Senator Zamora suspected the Governor of using the tunnel to advance a political career on the mainland. Not a day passed without him coining a new epithet to describe the Governor. This week Menendez had earned himself further opprobrium for removing the black Seville hat belonging to Senator Zamora’s father from the antler stand in the Club de Pensiones. Senator Zamora was not persuaded the Governor had mistaken it for his own.

After the hat-thief, Senator Zamora blamed his King. He should have stamped on the Straits Treaty from the outset as he had stamped on that Colonel who dared suggest that Abyla, the pearl of the Mediterranean, be exchanged for Gibraltar.

For five years Zamora had listened to Menendez’ promises. The Treaty would transform the Mediterranean’s pearl into another Hong Kong. It was desirable from every ethical and moral point of view.

In Senator Zamora’s experience, only gangsters talked of ethics. Only prostitutes of morals. How, señor, do you secure our future, he would ask in the Chamber, if you hand our beloved presidio – Spanish for longer than America has been a nation – to the mercy of a European Parliament? If the pensinsulares in Madrid had done nothing for their sovereign territory, what chance the EC? No, gentlemen. This was a political chimera foisted on businessmen. Its objects were to make money for shareholders and to rid itself of two relatives born embarrassingly the wrong side of the bed. It was led by no popular demand – unless you counted the Moroccan King who wanted anything which might link Morocco closer to Europe.

For five years, Senator Zamora had done his duty. All work relating to the tunnel was subject to planning permission. Of the three hundred and forty-five planning applications submitted so far, only seventeen remained unaffected by Abyla Independiente’s amendments.

He had wasted an awful lot of the hat-thief’s time.

The third cardigan was dark grey, and a warning to stay out of his way. It was the shade of his wife’s gravestone. Señora Criado would keep to the kitchen, humming inoffensively, whenever her master wore this particular cardigan. He rarely remained in the house. He would scrape the keys from a bowl in the hall, start the Seat and in an aimless but repetitive circuit drive round and round and round the rock.

This was the colour he wore to greet the British Consul General.

“It’s very exciting,” Asunción was saying, with more enthusiasm than she felt. “Daddy’s been made president of the corrida.” She looked over at her father, standing by the tea-tray, the thick hair gushing around his ears in ash curls.

“Congratulations,” said Wavery.

Senator Zamora grunted. It was nothing. It was Menendez trying to buy him out. “How do you like your tea? Strong or weak?”

“It’s an enormous honour,” insisted Asunción.

“Strong,” said Wavery, who would have preferred a whisky.

“Good. So do I,” said Zamora, who had only served tea to make his guest feel at home. “Do you smoke?”