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law.'
    ‘Well, I’m not very up in Muslim law –’
    ‘Don’t worry about that. You don’t need to be. The local mosque comes in usually when it’s a question not of law but of arbitration. Settling an argument between two parties. As long as you stay on the right side of them, you’ll be all right.'
    ‘I see,’ said Seymour, even more doubtfully. And then – ‘So where does Renaud fit in?'
    ‘Ah, well, Tangier is a bit different. There are a lot of businesses here which would like more freedom than either the Sultans or the French would like to give them. International businesses, for instance. So part of the Protectorate deal was that Tangier should become an international zone, a sort of free city. There actually is a Chief of Police here. That’s because there are a lot of European businesses and they like things to be done in the European way. Renaud is their man. In more senses than one.’
    Seymour was silent for a moment. Then –
    ‘So who is it exactly that I’m answerable to over investigating Bossu’s death?'
    ‘Me.’ Macfarlane frowned. ‘Although I have to say that part was left rather vague. Just take it, in practice, that you’re answerable to me.'
    ‘Oh, good. Well –’
    ‘As well as to a lot of other people, of course. France, Spain, Italy and Germany will be taking an interest, especially as the committee is their creation and Bossu was, in a sense, their appointee. And, of course, the Mahzen. It would be improper to leave them out. And then the French – Monsieur Lambert should certainly be kept informed. The Muslims I don’t think you need to bother about. You just have to stay on side with them, and that should be easy.'
    ‘Easy? Ye-e-s . . .'
    ‘And the same with the settlers. Mind you, they’re trouble-makers, but if you handle them in the right way . . .
    ‘And the business interests. Large business, that is. They’re very important. They’ve got a voice in Paris. That’s partly what Lambert was talking about . . . Bossu, you know . . . there was a time when he was very close to them. Perhaps he still was . . .
    ‘Any more? No, I don’t think so. I think that’s about it.'
    ‘Well, that seems straightforward,’ said Seymour.
    By now it was about eight o’clock and the city was just waking up. The streets in the main shopping quarter were crowded and the shops full of people. Up here, where Macfarlane had brought him, the shops were mostly European, spacious, well lit and with counters which were not sat upon but where the goods were displayed in the European way. The goods, too, were European: shoes from Spain, perfumerie and lingerie from France, elegant European dresses from Italy. You could well have been on the other side of the Mediterranean in the towns of Italy or Spain or Greece.
    The shoppers, too, seemed European. At least, they were dressed in European styles. Only the occasional dark-veiled, dark-gowned woman lingered along looking in at the windows. The men were bolder, walking along in twos and threes in the middle of the street, their arms around each other in the Arab manner. Many of them, especially the younger ones, had doffed their brightly coloured gowns in favour of shirt and trousers.
    Tangier was evidently changing, and it wasn’t just the political change, the coming of the Protectorate, it was social change: the coming of Western ways of shopping, the abandonment of the intimate cubby holes of people like Ali, the tailor, for the bright, public world of the metropolis.
    He was just saying this to Macfarlane when down the middle of the street came a file of white horses. On either side of them were Arabs in short white gowns revealing brawny knees pressed tight to the sides of the horses. With them, also on a horse, was Millet, the horse doctor. He put his hand up and the cavalcade stopped.
    ‘Hello, Millet,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Taking mounts to the barracks?'
    ‘Just checking them over first,’ said Millet.
    He frowned, and then