‘But I’m not a guest. I’m a writer. I’m writing a book about this place,’ he bluffed, hoping to sound convincing. ‘About this hotel, about the past in Tangier. That’s why I’ve been going through my uncle’s things. It would be great to have a quick look. Even if my uncle’s belongings aren’t there.’

The manager gave a little sigh. Sam scrabbled in the pocket of his jeans.

‘Please,’ he said again, reaching for the manager’s hand. ‘It’s important to me. I’d be very grateful.’

The ten-dirham note felt crumpled against his fingers, and for a moment, he thought the manager might drop it in disgust. But then the man was straightening his jacket, and the money was gone, as if it had never been there at all.

‘Very well, monsieur. I do not see the harm. I will send Mohamed with you. He will assist.’ Keep an eye on you, in other words.

The storeroom was low down in the hotel, a semi-subterranean room that looked as if it had once been carved from the coastal rock itself. When the metal door swung open, it released a waft of air, cool with stone-must. Perhaps this cave had once been used to house barrels of wine, crates of tobacco and contraband rowed in from creaking ships. Perhaps Bet had even used it, back in her smuggling days, bribing the manager with charm and French cigarettes, stowing boxes and suitcases in the dead of night, conducting shady business from the hotel terrace.

An overhead bulb flickered on, sickly yellow, illuminating the space.

The manager was right. There was no romance of the past here, no buccaneer’s hoard, only the detritus of decades, washed up against the sides of the room. A broken hat stand listed from a vast pile of newspapers and periodicals, a lidless toilet yawned mournfully. There were empty metal drums that had once held oil, rusted gas canisters, a mattress from another era, sporting the stains of its many occupants. Nevertheless, junk could hide treasure …

‘You see, monsieur,’ Mohamed said, ‘there is nothing—’

‘It’s great,’ Sam interrupted. ‘It’s perfect. The mess doesn’t matter.’ He squinted upwards. ‘Is that the only light?’

‘I am afraid so.’

‘Do you have a torch or something?’

He saw the young man hesitate, no doubt worrying what the manager would say if he found out that the strange foreigner had been left alone in the storeroom, to lay his hands on god knows what.

‘I’ll stay right here until you’re back,’ Sam said. ‘I wouldn’t want to trip over anything.’

That seemed to do the trick. Mohamed nodded. ‘I will get a torch. But please, do not touch.’