Page 19 of The Last Postcard

‘No, no.’ Kline folded the map away. ‘I am picking only Bet’s knowledge. Please.’ He vacated his seat, indicating Sam should take it.

He did, and took a sip of the lukewarm beer. In the background, one of Halligan’s students was trying to replace the jazz record with David Bowie. Sam glanced over at Bet. He’d never been able to guess her age. Anywhere from fifty-five to seventy-five. It was impossible to tell.

‘Remind me, how long have you been in Tangier, Bet?’ he asked in the end, raising his voice over the start of the Bowie record, with its trumpets and squelchy notes. She looked at him steadily, and in the dimness of the bar, in the pungent cloud of cigar smoke, the voice from the record player seemed to be coming out of her blue eyes, singing of dead-end streets.

‘Long time,’ she said, tapping the cigar into the tray.

‘But how long?’ he pressed. ‘What year?’

She frowned at him. Information was a currency, in Tangier.

‘1951, or thereabouts,’ she said eventually. ‘After I was demobbed from the Wrens and nearly went out of my mind with boredom in Plymouth. A girlfriend got a job on a pleasure boat here, serving drinks, said I should join her.’ Bet puffed on her cigar. ‘It was the International Zone then. Anyone and everyone came here. You couldn’t move for embassies and freight companies, French, Spanish, American, Dutch, Italian, it didn’t matter. I wanted to sail so it worked for me.’ She showed a few gold teeth. ‘All those charts and radar plotting during the war, I could’ve sailed from here to Gib with my eyes closed. Fat lot of good it did. No one willing to hire a female pilot, in those days. But eventually I met … a person who ran an import-export concern.’ She slid a glance at Sam. ‘They gave me a job. Said I was the best they’d ever seen. We worked together for years after that.’

Sam smiled, trying not to let his disappointment show, but Bet caught it anyway. She laughed, blew out smoke. ‘Not what you wanted to hear?’

‘Yes, I did,’ he hurried. ‘It’s just, I found something the other day, from the late 1920s …’

As the bar grew more crowded, he found himself telling her about his trade with Abdelhamid, about the Hermes and the old writing case, the calendar in it and the letter he’d written, which – he was sure – had been taken at the café.

‘There was an old man,’ he said, over the sound of a few young Moroccan guys calling greetings to Roger from the stairs. ‘He was watching me in the mirror.’

Unlike Norton, Bet didn’t roll her eyes. She only frowned. ‘Old man,’ she repeated. ‘How old? What did he look like?’

‘Hard to say. Seventy, maybe? He was wearing dark glasses, big ones, and an old-fashioned hat. Western clothes, a suit, I think.’

Bet tapped her empty glass on the table. ‘Done something you shouldn’t have, Sam?’

The ease with which she asked it shocked him. Another reminder I’m not from her world, he thought.

‘No. I’ve not been doing anything. Apart from smoking kif.’

She snorted. ‘Well then. You’ll just have to wait until you see him again, won’t you?’

‘Yeah.’ A moment later, Sam dug into his pocket, pulling out the piece of leather. ‘Listen, I don’t suppose you know what—’

Before he could finish, Norton stepped up to the table. He held a sticky glass, and the scent of Benedictine, herby and boozy, hung around him.

‘Captain Lowe,’ he said, pulling up one of the stools, ‘I’ve just been hearing the most marvellous stories from Giles. He said you were a smuggler ! Is that true?’

Norton’s necktie was loosened, his face flushed. At another time, Sam might have said that he was drunk, but just the day before he’d seen the man dispatch three double whiskies, and barely blink. Perhaps the heat was getting to him. He glanced over at Bet. Everyone knew the rumours about her, but there was something uncouth about saying it aloud, to her face. He shifted in his seat, but she only laughed.

‘All ancient history.’ She put out the cigar. Without it, she seemed smaller, older. She gave Norton a little smile. ‘How about another drink, dear boy?’

‘Of course.’ He was on his feet. ‘Beer was it? Back in a tick.’

Sam watched him move towards the bar, belching out a loud ‘excuse me’ to the Moroccan guys. He looked back to find Bet’s eyes fixed on Norton.

‘Hmm,’ she murmured, before levering herself to her feet. ‘I must have a word with Giles. Bring my drink over when it arrives, Sammy, there’s a love.’ Her eyes fell on the scrap of leather that lay forgotten on the table. ‘Where d’you get that old thing?’

‘This—’ He stared at her, before grabbing it up. ‘You know what this is?’

She gave him a pitying look. ‘You young people. I will admit though, most places use paper these days.’

‘Bet, what is this?’

She was searching through her handbag for something. ‘It’s a cloakroom tag, from the Continental. I’d recognize that old tomcat design anywhere. The manager used to write me the most obscene love notes on the hotel stationery. “Elizabetta, Pirate Queen”, he called me – where are you going?’

He had grabbed the writing case and was pushing his way towards the stairs, the tag clutched in his hand, not caring whose feet he stepped on. As he reached the doorway, Norton turned from the bar, his hands full of drinks, eyes fixed sharply on Bet. A second later, he saw Sam and his expression changed, melting into a wide smile. ‘Hey!’ he yelled.