I looked young, too young, almost a boy still. The suit hung loose on my frame, the hat looming over my lean cheeks and the fading bruise. And yet, I might pass in a crowd for a semi-respectable young man. The suit, the leather shoes, and most importantly, Langham’s fine hat, would hopefully be enough to fool people. In a stuffy, locked room of a cheap hotel, I began to knot Alejandro del Potro and myself together, tooth by tooth, eyelash by eyelash.

‘Señor Langham,’ I murmured, dropping my voice a few tones lower, ‘I am delighted to see you again.’

I put the remaining pesetas into the pocket of my jacket. There was one last thing I needed, and it would be the hardest to obtain, even in a place like this. I could declare that my name was Alejandro del Potro until I was blue in the face, but no one would believe me. What I needed was proof; a piece of paper to vouch for my existence.

I had an idea of where to go, though it made me nervous. I waited until dusk to leave the hotel. Even so, the second I stepped from the door, I felt a surge of fear. My head was clearer now than it had been when I had slept among the beggars. People in La Atunara were sharp-eyed; what if they saw through my suit to the truth beneath? What if they could tell by the way I walked, how I held myself? I kept my head lowered beneath the hat, my hands in my pockets, and slouched along, my guts twitching, my heart squeezing itself against my ribs. A few times, people called to me, women from their corners or bartenders but I didn’t stop, not even when I became out of breath thanks to the tight bindings. From a kiosk near the beach, I bought a newspaper, and a packet of cigarettes. Props, to occupy my trembling hands.

Sure enough, groups of men were beginning to loiter near the shore, where the smuggling boats put in, cracking their necks in preparation for the work to come. I sat on an upturned boat, a little way from the activity, and opened the newspaper.

Of course, I didn’t read it. I kept half an eye on the beach beyond, on the milling groups of men waiting for something to happen, for a ship’s horn or a yell or a flashing light in the bay. I turned the pages mechanically, headlines washing over me until:

BUSINESSMAN SLAIN AT CÓRDOBAN INN MURDERESS STILL AT LARGE

The suspect, a prostitute and thief named ALEJANDRA EXPÓSITA, remains a fugitive, and should be considered dangerous. She was last seen three days ago in the region of RONDA. The Vélez del Olmo family are offering a reward of TWO HUNDRED pesetas for information leading to her capture.