‘What did Bautista pay you?’ the boss was saying. I dragged my eyes back.

‘He didn’t. He gave me the passport. That was the bargain.’

The man snorted. ‘Here.’ He held a peseta coin towards me. ‘A tip. Take it.’

There was no way to refuse. ‘Gracias, señor.’

He picked up my passport and handed it over. ‘Go get yourself a drink,’ he said. ‘And a girl. Not the ones on the beach, though, if you know what’s good for you.’ He fixed me with those yellow eyes. ‘Keep your mouth shut.’

I nodded. I knew he could see the terror on my face, and that it satisfied him. Then, Márquez was unbolting the door, giving me a shove into the thick night. The moment it clanged behind me, I took off.

My back was crawling with sweat, with the feeling that I’d been standing in the hot maw of a lion, and had – by chance – slipped free. I ran until I reached the sandy promenade, with its brash lights.

Alone in Tangiers. What was I doing? I didn’t know anything about the place, other than the fact it was somehow international territory, belonging to many countries and none. My only thought had been to get out of Spain, out of danger. But I had been here only a moment and danger had found me once again. If Márquez and his boss were to discover that I had lied, that I was not the young man I appeared to be …

No. I walked briskly up the promenade. No, I had to be smart. Something had drawn me here, across the strait. Someone. The way Langham had looked at me, despite the presence of the woman at his side. Had I imagined that? My lips twitched a little, an almost smile. We’d been all women at the inn, but I knew what some men liked, and though I’d never met anyone like Arthur Langham before, so cool, so refined, I’d met plenty of other wealthy men. I was clever, I was quick; I could get what I wanted from him, through sympathy or persuasion.

But what did I want? I watched as two men ran from one of the bars on to the beach, whooping drunkenly, their polished shoes filling with sand. Their carelessness made my bound chest contract, made me ball my hands into fists in my pockets. I knew what I wanted well enough, but it was impossible for someone like me. Security, I told myself severely. Safety. That was what I needed.

I followed the flow of people up a steep street into a tightness of buildings. All my plans involving Langham would be useless if I couldn’t first find him. In Córdoba, the Plaza de la Corredera was where life happened. It must be the same in any city, surely: there would be a central place, where people lingered and talked and talked.