Page 76 of The Last Postcard

‘I’d never do that! Last night I was with a … a friend.’ He sounded so guilty. No wonder she was frowning at him. ‘OK, I’ll pay a week in advance, I swear. As soon as I get back later.’

She looked unconvinced. Not for the first time, Sam wished he was a better tenant. Or a better liar. Behind her shoulder, the clock was pointing at two. He’d have to run if he wanted to catch Norton before he got back to the office.

‘Here.’ Impulsively, he held out the writing case. ‘This is incredibly important to me. Keep it as a security deposit. Tomorrow I’ll give you the rent, I promise.’ Perhaps he could borrow a few dirhams from Ale.

Madame Sarah frowned at the leather case, with its scuffed corners. ‘All right,’ she said quietly, taking it. ‘But tomorrow, please.’

Sam’s hands felt empty as he hurried through the casbah. He stuck them in his pockets, full of kif dust and rolling papers and small change. Facing Norton would be easier in a suit like Ale’s, something smart and elegant, rather than his usual scrubby jeans. He straightened his shirt as much as he could before stepping into the El Minzah.

He needn’t have bothered. Norton wasn’t there. The desk clerk, side-eyeing Sam’s attire, told him coolly that Mr Norton had not returned at all that day. Grimly, Sam strode out into the street and started in the direction of the new town. Was Norton putting in extra hours to dig around the archives, looking for information about Langham? He walked as rapidly as he could through the sweltering afternoon, until he saw the brown glass windows of the Interpress building glinting up ahead.

He stopped in the middle of the street, staring at the lobby. What the hell was he going to say? Norton might be a bastard, but he was on the right track, there was a scandal to be uncovered, Sam was sure of it. How was he going to convince Norton otherwise? He swallowed hard, and walked towards the building.

The reception was hot, a couple of fans shunting cigarette smoke about the place. The woman from the day before was pushing typewriter keys one at a time, struggling to stay awake.

‘Hello,’ Sam said, clearing his throat. ‘I’m here to see Ellis Norton.’

The receptionist blinked at him. ‘Mr Norton? I’m afraid he just went out.’

Sam hesitated. He’d come here ready for an argument. Did this mean he’d have to sit and wait like an idiot until Norton returned? Frustrated, he nodded and turned away, gritting his teeth when he pictured how Norton must have swiped the passport …

Sam stopped. The passport. Norton had taken it for a reason. It was proof, he realized, the only concrete bit of evidence Norton had that someone else might have been involved in Langham’s death: the only thing that named Alejandro del Potro. If he could get the passport back, Norton would have nothing, just speculation, rumours. No editor would accept an article without verifiable evidence.

Quickly, he searched through his jeans pockets until he found what he was looking for. A business card, crumpled and a little grubby:

ELLIS NORTON

JUNIOR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT

INTERPRESS

‘Actually, do you mind if I wait for him upstairs?’ Sam waved the card at the receptionist. ‘Ellis and I are working on a story together. I was here yesterday, remember? You gave me some money for a taxi.’ He felt as though his smile was creaking.

‘That’s right,’ the woman said, stifling a yawn. ‘You were in a rush.’

‘I’ll go wait at his desk, then.’ He moved towards the elevator, his heart beating faster.

‘Wait!’ The receptionist’s voice stopped him. She was leaning over the edge of the counter, holding a pen. ‘You need to sign in first.’

Trying to steady his hand, he took the pen and wrote a name in the register.

‘Thanks, Mr –’ she glanced down ‘– Langham. You want the second floor. I’ll tell Mr Norton you’re here as soon as he arrives.’

Sam nodded, and made for the elevator. He’d have to be fast.

The second floor turned out to be a messy open office space, blinds pulled down over the windows to keep out the fierce sun. He expected someone to stop him at the door and ask what he was doing, but no one did. He passed one man snoozing behind a huge stack of files, a woman who was working at a typewriter, her glasses sliding down her nose with perspiration.

‘Excuse me,’ he asked her. ‘Which is Ellis Norton’s desk? I’m meant to wait for him and—’

‘Who?’ she asked, not looking up from her typing.

‘Norton, Ellis Norton, he’s a junior correspondent.’

The woman tutted over a typo and pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘Corner desk.’ She jerked her head towards the windows. ‘Next to metro.’

Sam had no idea what that meant, but he walked confidently in that direction, until he saw a piece of paper pinned to a cubicle divider that read E NORTON.

He was sweating now. So was everyone else in the room, though he wagered they were sweating from the heat rather than nerves. He lowered himself into the chair at Norton’s desk, ducking behind the divider.