‘Anyway, he used to walk around the market, with me holding his hand. Acknowledging the respect of his subjects. And I remember, one day he stopped at a fish stall. Pointing to the fish. I wondered what the old geezer was about, until he told me what was on his mind. And what he said was this: “Any other creature here – were it brought back to life – could run or fly away. But not them. And why’s that?” he asked me. In Italian, of course, because he was determined that I’d speak it.

‘“Well that’s obvious, Nonno,” I said. “They’re out of water.” And he nodded, all serious like, as if to acknowledge a point. “And there it is,” he said. “They are out of their element. And you,” he told me, “must never be out of your element.” And then he spread his arms wide, gesturing to the market. “And this, young Giuseppe, this is your element. Our world.”’

He took another puff at the cigar. Tapped the ash onto the floor, then blew on the tip. Holding it up to contemplate the cherry red ember.

‘And as I got older I came to appreciate his wisdom. I was bright enough to go to university, but I chose to go into the family business instead. Even if I was a bit freelance at the beginning. I stayed in my element. Whereas you…’ getting, Mark suspected, to the nub of his homily ‘…you left yours when you teamed up with whoever it was that wrote that piece about Number 37. You left your comfort zone. Of your own free will, mind you. Seeking fame and fortune. And you walked onto dangerous ground. What made you do that, eh? Ambition? Stupidity?’

‘Both.’ Mark, feeling that this lengthy story had to be leading somewhere. Wanting Joe to get on with it. Get to the point where he betrayed Tamara. Having already decided to save his own life. Even if that came at the expense of hers.

‘Yeah, I thought as much too.’

Joe looked down at him. Almost sympathetically. ‘So… you going to give me what I need?’

Leaving the alternative unspoken. Which, given the rusty blade in his hand, wasn’t too much of a concession. And so Mark spilled the story. Tamara’s name, of course. Description. Personal details. The mysterious man who’d called her. A policeman, Mark reckoned. Unable to add any detail to that supposition even under repeated encouragement.