘Look, it was probably nicked by someone who thought they could pull one over on you, extortion or whatnot. I’d put my money on one of the waiters.’

‘There was this old man. I thought he was watching me but …’ There was every possibility he’d imagined that too.

‘Well there you go,’ Norton said. ‘I’ll bet he was just some loony who liked the look of you. And he didn’t take that.’ Norton poked the writing case under Sam’s arm. ‘So no harm done.’

‘I guess not.’

‘Good. Let’s get a drink and forget about it.’

They set off down a narrow street that led towards the beach. Sam took the roll-up from behind his ear and lit it, before offering it over to Norton. He watched the Englishman’s face crease at the taste of the kif.

‘Too much of this stuff will make you paranoid,’ Norton said, smacking it away from his tongue.

‘You know what they say, “A pipe of kif in the evening is worth a dozen camels in the courtyard.”’

‘Who says that?’

Sam laughed at Norton’s expression, feeling his shoulders ease for the first time since the morning.

The Hold was open. Sam could tell, because the dark rectangle in the white, salt-damp wall was slightly darker than usual, and music was spilling out, the scratchy, warbly jazz the old-timers liked to play. At the threshold, Norton faltered and glanced at the peeling, hand-painted sign.

‘Hackett. Where are we?’

Sam smiled. ‘We can’t drink at the El Minzah every day, old chum,’ he said, mimicking Norton. ‘And anyway, you said you wanted to meet other ex-pats.’

‘I meant Peruvian oil barons and Russian heiresses,’ Norton muttered, ‘not ex-cons.’