She turned her better ear to him, happy to be seen in the Plaza de los Reyes in conversation with the British Consul General. A car hooted at a pedestrian and she waved.

“How are you settling into our little presidio?’

“Asunción’s been marvellous.”

“Abyla is not Petersburg.”

“Indeed.”

“I used to go and look at architecture books in the library. Just to remind myself of home. I couldn’t talk about it without getting emotional – which was rather embarrassing for my late husband.”

“Might you go back?”

“To a place that still needs to grow up? I’ve done my growing up, señor. Also, coming from the family that one is from, well . . . the resentment. People say one is oversensitive about these things. They’re all so wrong.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“But be warned, señor. The Abylans too are good at envy. They even realise it themselves. It leads to all sorts of nonsense. If you’re going to the Consulate I will walk with you.” She needed more Vic Rub, against the dust.

Along the Calle Camoes the orange trees were veiled in cobwebs.

“What about Africa? Do you go there?” asked Wavery.

“I have lived here more than a lifetime, señor. Not once have I been to Africa. I’d sooner visit the cinema! But your predecessor in the war, he chose to live in Africa,” and she recalled Señor Cazes, a funny little Gibraltarian, red-haired, with impeccable shoes, who drove in from Tetuan on Mondays to conduct his affairs from a room in the Hotel Zamora.

A car hooted and again she waved.

“We do things differently today, señora.”

“And the Señora Consul General,” said Genia Ortiz. “When might she have the pleasure of joining you?”

“That remains to be seen,” said Wavery for no reason that was afterwards clear to him.

The British Consulate was on the second floor in a building opposite the Club de Pensiones. The entrance to Wavery’s building, between a bank and a jeweller, bore an oak board, pricked by woodworm, into which his Moroccan workmen had yet to screw a brass plaque designating HM Consulate’s opening hours: 10.00AM – 1.00PM, 2.30PM – 6.00PM IN WINTER. 9.00AM – 2.00PM IN SUMMER.

A scooter stood in the stairwell of the gloomy hallway. The walls were skirted in green tiles. Against the right wall there was a dustbin and on the left wall four metal postboxes. Wavery unlocked one of the boxes and withdrew a white canvas bag. Then, sidestepping the scooter, he climbed the chipped marble steps.

Wavery had no idea whose was the apartment on the first floor. Once a man had run into him on the stairs and hurried into the street without a word of apology, all the while pushing his arm into the recalcitrant sleeve of a black leather coat. Asunción believed he had something to do with tourism, although there was no sign to that effect.

The Consulate had a grand entrance on the second floor. It had been the offices of an Austrian bank and consisted of two rooms, the larger of which was divided by a glass panel. There were four black vinyl chairs, a low table with information about World Service Bulletins, a guide to Abyla written by Asunción’s father, a copy of Residents Abroad. A filing cabinet contained the immigration forms, the applications for British Council Scholarships, the COI leaflets advising people on what exactly to expect of the Consulate. “In case of a fatal accident, or death from whatever cause, get in touch with the Consulate at once.”