‘Roger, on the telephone, said something about July nineteen twenty-eight. Did he mean that night at Dar Portuna? But he was never there.’

Sam stopped, his mouth half open. D Portuna – Dar Portuna. Of course, dar meant house in Darija, he’d seen it written on signs all over the casbah. How could he have been so stupid? D Portuna was a place, not a person. A place where something had obviously happened …

Before the nurse could stop him, he took a step back towards Lillian.

‘Dar Portuna,’ he asked, ‘where is it? Do you remember?’

Her eyes creased. ‘I remember such nights there. We drank until dawn, watched the sun rise through the old sea gate. Half of Tangiers was sick with love for him.’

‘Who?’ Sam knelt beside her chair. ‘Who are you talking about?’

She didn’t reply, only stared into the distance, a smile trembling on her lips, as if she was back at that party once more.

‘Who?’ he pressed.

The smile fell from her face. ‘Arthur. Poor man.’

‘Why poor man? Did something happen?’

Slowly, she nodded. ‘I was there the night it happened. I saw him.’ She met Sam’s eyes. ‘I saw them both.’

BARBARY COAST

Take a pony of gin, a pony of Scotch whisky and a pony of Crème de Cacao. Add to this a pony of fresh cream. Shake together with cracked ice and strain into a chilled glass. Strange, sweet and dangerous in quantity.

I’ll never forget the moment I saw Tangiers.

From the deck of the ship, the white walls of the city gleamed, like a milky eye in the darkness. The bay was a phosphorescence of boats and lights, red and purple and green stars. I willed them closer. The moment I reached that shore, I would be a step further away from the murder charge that waited back in Spain; a step closer to freedom.

I watched the dock approach, my palm slick with sweat on the handle of the suitcase. It was surprisingly light. I didn’t know what was inside, and neither did I want to. I just wanted to hand it over and be done.

A small price to pay for freedom. On the darkened docks, I could see the shapes of men, catching ropes, waiting to unload cargo. I swallowed dryly. Somewhere down there, Bautista’s ‘friend’ was waiting for me.

The French official didn’t give the suitcase or my papers a second glance, just stamped them and motioned me on with an impatient flick. My blood seemed to stall and waver and flow again in the other direction as I took my first step on to African soil.