“He’s got to be out of his tree.”

“That you’ll have to take up with Rabat.”

There was a knock and Asunción said, “Your car’s here.”

But Queesal was not giving up. “What reactions have there been here to the strings he attached?”

“Abyla Independiente isn’t best pleased. Nor are the contractors. But the Moroccans are delighted, naturally.”

“Will it be ready on time?”

“Impossible to find out,” said Wavery. “But the date is a date they obviously believe in.”

A taxi drove them to the residence. “This really is what I’m here for,” said Queesal, waiting for Wavery to pay. “More than the sub-heads.” He stepped off the pavement to allow Genia Ortiz to pass by. She turned back for another look at the corner of Calle Astray. Her face made no secret of her thoughts as she scrutinised the Consul General and his friend.

Queesal’s attention lingered on the work-site opposite while Wavery unlocked the door. Wavery shielded the lock from Queesal’s view. “I must warn you, George, the decorations are still to be finalised.”

Queesal absorbed the rickety scaffolding. He stepped inside.

“Do you want to go upstairs? I’ve put you in the Royal Suite.”

Queesal gazed about him. He delivered Wavery a quick smile. “Actually, Tom, if you don’t mind, I think I’d better get on with this.”

At eight o’clock, Queesal took himself upstairs and there was the sound of running water.

Half an hour later he joined Wavery in the dining room, at the other end of a long mahogany table.

Halima removed the earthenware cone from Queesal’s plate. She wore a new white uniform and a pair of smart black shoes.

“Lamb tagine,” she murmured, relishing the words.

The Foreign Office Inspector being Wavery’s first guest, Halima had made an effort to reach the market early. Her effort had been rewarded. The butcher blessed the meat as he always blessed the first purchase of the morning and suspending the joint by its little scarlet gender he whispered how he had reserved this male for her – which much relieved Halima because she knew those like Señora Criado in the queue behind would have to make do with female joints, tasting stringently of lentiscus roots.

“I’m not sure if I ought to eat this,” said Queesal eventually. He polished his lips with a napkin, first the top lip, then the lower lip. He was reflecting on Wilbow’s fate in Luxembourg.

“She won’t have used an aluminium pan?”

Wavery said, “I had them all recycled.”

Queesal cleared his throat. He looked unhappily at the wine in his glass. It had not travelled superbly the thousands of miles from Lima to Abyla via Tilbury.

“More?” said Wavery, beginning to enjoy himself. Queesal’s hand descended flatly to the rim. Wavery refreshed his own glass. He could taste the year on the label. They had just arrived in Lima. He could taste the garua.

He said, “I can’t decide if I should serve it at the reception.” But Queesal had not heard him, or else he was refusing the bait.