He sighed and rubbed his face on his sleeve. He shouldn’t be disturbing an old woman just to ask questions, but still, her memories could be invaluable. She could bring the city of the past to life for him; help him turn the Tangier of now into the Tangiers of then, from black and white to Technicolor. Was that selfish? He stared down at the bouquet in his hand. Probably. But then, perhaps she’d be pleased to have a visitor.

‘Bonjour,’ Sam murmured to the man at the front desk of the hospital. ‘I’m here to see Lillian Simcox.’

‘Your name?’ The receptionist didn’t seem too interested.

‘Samuel Hackett.’

‘She is expecting you?’

‘No. Well, sort of. Someone telephoned to say I might be coming.’

The man just gave a listless nod. Perhaps he was used to eccentric foreigners visiting unannounced. ‘Take the elevator to the third floor,’ he said, lifting the telephone. ‘Wait there. Someone will come.’

In the closed space of the elevator, the scent of the flowers was suddenly overwhelming. The roses smelled drunk with the sun, the tiny white flowers heady and unruly in that disinfected place, carrying the dust of the medina on their petals. He felt the same, with the wine growing stale on his breath and his sunburned cheeks and the grime of the markets on his shoes. He shouldn’t be here, dragging the city in with him. The elevator bounced to a stop on the third floor. He was about to turn around and press the down button when the doors slid open. A nurse in a white uniform and blue headscarf was waiting.

‘Monsieur Hackett?’ she asked.

He had no choice but to nod and step out of the elevator, trailing the feral scent of flowers behind him.

‘You are a relative?’ she asked, in near perfect English.

‘No, I’m, ah, an acquaintance. A friend of a friend. I’ve never actually met Ms Simcox before.’ He half hoped she’d tell him to leave.

But the nurse only smiled. ‘Madame does not receive many visitors. She will be pleased to see you.’ They stopped outside a door. ‘You know of her condition?’

He nodded. Roger had mentioned it.

‘Don’t worry if she seems confused. I will stay.’

‘Thanks,’ he murmured.

The room was bright and somehow cooler than the rest of the hospital. Two big windows were open, a breeze from the sea blowing the net curtains. He couldn’t see the street below, with its traffic and construction, only the dazzling blue water of the strait, and the dark shadow of Spain on the horizon.

‘Madame,’ the nurse said clearly, stepping towards a high-backed chair by the window, ‘this is Monsieur Hackett. He has come to visit you.’