‘But A thought I was trying to blackmail him! As soon as I mentioned the case—’ Sam stopped himself abruptly. Through sheer frustration, he’d told Norton about the notes, sent back and forth between himself and A, but the rest? He glanced over at the Englishman, to find him emptying the rest of the bottle into his glass.

‘He what?’ Norton asked.

‘He clammed up. I got a two-line response.’

‘I’m not surprised. He’s probably worried you’re on to whatever scam he’s trying to run.’

‘I don’t think there’s a scam,’ Sam said. He groped for an explanation, when of course, there wasn’t one. He didn’t know what A was up to; he didn’t even know who the man was. A character, inexplicably come to life, a mystery to be pursued on the page, but in reality … ‘Do you know,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘I’ve written more in the past three days than I have in six months? Pages of it. I’ve lost count. I think I’m on to something. A story about Tangier.’ He drained his glass. ‘Of course it had to happen now, when I’m counting how many days I might have left here.’

‘Say it isn’t so!’ Norton put down his glass. ‘Why would you leave? Visa? Money troubles?’

‘Trouble’s the word. Another week and I’ll be out on my ass.’

‘Well, if you smoked less kif …’

Sam laughed, a little. ‘I haven’t been. At least not as much as usual.’ Running out of kif would mean a visit to Abdelhamid, which would mean telling him about the Hotel Continental, and the suitcase. He didn’t feel ready to share the whole truth with anyone yet, not with Abdelhamid, not with Norton, not even with Bet and Roger. It felt private, like something that might disappear if he talked about it too much, that might wither in the hard light of reality.

‘Well, if this chap’s serious about getting his old writing case back, doesn’t that solve your problem?’ Norton said. ‘Flog it back to him for a princely sum and stay as long as you like.’

‘True.’

Norton was right; it would solve a problem. And he did want to stay. But he also wanted to keep writing. Something told him that if he handed over the case and took the money with no questions asked, A would vanish into the streets of Tangier, taking the story, and all Sam’s inspiration, with him.

‘Tell you what.’ Norton slapped the table, interrupting Sam’s thoughts. ‘If you do find anything interesting about this old guy, let me know. A sordid past, sob story, whatever. The city editor might be interested in it, nice bit of local colour for the mid-section. I could write it up for you, and we’ll split the commission. That’d keep you in kif for another week, wouldn’t it?’