by Max China
Mohand sent Hamed back to the police station; he couldn’t see the point in two of them sitting on their hands while she read to them.
‘What is your name?’ he enquired.
‘All my friends call me Rusty, because of my hair.’ She pinched a few strands of the deep-flame-coloured hair together, and raised them to eye level, before dropping them.
He indicated the book. ‘S’il vous plait ...’ Although he’d have much preferred a written translation, he didn’t have time. While she read, he took notes.
She took a break only twice, for coffee and cigarettes. He declined her offer of both, but accepted a bottle of water.
He studied her face as she read on. Around halfway through, the expressions she pulled reflected her discomfort at the content she was relaying, and it occurred to him that the effect on her was doubled by the translation. She was getting it twice over.
His interest piqued as pieces of the puzzle came together for him. Missing women, wherever Boule was known to have been. Schooled in espionage. He was effectively a spy. A master of disguise. Every year, for years following the music festival, they’d received enquiries from Interpol relating to young tourists who’d gone missing. Mostly they were young women. But he would have seen him if he’d been to Essaouira before, surely? Not if he was in disguise.
At the end, Rusty flicked back to the first few pages and studied them closely.
‘What are you doing?’ he enquired.
‘It says this is a work of non-fiction ... Inspector, you’ve got to catch this man!’
Retrieving the book, he thanked her.
She followed him to the door.
He paused before going out, asking as an afterthought, ‘How many languages do you speak?’
‘I’m not looking for a job,’ she said, laughing. ‘But fluently, I speak five.’
He smiled. ‘Still, it is useful to know.’
The walk to the station took him ten minutes. Time to think, and compare what he had learned with the facts. The poster. The book. Carla Black. The dead cleaner in her room.
He was popular with the locals, and more people stopped him today than they had done even when they had learned he was about to become a father for the fourth time. It seemed that Hamed had been busy asking questions, and it seemed, suddenly, that wherever he went, everyone was talking about Boule, the man in the poster.
A light sheen of perspiration covered his face as he entered the station. The cool interior and the overhead fans brought welcome respite from the heat. He went into the washroom and freshened his face with two handfuls of cold water. Rinsing his hands, he shook the water from them and gazed at himself in the mirror. One day, he would remove the heavy black moustache that covered his top lip, but not yet. He knew some of the other officers called him Saddam behind his back. One day, he would catch them, bawl them out and then shave it off. The washroom towel was filthy; he never used it, instead dabbing at his top lip with the back of each sleeve, drying the moisture from it and then drying his hands on his trousers – always while performing the ritual he thought of his father. Having watched him preparing for work most mornings, he now did the same things. Staring deeper at his reflection, he shook his head slightly, gently letting the connection to his past go.
He’d had an international criminal at his fingertips, and he had not had a clue. Nothing in the man’s demeanour gave him away. Turning his face slightly to one side, he shrugged off the self-doubt that had gnawed at him for the last half hour. Remembering what his father often told him, he nodded silent agreement to the mirror. Unless you are looking, you do not see.
Five minutes later, he was in deep discussion with Hamed.
‘This woman, this writer ... she was seen with the boy, Mohammed, before the terrible accident.’
‘Hamed, if we can believe what this book says, this man is a rapist and a murderer many times over,’ he said, pushing the book across the desk, tapping the author’s photograph on the back cover. ‘And this woman. She writes this book. She comes here putting up posters that do not hang anywhere else but in this town ...’ He stopped Hamed’s query before his mouth opened. ‘I already checked.’ He pushed the cover so that it sat squarely in front of the other man. ‘Get this picture copied. I want it distributed everywhere. And the poster, get a photo of it and copy that around everywhere. We need to find this woman, and we need to catch this devil before he kills again.’
‘I’ll do the pictures straight away,’ Hamed said.
His eyes grainy with tiredness, Mohand fought against his need for a siesta. More than once, he’d prevented his heavy eyelids from fully closing, but slowly, inexorably, he realized it was a battle he could not win against the habit of a lifetime.
The door burst open.
‘Sir, we’ve had a break. Someone has seen a man matching Boule’s description going into a dive hotel in Ghazoua. We think he’s staying there!’
‘Well, what are we waiting for, Hamed? Let’s go!’
Carla’s knuckles were poised to knock on the door when Miller opened it. ‘Did you sleep well?’ he enquired.
‘In the end I did,’ she said.
Her washed-out expression told him she hadn’t. ‘Bad dreams?’
‘I didn’t dream about anything,’ she replied in a monotone.
‘Oh,’ he said.
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
Miller waited adjacent to the foyer, having settled the bill, while Carla spoke to a holiday representative in the reception area.
When she rejoined him, her spirits seemed to have lifted and she insisted that she was going nowhere until she’d kitted herself out in new clothes.
He’d managed to steer her away from the expensive garments in the hotel boutique by explaining there would be a much wider choice elsewhere in town. Time was running out, and the thought of traipsing up and down the cobbled backstreets looking for boutiques that were open didn’t appeal to him – and his stomach was grumbling for breakfast.
