He watched the black and tan mixture trickle into the cups. Antonio turned the grinder off and the golfball cleaner effect on my eyeballs eased.

The young guy put two sugar sachets into his coffee and asked for a third. I flicked him one of mine. He stirred it lengthily to a syrup.

'You must be Inspector Senhor Doutor Jose Afonso Coelho,' he said, not looking at me but glancing up at the hammer and sickle Antonio kept behind the bar. His relics.

'Engenheiro Narciso will be pleased,' I said, glancing around the empty bar. 'How did you guess?'

His head flicked round. He must have been mid-twenties but he looked no different than he had done at sixteen. His dark brown eyes connected with mine. He was irritated.

'You look vulnerable,' he said, and nodded that into me for effect.

Antonio's eyebrows changed places.

'An interesting observation agente Pinto,' I said grimly. 'Most people would have commented on the whiteness of my cheeks. And there's no need to call me Doutor. It doesn't apply.'

'I thought you had a degree in Modern Languages.'

'But from London University, and there you don't get called a doctor until you have a PhD. Just call me Ze or Inspector.'

We shook hands. I liked him. I didn't know why I liked him. Narciso thought I liked everybody but he had that confused in his mind with 'getting on with people' which he couldn't do himself because he was colder and rougher-skinned than a shark with blood on its radar. The fact was, I'd only ever loved one woman and the people I'd call close were in single figures. And now Carlos. What was it about him? That suit? Old-fashioned, too big and wool in summer said no vanity… and no money. His hair? Black, durable, disobedient, short as a trooper's said, to me anyway: serious and dependable. His irritated look said: defiant, touchy. His first words? Direct, candid, perceptive said: uncompromising. A difficult combination for a policeman. I could see why nobody else would have him.