Again Silkleigh lifted his glass. With his hand he made a curve of the room. “If you’re planning to live here, old soul, you’re going to have to admit us into your life. Not just me, but all of these people. Just like I have.”

“Is that so?” said Wavery.

“Ask me anything and I’ll tell you about them. I’m good on others. I can size them up, their foibles, their weaknesses, what makes them redeemable. We’re all redeemable, for God’s sake, even a buff-fucking-foon like Policeman Panteco. Under every carapace there’s a turtle egg. That’s what I say.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“Want to know about that table of Basque dissidents over there? Or Ghanem the Mute? Or Periclito, our absent landlord? Then Joseph Silkleigh’s your man.”

“Thank you, but not at the moment,” said Wavery.

“Any time, ambasadoro,” said Silkleigh. “All in my notebooks. I tell you, there’s thousands of them. All just waiting to be unlocked by that title, by one simple phrase –”

He stopped, looking down at his lap. A large man had propelled himself to the bar, knocking over a glass. The contents dripped from the counter.

“Mohamed!” said Silkleigh, pointing at a cloth.

“Hello, Silkleigh.”

“Ah, good evening, Captain. How fares the drugs war?”

“I warn you, Silkleigh. I’ve got you under the belljar.” Panteco spoke in a voice quieter than normal. He did not want to be heard by Dolores, sitting two tables away. He felt her eyes on his back.

“Them’s fighting words, Captain.”

“Every move you make,” said the policeman.

“Go swat some flies, Captain. There’s a good chap.”

“Every move, Silkleigh. I’m just waiting.” He gave Silkleigh a broiling stare. He yearned for Silkleigh to be in some way connected with El Callado. What could Rosita possibly see in him?

“Trouble with you, Captain,” said Silkleigh patiently, “is that being head and shoulders above everyone else, you don’t see very much.”

A second or two elapsed before Panteco realised what he had heard. The smoke drifted from his nostrils as if his insides were burning.

“You’re . . . you’re drunk!”

“Not so, sir. Look! How still my hands are.” Silkleigh held out his trembling hands.

“Drunk!” Panteco’s voice rose to a penetrating treble. Behind him Dolores watched, her hand stroking a long cobra throat.

“Oh, why don’t you tenu la busa fermita,” said Silkleigh.

“Lustrino.” The voice belonged to the singer, Rosita. She rose between them, taking Panteco’s arm. Her cheeks were patched with rouge, her eyes ringed with masacara. “You’re going to fall on your laces.”

Panteco gazed down to his black shoes and the laces she had a moment before untied. He kneeled. She leaned on her elbow against the bar, watching him. “Two years can be a long time, Lustrino,” she said, with a sigh.

Panteco stood up. Under the lights his blush was green.

“That’s Emilio’s dog,” said Panteco, ignoring her. “That’s Toribio. You’ve no right to take him.”

“Calma, calma, Captain.” Silkleigh’s boots squeaked as he slid from his stool. He stood up, releasing the lead. “Take him. He was hungry.”