Page 66 of The Last Postcard

‘The passport, belonging to Alejandro del Potro,’ Sam said, pushing hopelessly at the clothes. ‘I don’t understand, I put it in myself, this afternoon. I haven’t—’

I haven’t taken my eyes off it, he was going to say, but that wasn’t true. He had. He’d left it at Interpress, and Norton had been the one to fetch it from the back room … He let out a noise of frustration. ‘That bastard, he took it.’

‘Who?’ The man leaned forward.

‘Ellis Norton, a journalist from Interpress.’

‘A journalist.’ The man’s face was tightening with anger. ‘What have you told him about me? What do you know?’

‘What could I have told him?’ Sam shoved himself to his feet, his temper flaring, kindled by Norton’s actions, by the way his story was being twisted into something rotten. ‘I don’t even know who you are! Arthur Langham has been dead for fifty years. That’s why Norton took the passport. He wants to know who you are and what you had to do with Langham’s death. And so do I.’

The man stared. ‘I never said I was Langham,’ he spoke slowly.

‘But you let me believe it.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’ Sam swallowed, trying to tamp down the anger. ‘So I would give you the case? It never even belonged to you.’

The man didn’t answer. He just stood, staring down at the suitcase, with its old, jumbled possessions.

‘What will he write about me,’ he said, eventually, ‘this journalist? How much information does he have?’

Sam sagged a little. ‘I don’t know. He wanted to talk to his bosses, start digging for more information about Langham. I asked him to wait until I’d spoken to you, but obviously …’ Sam shook his head. Despite everything, he felt guilty. ‘He thinks that Langham’s death wasn’t an accident. He thinks it might have been suicide. Or – or murder.’ He glanced at the man. For all he knew, Norton was right, and he was talking to a killer. ‘He probably thinks it will make a great story, get him the front page.’

The old man shook his head. ‘Why did you have to stir this up? You don’t know what you’ve done.’

‘Then tell me. Tell me what really happened, who you are, and maybe I can stop him. Please.’

For a long moment, the man held his gaze. There was defiance in that expression, and anger, and something else as well; a hint of resignation.

‘There’s brandy on the bar,’ he said.

Sam knew an instruction when he heard one. He went to fetch it, searching through the forest of bottles until he found one marked Fundador.

He turned to find that the man had pulled the case towards him. He was holding the book, The Gentleman’s Guide. Sam watched as it fell open.

‘If you want to play the game,’ the man said softly, ‘you have to learn the rules.’

Sam almost took a step back. The man’s voice had changed completely. It was lighter, softer, an accent replacing the clipped British tones.

‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Are you A—’

‘Yes.’ The stranger looked up at him with a twisted smile. ‘For this story, I am Alejandro del Potro.’

Sangaree

Take a jigger of Old Tom gin and two teaspoons of sugar syrup. Shake with ice and strain into a chilled glass. Slowly pour over a pony of port wine so that it sinks, like blood in water.

My life at Dar Portuna began to change the night I dreamed about the Señor.

I dreamed that I stood beside his corpse, laid out on a slab as he had been on the floor of Elena’s room, the pink rug still stained beneath him. His head was tipped back; the ragged wound through which his life had escaped was dark as a wolf’s mouth. I approached, a step at a time, to peer into his still face, to touch his cheek and make sure he was dead. Only then did I realize something was wrong. His neck was still bleeding, a slow ooze at first, then more, welling up, splashing to the plinth, scattering droplets across my suit. The stench of Scotch came with it and I let out a cry but hands were seizing me from the darkness …

I opened my eyes. I was in my little room at Dar Portuna, pale light filtering through the window. A dream. Nothing but a dream. Nevertheless, the memory of blood remained, the faint scent of it. I stumbled from bed to push open the shutters and let the morning in.

The air was damp, filled with sea mist, not yet burned off by day. It clung to the roses that surrounded my ground-floor window. I breathed in deeply, and caught the smell of petroleum. Had Langham ordered the car already? Thinking about the previous night made my skin tingle with nerves. What would have happened between us, if Bouzid had not knocked on the door? What did I want to happen? Langham wanted me, I was sure, but as Alejandro. Would it be different if he knew the truth? And say I wanted him in the same way, say I allowed things to happen – what would that make me? Cook or servant or whore? Despite myself, my hand strayed down my body, past my waist, to touch the silk underwear.

My fingers came away tacky with blood.