‘That’s good,’ she said, as she scooted back to join him, full of enthusiasm. ‘There’s a shopping mall not far from here and we can get something to eat while we’re there.’
‘Thank God for that,’ he muttered. ‘Do you know the way?’
‘Follow me,’ she said.
Outside the streets were already busy, the acrid smell of diesel strong enough to taste. Klaxons blared as surprised tourists rushed clear of what they’d thought were pedestrian crossings. Pigeons pecked at the edge of a path on the outskirts of the human traffic, completely desensitized to people.
They’d only walked a few minutes when Carla declared, ‘There it is!’
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ he said, staring at the huge curved glass and concrete building. ‘That looks like something out of Brent Cross ...’
She laughed. ‘To me, it’s the eighth wonder of the world.’
Inside, the place was teeming with people; the twenty-first century meets the middle ages. The aquarium was among the largest he’d ever seen.
‘This is worse than any shopping centre back home. This is like bloody Lakeside crossed with SeaWorld,’ he grumbled.
Half a dozen shops later, she finally acquiesced to having enough clothes to last for the journey back to England.
‘That’s one good thing about losing a passport. You can’t get any cash,’ she said, giggling. ‘I hate the idea of you having to buy me clothes ... Not!’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t bring a cash card.’
‘American Express,’ she chimed, in her best advertiser’s voice.
‘You can get money out on that.’
‘Not mine – yours,’ she said, laughing. ‘I seem to have lost mine.’
‘I’m having this money back,’ he said.
‘Do we have to rush off? I love it here ...’
‘We’ve got an hour ... no more than that, and we’ve got to eat yet.’
‘Oh, co
me on. Let’s at least look around until lunchtime, have something to eat and then go.’
‘Carla, you seem to be forgetting something.’
‘Oh, yeah, that. I don’t suppose your budget will stretch to a new iPhone for me? That way I can take photos, and you won’t have to worry about lending me yours.’
He looked pained. ‘I’m not worried about lending it, because it isn’t happening again.’
‘Come on, look, over there. I’ll pay you back. I promise ...’
Boyle read page seventy-seven. He threw the book across the room, its pages flapping noisily as it flew towards the wall
‘Fuckin’ liar!’ he raged. ‘No one knew about that!’ Stomping over to where the book lay spread open, spine broken and Carla’s image on the back cover facing the ceiling, he slowly and deliberately ground her face with his boot. ‘Fuckin’ bitch,’ he growled, switching his voice, changing it completely. ‘I’m comin’ to getcha.’
A darkness gathered at the periphery of Miller’s vision. A feeling. Something in the air. Like knowing it’s going to rain before a storm. The end of his nose tingled and touching it, he felt moisture. He looked at his fingertips. They were smeared with blood.
‘We really need to get going,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling coming on.’
The expression on her face turned to a mixture of disappointment and concern.
His phone chimed, signifying a message. He checked it. Stella. The text was two words: I’m sorry x.
‘Bad news?’ she said, arching an eyebrow.
‘If we don’t get going now, it could be. Come on!’
Heading up a cavalcade of cars and motorcycles, Hamed drove at speeds that tested the lieutenant’s steely nerve; blasting their sirens at intervals, the other vehicles joined in.
‘No more with the sirens. Do you want to tell him we’re coming?’
‘We still have five minutes to go before we get there—’
‘Slow down, and no more sirens,’ Mohand said.
Once they had the area contained, the team went in through the front doors.
‘Is he still here?’ Mohand said to the man behind the desk.
‘I didn’t see him go out and I’ve been here all morning,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Apart from when I took a crap ten minutes ago ...’
‘Quickly,’ Mohand barked, ‘before he looks out of the window and sees us!’
The burly owner led them upstairs faster than he’d travelled on foot for many years. At the top landing he attempted to pause, breathlessly fumbling with the keys, while the tide of police officers behind pushed him on towards the door.
He knocked. No reply.
‘Get that door open!’ Hamed cried, fuelled by adrenaline. Anxious looks passed among the men as the hotelier hastily unlocked the door. The officers surged forward.
They didn’t have to search the room.
‘He’s gone,’ Mohand announced, wrinkling his nose at some lingering odour and dashing across to check the windows, he looked down. No sign. His men entered the alleyway from both ends, converging in the middle.
Turning away, he noticed Hamed had picked something up from the floor, something which he recognized straightaway. The book. The reporter’s photograph on the back had been defaced almost beyond recognition. ‘What’s going on here?’ he said quietly.
Someone outside shouted an alert, and others quickly joined in. He rushed back to the window, looking down again. His men surrounded a large refuse bin; its lid hung down, revealing the body of a man, crammed head first into it.
There was no doubt in his mind who was responsible.
Moving away from the window, he crossed the room rapidly on his way downstairs, speaking to Hamed as he went. ‘We need all ports alerted in case he tries to leave the country. Get those photographs of the poster out to them – and the woman – I want to speak with her, too. Do it now.’
The powerful motorbike cut through the air as he left the outskirts of town, the drag pulling at the rider’s chest despite his aerodynamic position. The dark tinted visor of the shiny black helmet was open a crack. Riding low, kitbag strapped beneath his belly and against the tank, the wind passing over him made his leather Stetson flap up and down, slapping him like a cowboy riding his back, as he touched speeds in excess of a hundred miles an hour.
