He leaned back in his chair, stretching out his burly arms to reveal damp patches under his armpits.
Sam closed his eyes. He heard the ceiling fan’s rattle, another far-off cry for justice from the marchers.
He didn’t buy Maalouf’s talk of the crowd’s legitimacy. He suspected the man would, if he had the chance, pound every last protestor into the ground. This wasn’t about justice, but about maintaining order.
‘OK,’ said Eleanor.
Sam looked at her. She nodded back. She’d clearly been on her own journey, weighing up the moral difficulties of working with Maalouf, and had come out the same place as Sam.
‘So, if you’re right,’ she said, ‘and we are close, how do we finish this?’
Maalouf cleared his throat again. ‘Fingerprints.’
Chapter 54
Marrakesh, Morocco
Maalouf held up a finger, pausing proceedings, and made a quick phone call. A moment later, the door opened and a small, slight man with bulging eyes and pock-marked skin entered the room. He hastily pulled up a chair and sat down next to Maalouf, letting out a noisy sigh, as if this meeting were something he was trying to cram into an already busy day.
‘This is Badaoui,’ said Maalouf.
The smaller man nodded at Sam and Eleanor.
There then followed a brief discussion between Maalouf and Badaoui in Arabic, during which it was clear the larger man was bringing his colleague up to speed.
The conversation was over and Badaoui opened a manila file on the table before them and began lifting out various documents. The first was a colour photograph of the knife. There was a sharp intake of breath from Eleanor when she saw the weapon. Sam leaned in to examine the picture and saw immediately why Eleanor had reacted the way she had. The blade, a long, curved piece of tapering metal, was almost entirely covered in blood.
Sam swallowed hard. Above the blade, the dark handle appeared to be made of hardwood. It was smooth and bulged at the far end where it was clad in engraved silverwork. Sam stared hard at the wood, imagining the secrets its surface contained. Who had last used it?
He turned to see Eleanor giving the photo the same scrutiny, a frown now replacing the initial horror she’d expressed.
‘The fingerprints are good,’ said Badaoui, his voice deep, with a hint of a French accent. ‘We just need to find a match.’
‘What do we know about the attendees at the dinner that night?’ asked Maalouf.
Badaoui sifted through the documents he’d pulled from the file and placed a sheet typed with what appeared to be a list of names in Arabic over the photo of the knife. He and Maalouf then studied the list. They weren’t quite putting their arms in front of the list, as a child might to avoid someone copying their work, but there was a sense that this part of the investigation was for their eyes only.
Badaoui muttered something to Maalouf. The large man grunted in response and then looked up.
‘It seems your Prime Minister is in the clear,’ he said.
‘Philip Stirling could not have killed her,’ said Badaoui hastily, as if Maalouf was stealing his thunder. ‘The Prime Minister was in the restaurant all evening.’
‘What about the other guests?’ asked Eleanor, her voice anxious. ‘Did any of them leave?’
Badaoui sighed. ‘All evening there were people coming in and out. It was an informal dinner and the business of Government – on both sides – continued all night. People got up to answer their phones or go outside into the alleyway to have mini meetings. There were numerous small details to be tied up after the intense discussions of the last few days –.’
At this point, Maalouf interrupted Badaoui with a few short, terse words in Arabic.
‘Can we look at the list?’ asked Sam, at the same time wondering why Maalouf had cut short Badaoui so irately. ‘See if any of the names seem significant?’
Badaoui looked at Maalouf, who had paused to consider this request, rubbing his jaw with one of his outsized hands. The larger man nodded.
Badaoui reached into his file and pulled out a sheet of paper – another list, this one in English – then placed it on the table before Sam and Eleanor, who began poring over the names. Maalouf then gestured to Badaoui and the two men got up, went over to the window and began a conversation in hushed tones.
Sam watched the two men for a moment, wondering what they could be discussing. In all likelihood, it was the amount of information that could be revealed to two British nationals. What was happening, Sam suspected, was as unusual for the Moroccans as it was for them.
‘God,’ whispered Eleanor suddenly, ‘there’s a blast from the past.’
‘Who?’ said Sam.
‘Him,’ she said, her finger pointing to a name on the list.
‘Aidan Stirling,’ said Sam.
‘You remember those family holidays I mentioned when we were in that restaurant?’
Sam nodded, happy to give Eleanor something else to think about.
‘Well in addition to Charlotte Stirling hitting the bottle in spectacular fashion, the other strong memory I have is of Aidan Stirling. We had about three, maybe four, holidays with them in Cornwall before my Mum cracked and said enough was enough – she and Charlotte didn’t really get on.’
Eleanor’s eyes drifted as she was momentarily lost in recollection.
‘I quite enjoyed the holidays. A big gang of families took cottages in the same village, so it was quite good fun. But the first year was different. It was just us and them, so Aidan and I were the only children. It was a typical British summer, pissing down non-stop. I must have been about 15 then, Aidan around five, and we were kind of flung together. We used to play games to keep the boredom at bay. I liked him. The thing was, he seemed overjoyed, as if no-one had ever given him that kind of attention before. Poor guy, on the day we left, he got incredibly upset. It was as if I was leaving him forever – when all I was doing was going home. I remember Philip and Charlotte Stirling had to hold him back while we got in the car. Otherwise he’d have jumped in and come home with us.’
