“Then why do we employ him?” said Wavery.

“Ask Pas de Problème.” But this Wavery was unable to do. According to Plaisir des Yeux, he was still in Morocco collecting building materials.

“Morocco!” tutted Halima. Most likely he was dragging some poor girl into a field on La Mujer Muerta, or weaving with the whores of Bni Tidir.

Wavery inserted his key upside down in the lock. He left the books in a pile on the table in the hallway. There were voices in the kitchen. The door was open and through it, sideways on, he saw a man sitting on the table. One of his cheeks was patched with a large strip of plaster and he was shouting at Halima in Arabic.

When he saw Wavery he slunk to his feet, his face transforming itself into a grin.

“Pas de Problème,” Halima said, introducing Wavery to his foreman.

Pas de Problème, who was called but never answered to the name of Abdul Hadi, was a compact Berber with high cheekbones. He had prominent velvety eyes and the thin moustache of someone who paid too much attention to himself. This possibly explained why the plaster, bulging on either side with cotton wool fluffs, exerted such a grotesque effect.

Wavery took Pas de Problème out of Halima’s hearing, to give him his dressing-down. “I am extremely upset by what I have found here,” he began. An Inspector from London was expected in the New Year, less than a month away, yet the only finished room in the house remained his bedroom, the telephone wires continued to dangle against an unpainted wall, the window in the consulate still refused to open and the grey plaque in Calle Camoes remained punctured with woodworm. Pas de Problème held up both hands. “Everything is OK, monsieur,” and he beamed the wonderful news of how he had managed to make a very good reduction through a very good friend on a consignment of drainpipes and sprinkler valves. Wavery was unable to muster the anger he knew he ought to feel. He hadn’t sounded angry, only pompous. “I’ll also need you tomorrow,” he said severely. “To unpack the luggage.”

His foreman’s expression was beatific. “Pas de problème, monsieur.”

8

On Saturday Pas de Problème arrived early and made a lot of noise so Wavery would know. The thirty plywood cases had been cleared by Captain Panteco’s men and were now stationed in the hall. Pas de Problème yanked at a nail with his crowbar. He was demonstrating to Wavery that when Wavery wasn’t here, this was how he worked. He lifted the top from a box of books, ripping the silver sheet underneath. He carried the volumes upstairs on his shoulder. As he passed the kitchen he whistled.

The cases blocked the window on the Marina Española. Cases of wine Wavery had been compelled to buy sight unseen and exorbitantly priced from his predecessor in Lima; of Cambodian buddha heads and onyx grapes and framed certificates of the freedom of various obscure villages in the Altiplano; boxes of cornflake packets turned to dust and half-empty bottles of Worcester sauce and concertina folders containing recipes copied from flattered hostesses, but never used.