In his aching head he struggled over and over with the same calculation, never getting the exact answer, but knowing if he travelled twice as fast as she did, he’d be in Tangier in half the time.
He opened the throttle, increasing his speed.
Chapter 15
Carla hadn’t spoken since they’d resumed their journey. Dressed once more in Western clothes, she sat with the robe Mohammed had lent her folded on her lap. The iPhone she’d coerced Miller into buying, still in its box, was in the car’s centre console.
From the corner of his eye he noticed her studying the fabric. She appeared to be deep in thought. He respected her need for silence. She’d talk when she was ready.
She sighed deeply and turned towards him, her right shoulder resting against the passenger door.
He looked grim. Subconsciously, she mirrored his expression. She sensed he wasn’t telling her everything, but she had things on her mind that she needed resolving, so she snuggled into the seat and closed her eyes.
A few minutes later, exasperated at her inability to nod off, she exhaled loudly as she wriggled upright.
He broke the silence that hung between them. ‘Are you OK?’
‘What do you think?’ she said hotly. ‘Of course I’m not OK!’
‘Talk to me,’ he said, gently.
She took a deep breath, unsure where to start. ‘How long did it take you to get over your tragedies?’ she said.
‘A lifetime ... and I’m not over them. I’m just able to function better, that’s all.’
He recalled how it felt some days. The crushing unhappiness he used to push aside, leaving it to destroy him another day. It had grown to the size of a nuclear bomb before, with help, he’d managed to defuse it. Now it lay at the back of his mind, disarmed, a component missing. He wondered absently whether that was the real reason he’d been stripped of his sensitivities. The two went hand in hand.
Carla’s voice drew him away from his thoughts. ‘It didn’t really take you all that time to function properly again though, did it? I mean, after the initial shock ...’
‘If you’re anything like me, it’ll come at you in waves.’ He took his eyes off the road briefly, and looked at her face. ‘I don’t think it’s fully sunk in with you, yet. You’re in shock, only you don’t know it.’
‘But I do know it. I’ve got a story to write and I haven’t been able to make any notes since it happened.’
‘You know what, Carla? You must be one of the most self-centred people I’ve ever met.’
‘Yes, I know. It sounds bad, doesn’t it? But it’s how I keep my mind off things ... You didn’t help me when I needed you, did you? Mr High-and-mighty.’
‘Hey, where’s all this coming from?’
‘You don’t know? Mr I-know-bloody-everything. Jesus!’ She clenched her fists, and they trembled as she fought to contain herself. ‘What’s wrong with me? I shouldn’t be like this.’ And then she wailed, unleashing her pain.
The cry cut right through him. The vocalization of her agony was heart-rending and drew him close to the edge of his own volcanic suppression.
He wanted to blow, for both of them, but he did what he always did. Taking a deep breath, he disassociated. ‘Like I said, you’re in shock.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know!’ Tears spilled from her eyes and anger filled her with spite. ‘Don’t just state the obvious all the time. You know what you are?’
He had no time to respond.
‘A bloody cold fish! You could have helped me last night, but what did you do? Pushed me away, that’s what you did. A friend in need is a friend indeed ... Did you never hear that saying before? I needed you ...�
�� her words petered out as she ran out of steam.
‘Carla,’ he said, quietly. ‘If we’re going to get through this, you’ve got to pull yourself together, because if you don’t – either Boyle will get you, or the police will.’
She turned to face him. ‘Get me? What about you?’
‘No one knows I’m here, apart from you and Stella.’
Her head dropped into her hands and she covered her face. ‘Every time I close my eyes, Miller, I see him there – mangled because of me.’ She shook her head. Slowly, voice subdued, she continued, ‘You didn’t see it. You don’t have a clue.’
He placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘I was in a taxi with his father ...’
She sat up straight. ‘How do you know that?’
‘There was a time I thought I knew, but now I’m not so sure that it’s me who knows. I’m beginning to think I’m just a conduit for someone else’s life to pass through ... but I felt it, his pain, a few minutes before he discovered it was his boy in the accident.’
‘Jesus ... I’d forgotten you could do that ... Couldn’t you have warned him, Mohammed I mean?’
‘If I could have,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘don’t you think I would have?’
She stared through the windscreen at the road ahead. ‘Are you going to get me away from him?’
The heat of his desire for revenge flared briefly, matching her all-consuming pursuit of the story. ‘I’ll do my best, but for now, we’ve got miles to go. Tell me about your childhood.’
‘You make yourself sound like a shrink asking me that,’ she said, shrugging, ‘but why not?’ After a moment of contemplation, she continued. ‘I’ve always been driven. Some people would call it selfish. Hmmm, maybe it is. My dad was in his late forties and on his third wife when I was born. Mum was twenty-one. I don’t remember much about him from when I was a little, little girl. He was a journalist, a war correspondent. Always away ... reporting on someone else’s turmoil. It’s funny, when I look back I think it was just an excuse to avoid living his own life.’