The Dave Bliss Quintet. James Hawkins

tourist trash in the expensively named emporiums.

      Cutting across the pétanque courts of the Pantiero he kicks up a dust cloud.

      “Merde,” shouts an irate player, slapping his crooked arm in anger as he rants, “Va te faire foutre!” Bliss misses the foul-mouthed insult as he plays car drivers at their own game and forces three lanes of traffic to a halt by dashing erratically across the busy seafront road.

      The long run along the harbour wall, constantly leaping mooring ropes, bollards, and abandoned chandlery, leaves him breathless as he nears the Sea-Quester’s berth — but he’s too late. The gangway has been slid aboard, the moorings cast, and the vessel has edged off her berth, turned hard to port, and is heading for the open sea.

      “Putain,” swears Bliss, as he focuses his binoculars on the departing vessel, but he’s foiled by the tinted bridge windows. He shrugs. Oh well, at least it gives me time to do something about the boy in the cage, and maybe I’ll make some more enquiries about Marcia’s daughter.

      The boy in the cage plays on his mind as he edges his way through the tight laneways crammed with a potpourri of tourists. Every English voice turns him, until he decides to act and, finding a pay phone, fishes out his Amex card to call Samantha.