‘Yes. To make it easier, I thought I’d give you this.’

He slips an envelope on to the table between us. Inside is an open return Air Portugal ticket to Lisbon, and another folded sheet of paper.

‘All you have to do is quote the booking number and choose the flights.’ He smiles, getting to his feet. ‘There are directions to the rendezvous in the envelope. I get the impression he’s looking forward to seeing you. Any questions?’

I’m staring up at him, the ticket still in my hand.

‘No tea?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ He checks his watch. ‘Time, I’m afraid, waits for no man. Least of all me.’

I fly to Lisbon two days later, having made contact with McFaul on the phone. My flight gets in at 14.35. He confirms that he’ll be waiting at the Hotel Astoriam, from mid-afternoon onwards, and will be very happy to buy me as many Portuguese stickies as I can manage.

‘Stickies?’

‘Cakes. Treats. All of them delicious. The locals should be fat, but they aren’t. Christ knows how they manage it.’

The flight is late taking off, and it’s gone four o’clock before I step out of the taxi and make my way into the hotel. I’ve never been to Lisbon before and I love it at once. Trams clanking up the steepness of the hills. Glimpses of the river beyond terrace after terrace of houses. Even a hint of warmth in the late-afternoon sun.

The hotel is tiny, and McFaul is waiting for me in the first-floor room that serves as a restaurant. There are only four tables, none of the others occupied. McFaul is with a much younger man, very black, beautiful suit, gleaming elasticated boots, perfect teeth in a wide, wide smile.

‘Raimundo,’ he says. ‘Domingos’ boy.’

The name Domingos stirs a distant memory and I’m still trying to hunt it down when McFaul supplies the answer.

‘You remember me telling you about Angola? The minefields? The local man I employed?’

‘Domingos.’ I’ve got it at last. ‘And Celestina.’

Mention of his mother’s name sparks another smile from Raimundo, and we all sit down. There’s a tiny bell on the bareness of the tablecloth, and moments after McFaul gives it a shake, a woman appears with a towering display of tiny cakes.

‘You want coffee? Tea?’ She has a hand draped over McFaul’s shoulder. She seems to know him very well.

I settle for coffee. The woman nods, distributes three plates, and disappears. To break the silence that follows, I tell McFaul he’s looking well.

‘You too.’

‘You’re living here?’

‘In the hotel? Christ, no.’

‘In Lisbon?’

‘No.’

‘Somewhere else then?’

‘Obviously.’ He offers a rare smile, and then nods at the cake stand. ‘Try the pastéis de nata, egg and cinnamon. They’re wonderful.’