A Dangerous Place by Jacqueline Winspear

world—to fight for the, how do you say it? The man in the street? Well, I do not know who he is anymore, just that many want to leave, but are caught in a funnel at the border. Those with relatives here in Gibraltar are trying to stay—and remember, many of our people here have had jobs across the border for years, but now those jobs are lost. We are safe, but so much goes on here.” He pointed to his eyes. “I keep my eyes open.”
    Maisie dipped the croissant into her coffee cup and took a bite. She looked at Salazar again. “And what do you see?”
    â€œI see many new people here, and that is of no surprise. We have always had visitors to Gibraltar. But I also see people who are watching, as Kenyon watches you.”
    â€œDid you ever know a fisherman named Carlos?” asked Maisie. “Or a photographer—Sebastian Babayoff?”
    â€œI knew Babayoff. He came in with his camera once, to take a photograph of the inside of my restaurant. Then he wanted to charge me—and I’d never even asked him for a picture.” He shrugged. “But I know he was a good fellow, though he tried to fool me. He was like anyone, just trying to get by.” He looked at Maisie with bloodshot eyes. “I understand that his life was taken—by a refugee, most likely.”
    â€œIt would seem so,” said Maisie. “At least, that’s what I read in the newspaper.”
    Salazar nodded. “And I knew Carlos to buy fish from—but they keep to themselves, the fishermen. They speak the same language—fish. Are the fish biting? How many did you catch? Not much meat on them, eh? Fish, fish, fish. But I cook good fish here, if you want some.”
    Maisie raised a hand and shook her head. “Not today, thank you.”
    A bell chimed above the door. Salazar looked around as it opened and a customer entered. He lifted his cup and drained it. “Funny you should mention Carlos, though. He seemed troubled last time I saw him—only a day before he died. It must have been his heart bothering him even then—he kept rubbing his chest. He was a good friend to the man with the camera, by all accounts. They both liked the early morning—good light, and a good time to catch a fish.”
    Maisie looked out toward the street, where Kenyon waited.
    â€œGood morning, sir—please, sit wherever you want,” said Salazar to the new customer, a short man wearing a linen suit with an open-necked shirt and cravat. The man removed his Panama hat and nodded, moving toward a seat at the bar. “As long as it’s not on that good lady’s lap!” added Salazar as he turned back to Maisie, nodding toward the window and Kenyon. “You want my back way into the alley, miss?”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Salazar. I think I’ll take you up on that.”
    M aisie made her way into the shadows to consult her map. She was looking for Catalan Bay, from which most of the fishing boats left Gibraltar each morning. She had stopped to ask a street vendor, a woman who looked down at Maisie’s sandals and then back into her eyes before raising her eyebrows and informing Maisie that it was a good two miles to the bay. Maisie thanked the woman and went on her way, having considered her footwear to be adequate for the hike. It would give her time to gather her thoughts, which—she conceded—were still thick, as if cotton wadding had been pressed into her skull.
    A good time to catch a fish. She allowed herself to linger on the café owner’s comment—not that she imagined Salazar to have knowledge he had failed to impart during their conversation, but people often made observations borne of an intuition they would never lay claim to, and would not even know existed within them. Sebastian Babayoff and Carlos the fisherman—what was his surname? she wondered—had returned early from a dawn sail into the waters around Gibraltar, and since that