‘Clearly not a fan of his own family,’ said Sam, who felt an instant kinship with Aidan Stirling. ‘What was he doing at the dinner?’
‘It was a celebration to which our Prime Minister had invited both his family and Philip Stirling’s,’ said Maalouf, who had clearly overheard their conversation – or certainly the latter part of it. ‘Should we view him as a suspect?’
Eleanor took a sharp intake of breath, suggesting horror that she could have fingered someone so easily in Maalouf’s eyes.
‘For now,’ said Sam, keen to diffuse her concern, ‘surely everyone on this list, except Stirling, is a suspect until proven otherwise.’
Badaoui suddenly clapped his hands together. ‘The table at the ministry!’ he cried.
For once, Eleanor, Sam and Maalouf were united in their expressions, all turning to Badaoui with bewildered looks.
‘Most of the people at the restaurant that night also came to the ministry for the final meeting,’ said Badaoui, his voice filled with excitement. ‘The table they sat at will be covered in their fingerprints.’
‘But hasn’t the table been used since – or cleaned?’ asked Maalouf.
‘It has been used once,’ said Badaoui. ‘A short meeting – a formality more than anything – to welcome the new Iranian consul. But it was only a handful of people and it has not been used since. Of course the room has been cleaned. How well, who knows? It is certainly worth a try. We have a table plan which will give us the exact seating position of all the British delegates. If we can retrieve any fingerprints from its surface, we can then compare them with those on the murder weapon.’
Maalouf looked unconvinced, but nodded at Badaoui. ‘Get on to it now. We need answers. Quickly.’
As he watched Badaoui rush from the room, Sam felt oddly relieved that Maalouf was actively pursuing this. It would have been only too easy to nail Scott at this point – to implicate a man who was already dead
, someone who could easily be disowned by the country he’d once served.
He glanced at Eleanor – saw her eyes sweeping the table’s surface, her brain clearly working through a series of similar outcomes – and hoped to God that her father, who she already felt had abandoned her, wasn’t about to be destroyed in the cruellest way imaginable.
Chapter 55
Marrakesh, Morocco
Sunlight was now pouring through the dust-covered window panes. The weak ceiling fan did little to prevent the air slowly cooking, bringing the room’s stale aroma to life. Sam could smell Maalouf’s body odour, cigarette smoke and a distant hint of acrid cleaning fluid. God knows what it had been used to clean up.
Maalouf had moved to the window and was staring through the dusty panes into the courtyard below. He clearly had no intention of speaking, at least for now. The fan continued to circle noisily, never quite managing to drown out the muted din of the protestors.
‘Can I get some water?’ asked Eleanor.
Maalouf turned in her direction but his response was interrupted by his mobile phone ringing. He answered with a grunt.
Sam and Eleanor watched Maalouf’s face slowly lose colour as he listened to the voice at the other end, a breathless avalanche of Arabic loud enough for them to hear. The large man intermittently muttered a few words, catching brief moments in the rant to respond. Seconds later he had a chance to speak at greater length and used it to bark down the phone. Ending the call, he then dragged a chair to the wall.
Maalouf had positioned himself beneath the solitary window and now stood, the chair groaning beneath him, as he took in the view. When he got down moments later, his face was ashen.
‘I must go,’ he said.
He then stormed from the room, the door slamming behind him.
Chapter 56
Marrakesh, Morocco
With the door closed, Sam wasted no time, mounting Maalouf’s chair to see what had turned the giant so pale. Unlike the other dusty windows, this one was clear, and Sam knew in an instant what he was watching. Below was a section of broad avenue, seen between two buildings. The street was thronged with the same marchers they’d left earlier that day. They were visibly angrier, chanting, fists raised in unison.
Sam wondered why, given the protest’s proximity, they hadn’t heard the noise more clearly. And then he understood. The windows were sealed tight, the room’s dark business not for others to hear.
‘It’s the march,’ Sam said. ‘Looks like it’s getting nasty.’
‘Oh Christ,’ he said, his voice hushed.
Eleanor had dragged another chair over and joined him at the small window. Seconds later, they watched as cannisters flew through the air, landing in the crowd.
‘Tear gas,’ muttered Sam.
Thick plumes of white smoke poured from the disturbed canisters, diffusing lazily into the still, humid air.
The effects of the gas were soon terrifyingly evident. There was a sudden surge, as those affected by the fumes pushed backwards away from the source of the smoke. Sam and Eleanor watched in horror as the people behind them began to compress with this surge. It was clear that the sheer weight of their number meant there was little room to accommodate the new movement.
‘Someone’s going to be crushed,’ said Eleanor.
Whichever force had shot tear gas into the crowd, now engaged water cannons. High-pressure jets hit the protestors, knocking already panicked and disorientated people to the ground, as if the intention was simply to scrub the streets clean of dissent.
‘But they’ve got nowhere to go,’ said Eleanor, her voice choked with emotion.
