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enough for me to commit it to memory, then returns it to his bag .
    ‘ Who’s the buyer?’ I ask casually .
    ‘ The usual collector .’
    ‘ And that’s the only piece? ’
    ‘ There may be others. We’ll have to see .’
    ‘ When? ’
    ‘ That’s not clear yet. For now, we just need you to watch and wait .’
    ‘ Watch and wait?’ I repeat in disgust .
    But Hernán is onto dessert now, something called a ‘bread and butter pudding’, a species of brown turd in a caramel nest. His eyes flick to the frayed cotton of my shirt sleeve. ‘It’s been a while since your last job,’ he says, nut-brown eyes glinting with amusement as he scrapes the dish with his spoon. ‘Are you sure you’re still up to it? ’
    I stare back, astonished .
    ‘ Of course, the other issue is where you have to go .’
    ‘ Abroad? ’
    ‘ In a sense. ’
    Hernán signals to our waiter friend for the bill .
    ‘ Portugal?’ I ask as Hernán takes out his money clip. He smiles but shakes his head .
    I shoot the waiter a meaningful glance, then follow Hernán outside. As we stand together in the sledgehammer heat of the Plaza Mayor, sunglasses on, Hernán presses a piece of paper into my hand. On it is written one word: ‘Gibraltar’.

Chapter Eight
    Spike Sanguinetti sat idle at his desk, distracted by the sounds drifting in from the backstreets of Gibraltar. Empties smashing into a wheelie bin as the Royal Calpe pub prepared for a new day. The distant buzz of a scooter as some foolhardy soul took on the steep alleyways of the Upper Town. The chatter of locals passing the time before the humidity grew too intense and they retreated indoors.
    He looked down at the row of grey lever-arch files stacked up on his desk, half-expecting to hear the usual noises filter in from next door – Peter Galliano on the phone, laughing so hard Spike would assume he was catching up with a friend, before a throwaway line revealed he was talking to a client. The plod of his handmade size-thirteens as he made his way across the parquet to the drinks cabinet, followed by the plaintive call, ‘Tell me it’s noon somewhere ’. The mock death-rattle as his ancient computer refused yet again to do what it was supposed to.
    Taking a breath, Spike forced himself to pull open the first of the files. Peter’s caseload comprised the usual mix of paperwork and court appearances – the legal profession in Gibraltar was fused, so both barrister and solicitor work were available. Of the various cases his business partner had been working on, six could be parked for now, as the trial dates weren’t scheduled until next year. Of the remaining eight, one stood out, not just in terms of urgency, but because of the money at stake. Neptune Marine, Inc. . . . Spike gazed again through the French windows, wondering where he’d heard that name before. Cacti seedlings were inching between the paving stones of the patio, their progress untroubled in Spike’s absence. Peter never had been much of a gardener . . . He shook his head and pushed deeper into the documentation, reams of paper annotated in Peter’s cryptic script. Neptune, it emerged, was a marine salvage company which had recently discovered a shipwreck two and a half nautical miles off the coast of Gibraltar. Keen to raise the sunken cargo, the firm had instructed Galliano to lodge an application with Gibraltar’s Receiver of Wreck. So far so straightforward, except . . . Why had the receiver passed the application to the courts instead of handling it directly? And how could a cargo of lead be worth . . . Spike reread the figures. Had Peter misplaced a zero? Four million pounds? He scanned through the rest of the correspondence for the contact details of the client, one Morton D. Clohessy – CEO. Had to be American. Clohessy’s mobile rang to voicemail so Spike left an urgent message.
    He turned to the other case files: a conveyance for a Ukrainian tax exile buying a penthouse in Ocean Village; a fire on