Shortly after his arrival it struck him how little he’d eaten since his escape from London, and he felt suddenly very hungry. A couple of streets away from the Catedral del Salvador he found a cosy little tapas bar and restaurant with simple decor and mismatched chairs and tables, which suited him nicely. He devoured a large plate of cold meats with a salad and some bread and washed it down with a jug of water. Wolf never touched alcohol.

It was Sofia who had taught him his first stumbling words of Spanish. Over the years he’d tried to pick up a few more from books, though he was by no means fluent in the language. As he paid for his meal, he got talking to the proprietor, a swarthy middle-aged guy by the name of Tomás, who was proud of having lived here in Albarracín all his life. Wolf introduced himself as Jack Cullen, a traveller from the UK. He said he’d been here before, once, years ago, and asked whether Tomás might happen to know if the Moncayo family still lived in the town.

If Tomás had said they did, Wolf had no special desire to try to reintroduce himself to Sofia, or in any way rekindle what had been the most fleeting of youthful romances. He just wanted to see her again, from a distance, and make sure she was well and happy. As it turned out, Tomás informed him that Pero Moncayo, Sofia’s father, had died several years back and the rest of the family had moved away to Zaragoza.

Wolf was saddened to learn the news, but he covered it well and quickly put it behind him as he left the tapas bar and spent a while wandering the streets of the old town. The scrubby hills loomed all around, and the warm mountain breeze was laden with all the scents of herbs and vegetation that he remembered. He passed a small bank called the Caja Rural, and briefly considered exploring the possibility of checking his heavy cash-filled holdall into a safe deposit storage. He soon changed his mind and decided not to take the risk of letting the money out of his sight.