They heard a muffled screaming as chaos took hold. Those at the front were continuing to drive backwards away from the tear gas and water cannons.
Soon more people lost their footing. Sam and Eleanor saw an elderly man, distinct in his white robes, drop down and then a wave of people move over where he’d fallen. A woman fell too, only to be pulled up again by two men.
Despite the insulation of the room, a dull cracking sound penetrated its windows, sending a shudder through Sam and Eleanor. It was the unmistakable noise of gunfire.
Chapter 57
Marrakesh, Morocco
Sam and Eleanor stood frozen at the small window, convinced they’d see bodies fall to the ground. But it appeared the shots were either fired over heads, or rubber bullets.
Some easing of the crowd behind meant that the fleeing protestors moved more quickly. But what was left in their wake made Eleanor sharply intake breath, a hand cupping her mouth in horror.
Sam counted about twenty bodies. There was the old man in his now dirtied white robes; a woman, perhaps in her thirties, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle. The rest seemed to be young men. Faces bloodied.
Among the bodies were scores of discarded placards. Sam strained his eyes at them, then drew back as he recognised the all-too-familiar image. The Berber girl, lying with those who’d marched in her name.
Eleanor stepped off the chair, stumbling as her feet touched the floor. She slumped to the ground, her back to the wall, knees drawn into her chest. Sam dropped down beside Eleanor, pulling her to him and wrapping his arm around her shoulder.
Chapter 58
Marrakesh, Morocco
Hours passed. At one point, the door opened and an unshaven man with thick eyebrows that met above his nose brought food and two glasses of water on a tray. Sam saw the man scan the room in mild alarm, before he noticed them on the ground.
They downed the water but couldn’t face the food, a plate of stale pitta breads and an indecipherable dip with a hard, dark skin on the top.
The sun moved round the side of the building, the room taking on a gloomy pall. Neither of them spoke, the images they’d witnessed replaying in their minds.
Just after 6pm – Sam had just checked his watch – the door opened and Maalouf returned.
He dragged the seats from under the window, urging them to sit down. Sam and Eleanor eased themselves off the floor, then sat. Opposite them, Maalouf rubbed his face with his hands. When he looked up, he seemed to have visibly aged, the plump bags under his small eyes were swollen, the lines between the meaty creases of his forehead furrowed and dark.
‘You saw what happened,’ he said. ‘The march got out of hand. People have died.’
Eleanor and Sam stared at the large man, too numb to speak
‘Believe me, it was not as bad as it could have been,’ said Maalouf. ‘But unless this can be resolved, they will be back, angrier than ever. And more will join them. Whatever you think of the Government of my country, you can see that this benefits no one.’
The door opened again and Badaoui stepped into the room. Unlike his colleague, the slight man seemed to have been invigorated by the time that had passed. Sitting next to Maalouf, his eyes were bright and he seemed bursting to impart his new knowledge.
They briefly conferred in Arabic, Badaoui’s excitable voice dominating the exchange. At one point Badaoui gestured towards Sam and Eleanor and muttered a question. Maalouf dismissed the query with an irritated swat of one of his substantial hands.
The matter – Sam suspected it was about sharing this new information with them – was settled and Badaoui turned to face them.
‘We now know,’ he said, ‘that, in addition to Philip Stirling, his wife also remained in the restaurant all night, so we must eliminate them from our enquiries. We have analysed the prints we took from the conference table at the ministry. Of those in the restaurant that night, we have, as yet, no matches for the murder weapon.’
‘“As yet”?’ asked Maalouf, barely containing his impatience.
‘Two sets of prints remain unaccounted for,’ said Badaoui. He paused a beat, at which point Sam thought Maalouf would grab the man and fling him across the room like a rag doll.
‘Two men,’ said Badaoui finally. ‘Charles Scott. And Aidan Stirling, the Prime Minister’s son.’
Eleanor glanced at Sam, th
e look of trauma in her eyes now replaced by blind panic, as she came face-to-face with the prospect of her father being labelled a killer. Meanwhile, Maalouf’s face barely registered a jot. The prospect of either men – even the British Prime Minister’s son – being guilty was not even worthy of a raised eyebrow.
Badaoui was now explaining in laborious detail how, in all likelihood, Scott’s fingerprints had probably been wiped clean from the conference table while Aidan of course had not attended any of the meetings. Maalouf was barely listening.
Sam felt Eleanor’s pain, but he was also stunned at the new name in the frame. Save for Eleanor’s memories, he knew little of the PM’s son. Aidan Stirling seemed to live a quiet life out of the public eye. He was, Sam seemed to remember, a designer, or perhaps an architect.
Maalouf’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘If we are to pursue this line of enquiry to its logical end and, God willing, find our man, we must have those two sets of prints.’
He cleared his throat. ‘You can get us evidence of your father’s prints?’
Eleanor nodded imperceptibly, Sam unsure whether she’d actually agreed. Despite Maalouf’s plea for both sets of prints, Sam wondered whether her cooperation was even really necessary. The prospect of a dead killer was, again, all too convenient, particularly when the alternative was Stirling’s son.
‘What about Aidan Stirling?’ said Badaoui.
Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1) Page 18