I agreed. “It’s not a perfect world.” It was my job to agree.

Among the dreary muddle of commerce, a bright stall stood out. An elderly man dressed in jeans and a khaki shirt stood behind a small table on which were stacked jars of preserved fruit, together with mangoes, blackcurrants, pineapples and cherries, as well as a handful of fresh vegetables.

“All home-grown and pure, senor. Buy and try!” cried the old man as Anstruther paused.

Observing Anstruther’s scepticism, he quoted a special low price per jar for his jams.

“We eat only factory food,” I told him. He ignored me and continued to address Anstruther.

“See my garden, master, how pure and sweet it is.” The old man gestured to the wrought-iron gate at his back. “Here’s where my produce comes from. From the earth itself, not from a factory.”

Anstruther glanced at the phone-watch on his wrist.

“Garden!” he said with contempt. Then he laughed. “Why not? Come on, Moreton.” He liked to be unpredictable. He gestured to the bodyguards to stay alert by the stall. On a sudden decision, he pushed through the gate and entered the old fellow’s garden. He slammed the gate behind us. It would give the security men something to think about.

An elderly woman was sitting on an upturned tub, sorting peppers into a pot. A sweet-smelling jasmine on an overhead trellis shaded her from direct sunlight. She looked up in startlement, then gave Anstruther and me a pleasant smile.

“Buenos dias, masters. You’ve come to look about our little paradise, of that I’m certain. Don’t be shy, now.”

As she spoke, she rose, straightened her back and approached us. Beneath the wrinkles she had a pleasant round face, and though fragile with age stood alertly upright. She wiped her hands on an old beige apron tied about her waist and gave us something like a bow.