‘You’d better come up.’

I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I didn’t bother wondering what Roker wanted; he’d tell me soon enough. I was drying off when there was a knock at the door and I opened it to find a smiling man dressed in the ubiquitous linen suit and carrying a panama hat. ‘Roker,’ he said.

‘Come in, Mr Roker.’ I swung open the door and continued to dry my hands. ‘Take a seat – I’ll be right back.’ I took the towel into the bathroom and when I returned Roker was standing at the window looking down into the street.

I joined him as he said, ‘More trouble.’ He had lost his smile.

Down in the street there was a procession of sorts, a straggling line of people – mostly men but with a few women, some carrying banners and placards. There were a handful of white faces among the black, and they all seemed poorly dressed. They set up a rhythmic chanting but I couldn’t distinguish the words.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Politics is what’s going on, Mr Kemp.’ Roker’s accent was American of the flat mid-west brand. ‘Politics, Campanilla-style. I expect it’ll get rough down there pretty soon.’

We watched in silence as the scene unfolded. The marchers were shouting at passers-by on the pavement and gesturing at them to join in. The head of the procession stopped and the street quickly became packed with a dense crowd behind him. I crossed to another window to see if I could find out the reason for the halt and saw a line of policemen strung across the road, each armed with a long baton and carrying a riot shield. The crowd remained at a distance and were chanting at the police.

I said, ‘Why would the police stop a political procession?’

‘Because it’s illegal,’ said Roker. ‘Those people are breaking the law.’ He joined me. ‘Open the window and listen to what they’re shouting.’

I did as he said and the noise swelled instantly. The crowd was shouting one word over and over and over again.

‘Sal-ton, Sal-ton, Sal-ton, SAL-TON.’

Then a missile flew and I saw a couple of policemen duck. Two more followed, and suddenly the blue line charged, batons flailing, and the chanting turned into screams. More police appeared from somewhere, several carrying big-barrelled guns. The air was ripped with a series of sharp cracks, blooms of white smoke appeared and the tear gas tore holes in the thick crowd.

In minutes the street was empty, except for four still figures lying in the roadway. I couldn’t tell if they were dead or not.

From behind me, Roker said, ‘You were responsible for that, Mr Kemp.’

I turned and stared at him. ‘How do you make that out, for God’s sake?’

‘I’ll get to that,’ he said.