Lillian Simcox was frail, a fine cloud of white hair about her face, one of her eyes milky. The other was blue, as bright as the sea outside the window. The deep tan of her skin spoke of a life spent outdoors, beneath Morocco’s fierce sun.

‘Hello ma’am,’ he said, sitting opposite her, holding the flowers and the writing case awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. Roger gave me your address.’

She frowned slightly, her bright eye fixed on him. ‘Roger?’

‘Roger Jones, who runs The Hold, down near the beach.’

She just looked at him. He felt his cheeks begin to turn as pink as the roses.

‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘Dear Roger. He telephoned. He said something about an American.’

Her voice was soft, impeccably British. It was the kind of voice Sam had only ever heard in old black and white films.

‘That’s me,’ he said, feeling scruffier than ever. ‘I’m a writer. I’m writing a book about Tangier, in the old days, the nineteen twenties. Trying to, at least. Roger thought you might be able to remember what it was like back then.’

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to unsay them. Remember, what a stupid thing to say to an elderly lady in her condition. But she was smiling, her eyes half-closed.

‘Dear Roger,’ she murmured, as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘The number of times I fell out of that place three sheets to the wind.’ Her eyes drifted open again. ‘Are those for me?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Sam stuttered. In the cool, sterile room, the flowers looked even more ragged than before.

‘How lovely.’ Her thin hands gathered up the stems and raised the bouquet to her face. Abruptly, her expression changed, the vague smile fading. ‘Jasmine,’ she said, ‘jasmine in the dark, and wet roses.’ Her good eye found his. ‘How did you know?’

His neck prickled. ‘Know what?’

‘Lost,’ she said, her voice thick, her hands among the petals. ‘Lost souls, all of them.’

‘Who?’ He leaned forwards. ‘Who do you mean?’

She didn’t answer. After a long moment, the nurse appeared at his elbow.

‘I’m sorry, monsieur,’ she whispered, ‘this doesn’t seem to be a good time for her. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow?’

‘Of course.’ He was ashamed of himself, causing an old lady distress, purely for the sake of his writing. ‘Of course, it doesn’t matter.’

He rose, tucking the case under his arm. Opposite Lillian he felt as huge and clumsy as an ox. ‘Thanks for your time, ma’am. I’ll be going now.’

She didn’t answer him, only stared ahead.

He was almost at the door when she spoke again, her voice barely audible over the sound of the curtains flapping.

‘July, nineteen twenty-eight.’

Sam stopped. ‘What was that?’