Farek could relate to that.

‘You collected a woman and boy from Al Hamri five days ago,’ he said softly. For a few moments, the cargo plane had gone quiet, leaving a hush in the atmosphere as if ordered by Farek himself. ‘Where did you take them?’ Al Hamri was the broad, tree-shaded street where Farek had an apartment, away from the overheated centre of the city and cooled by gentle breezes from the hills.

‘I don’t remember… it was too long ago… I…’ He stopped, eyes locked on the gun in Bouhassa’s hand. It had a black, shiny finish, a thing of cold beauty with but a single purpose.

‘ Where?’

Abdou dragged his gaze away from the gun and Bouhassa, and stared imploringly at Farek. ‘I got a call,’ he babbled, holding out his hands, palms upwards in supplication. ‘To collect a fare… that is all. I didn’t know who they were…’ He jumped up suddenly as if launched by a spring, but Bouhassa reached out a huge hand and pushed him back down.

‘I. Said. Where?’ Farek leant forward, enunciating the words with exaggerated care. ‘Did you take them to the airport?’

To the airport might have given Abdou a slim chance. Lots of people travelled to the airport for all sorts of normal reasons, and he couldn’t be held responsible for the whims of women. But where the woman had gone was not normal — not for one like her. He swallowed noisily and closed his eyes, as if all vestiges of hope had gone. Then he said softly, ‘No. Not there. Le Vieux Port. A ship called Calypsoa. ’ He sank back like a deflating balloon, resigned to his fate.

The Old Port. Where the steamers and trawlers and junk ships were berthed; where many transactions were carried out without the benefit or obstacle of official paperwork; where no woman in her right mind went, and where no cab driver would willingly take a woman without knowing exactly why she was there… and without taking money to ensure his silence.