Page 82 of The Last Postcard

‘Wait,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder. There had been no paperwork, no release forms, nothing. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Shut up and walk.’

He’d never been so glad to smell the traffic fumes outside, to feel the morning sun prickle across his scalp. Bet kept marching him along the road until they turned the corner and emerged on to the Place de France. Only then did she loosen her grip, and look up at him.

‘Brawling, Samuel?’ she said with a sigh. ‘I thought you were smarter than that.’

‘So did I.’ He blinked at her. ‘Bet, I can’t thank you enough. How did …’ He waved a hand at the police station.

The sun caught on the dull gold of a tooth. ‘The station chief is a dear friend. He was very understanding. Hot-blooded young men get into scraps every day. And as for this –’ she peered down at the passport as they walked towards the Gran Café ‘– that took a little more explaining. I told him that you were a writer, with a predictable penchant for old things, and that you had probably picked it up at a junk shop. Why on earth were you carrying it around?’

He groaned. ‘It’s a long story.’

They must have made an absurd-looking pair, Bet in her tweed, he more grubby and rumpled than ever. Wearily, he told her what had happened. How he’d located Dar Portuna, and met the person who lived there. How he’d ill-advisedly asked Norton to check the archives, only to come up with Langham’s suspicious death. How Zahrah had warned him that the authorities would descend on Dar Portuna if they found out it was Ale’s secret address. How he’d been trying to shut Norton up.

The smoke spiralled around them, mingling with the smell of fresh coffee and morning pastries. Only when he started talking about the fight did he remember what he’d found in Norton’s desk.

‘Bet,’ he said, hastily wiping pastry crumbs from his mouth, ‘Norton had pictures of you in his desk, with another person, Kline I think it was, taken outside The Hold. It’s part of what made me so mad. He’s obviously been sniffing about, trying to dig up dirt on you too.’

For a moment, Bet’s blue eyes were sharp. ‘Photos? What were we doing in them?’

‘Talking, that’s all, from what I could see.’

Bet grunted. ‘I’ll have to have a chat with Mister Norton some time. He’s quite the annoyance.’

She reached down for her handbag and took out a newspaper. He recognized it as Tangier Today, one of the cheaper English-language titles. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Yesterday’s evening edition. He managed to get page five, above the fold.’

BACK FROM THE GRAVE?

MYSTERY OF DROWNED

MAN RESURFACES

AFTER FIFTY YEARS

Sam felt sick. He heard Zahrah’s voice again saying, You have to do better than try. He had promised he would try to keep Ale from danger, and here it was: proof of his failure. He didn’t want to look at the paper, every part of him wanted to hurl it across the room, but he didn’t. He had to see what the damage was. It was his responsibility, after all.

It was a dreadful article. Norton’s suppositions had been written up in lurid detail. The passport was made much of: the mysterious Alejandro del Potro who existed in no records, but who was undoubtedly linked to an underworld smuggling ring, and to Langham’s disappearance. Sam forced himself to read on.

Whilst the closure of British institutions in Morocco makes it difficult to obtain accurate police reports from the era, an inside source from the embassy – who did not want to be named – revealed that before his untimely death, Mr Arthur Langham may have been wanted by the British authorities on serious charges, in an investigation which was never fully concluded. This new information regarding Alejandro del Potro’s connection to Langham and possible involvement in his murder, as well as the location and existence to this day of a mansion safehouse in the casbah named ‘Dar Portuna’ – which was discovered by Interpress journalist Ellis Norton – has now been shared with Moroccan and Spanish authorities, as well as customs officials. It is Tangier Today’s understanding that the police will use the information in their ongoing efforts to apprehend and prosecute the individual known as ‘Alejandro del Potro’ for contravention of customs law.

‘The bastard,’ Sam muttered, his throat tight. ‘Why did he have to do it?’

‘He’s trying to write himself out of here,’ Bet said, looking down her nose at the paper. ‘Making the news, so that he can report it.’

Sam stared down at the article, wishing he could scrub the words out of existence. ‘Zahrah, the woman I told you about who lives at Dar Portuna, she said something like this could put Ale – Alejandro – in danger. Do you think it will? Do you think the authorities will act upon it?’ He shoved the paper away. ‘It’s all my fault.’

‘No denying you had a role to play.’ Bet’s blue eyes were kind. ‘But you didn’t publish it, did you? I’ll hazard a guess that your version would be a bit more nuanced.’

He just shook his head. She let him sit in silence for a while, before tapping the paper.

‘Norton’s “embassy source” is old Giles, I’d bet my hat on it. I saw the pair of them in the El Minzah the other night, getting cosy over the Benedictine.’ She smiled darkly. ‘I’ll have to have a chat with him, too.’

Sam folded the paper over, not wanting to look at it any more. ‘What if Norton tries to use those photos of you?’ he asked quietly. ‘What if he writes something about your … past?’

‘About me?’ Bet raised her eyebrows. ‘What could he possibly write? I’m just a pensioner, spinning out her retirement in a nice warm country. And anyway –’ she slid him a look ‘– he’d never be able to prove a thing.’

Outside in the street, she re-tied the scarf over her cropped grey hair, becoming a little old woman once more.