The waiter signalled for him to sit down again. ‘Oui, oui, pas de problème. Mais … I have something for you.’

Did he mean the letter? Maybe one of the waiters had taken it after all, and here was the manager, giving it back. Sure enough, the man was reaching into the pocket of his apron and pulling out an envelope. He laid it on top of the writing case.

‘Is that my—’

Sam stopped abruptly. The envelope was addressed with one word:

HACKETT

For a second, he couldn’t speak.

‘Where – did you get this?’ he spluttered to the waiter.

‘It was left here,’ the man said in broken English, ‘for you.’

‘Who?’ Sam was up from his seat again. ‘Who left it? How did they know who I was?’

The waiter was shaking his head, as if he wanted to deny any involvement. ‘Je ne sais pas, I do not know his name.’

‘He? Was it an old man? With a hat, glasses?’

The waiter nodded, looking uncomfortable.

‘Did the man—’ Sam stopped, forcing himself to speak more calmly. ‘L’homme, the old man, he knew my name?’

‘Oui.’ The waiter was looking around, wanting to take his leave. ‘Oui, he said you are an American, and I will know you by this.’ He tapped the writing case.

Sam stared. He’d written a letter to the past, and now here was a reply. What the hell was going on?

‘Wait.’ He caught the waiter’s arm as he turned away. ‘This man, have you seen him before? Does he come here regularly?’

The waiter shrugged, freeing himself. He’s been paid, Sam realized, watching the man hurry away towards the kitchens. He’s been paid to stay quiet.

Stunned, he turned back to the table, to the impossible letter. HACKETT. Hardly daring to touch it, in case it crumbled into nothing, he eased open the envelope and peered inside.

A single sheet of paper. Not his letter at all. This paper was clean, new, covered in neat black writing.

Dear Mr Hackett,

You have something of mine. I would like it back.

Please reply, outlining how much you will take for the case. Leave your response with Khalid, the manager here. Do not try to contact me by any other mean.

Regards,

A

White Lion

Take one teaspoonful of white sugar, and the juice of half a lime, dropping the spent rind into the glass. Add one wine glass of Santa Cruz rum, one teaspoonful of Curaçao and one teaspoonful of imported grenadine. Shake well with ice, and strain. Cool and deceptively sharp.

Why do certain individuals have the power to change a person’s life, above all others? To anyone else, they might be a face in the crowd, the tip of a hat at an open door, but to that one person …