Page 91 of The Last Postcard

‘It’s him,’ the man with the torch called in English, before looking down at me. ‘Arthur Langham, I am arresting you in the name of Her Majesty’s Service for the crime of treason against your country …’

Tangier

July 1978

Sam fell silent, staring down at the letter.

‘He betrayed Ale.’ Zahrah’s voice was soft, calling them both back to the present. ‘After everything they had been through, he did that, knowing the danger.’

‘Maybe that’s not what happened.’ Sam swallowed. ‘Maybe there was some kind of mix-up, or Langham was double-crossed himself before he could get there, or—’

Abruptly, his mind went back to the strange, brief letter he’d found in the writing case. He squeezed his eyes closed.

‘Why are you defending him?’ Zahrah demanded. ‘Can’t you see he planned it? Ale was a decoy not an alibi—’

Silently, Sam stood up and went to his own pile of papers. There, sitting on top was the pencil scrawled note.

A,

I am sorry.

One day, I hope you’ll understand.

‘He must have left this in the writing case for Ale to find,’ he said, handing it over to Zahrah. ‘He must have dumped the suitcase at the Continental, and hidden the note and the key in the writing case just in case Ale got away. But Ale never saw it. And I never mentioned it either …’ He trailed off. ‘Langham died that night,’ he forced himself to say. ‘His body washed up two days later, on one of the beaches.’

Zahrah shook her head. ‘Maybe whatever happened with Cabrera went bad. Maybe there was a fight. Or—’

‘Maybe he ended it himself.’ Sam looked down at the letter.

Silence stretched between them.

‘What about Ale?’ he asked suddenly. ‘What happened after the arrest, back in nineteen twenty-eight? Do you know?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Zahrah leafed through the pages that had been addressed to Sam, detailing what had happened, the night of the party. ‘Wait, it carries on, look.’

‘Thank god.’ He leaned in to see, close enough that Zahrah’s shoulder brushed against his. She smelled of the kitchen, warm oil and faint spices.

But before he read a word, there were footsteps in the corridor, raised voices and the door was shoved open, without so much as a knock. Madame Sarah’s sister stood there.

‘You see!’ she said, pointing to Zahrah.

Sam jumped up from the bed. ‘It’s not like—’ he started, holding up his hands.

‘This is no good.’ The woman was incensed. ‘My sister will not stand for this in her house.’

‘We were just reading.’ Zahrah sounded indignant.

The woman made a derisive sound, eyeing Zahrah’s cropped hair, her bare legs and sandalled feet beneath the djellaba, before rounding on Sam. ‘You want to stay? Then she leaves. And you pay what you owe. Now.’

Madame Sarah came hurrying on to the landing, her face bright red. ‘I am sorry, Mr Hackett,’ she said, ‘but …’

He looked away. This was her house after all; she shouldn’t be the one apologizing. Zahrah stood up from the bed, staring at Madame Sarah’s sister with obvious dislike.

‘It’s fine,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll go.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. None of this was Zahrah’s fault. Or Madame Sarah’s. He met his landlady’s eyes. ‘It’s OK. I know I’ve been a terrible lodger. You deserve better.’ He gathered up the few remaining coins on the bedside table. ‘I can’t pay in advance for another week anyway. Here, this is all I have.’ He straightened up, looking around at his few scattered possessions. ‘I’ll be gone as soon as I’ve packed and tidied up. I don’t think it’ll take me very long.’

Zahrah stood behind him, holding the papers.