Sam couldn’t read the expression on her face. ‘Lil was born here,’ she said. ‘Die here too, if she’s got any say in it.’

‘Do you think I could talk to her?’

Roger and Bet exchanged a look.

‘You can talk,’ Roger said eventually, ‘as long as you don’t expect much of a response. Poor old girl is losing it.’

‘Hardly surprising, after her life,’ Bet muttered, and pointed to Sam’s glass. ‘Another?’

Norton didn’t turn up at The Hold that night, something Sam was strangely thankful for. He’d already spilled A’s secrets to two people; any more and it would be halfway around Tangier before he made it home to bed. Anyway, it was his story. Telling Roger and Bet was one thing, but confiding in a journalist was quite another.

He was up and out early the next day, despite having written until late. Yawning, he hurried down the Rue d’Italie with the writing case in hand. The Gran Café de Paris smelled of bleach and stale smoke and the coolness of night, punctured by the first hot coffees of the day. Khalid was there, setting out chairs. He rolled his eyes when he saw Sam and reached into his apron.

Another envelope.

‘When did this arrive?’ Sam demanded, tearing at the paper. The café had been open all of ten minutes. Whoever delivered the letters had beaten him to it. ‘Was it him again, the old man?’

Khalid shrugged. ‘I cannot say, Monsieur Hackett. I was in the kitchen.’

14.7.78

I do not care for evasiveness. If you are trying to blackmail or bribe me, then get on and do it.

A

Sam stared at the letter, stunned. What had he written to cause that kind of reaction? He thought back to his previous note.

What if I said ‘Hotel Continental’ and ‘15’ to you?

His face flared with embarrassment. Of course. He thought he’d been clever, witty, dangling what he knew in front of A without an explanation. But he’d misjudged the situation, caught up as he was in his writing. The case belonged to A’s past, his real past, not Sam’s fantasy. No wonder the man was pissed off.

But still – blackmail? It seemed extreme. Why would A bring that up, apropos of nothing? Unless he had something to hide … Sam smoothed out one of the last sheets of the old paper, and began to scrawl a reply.

14.7.78

Dear A,

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate anything, and I promise, I have no interest in blackmail or bribes. I’m a writer, that’s all, and I find myself writing about you, or at least, the things that once belonged to you. You see, in the bottom of this writing case, I found a key and a tag, with a number.