“Well, it’s about my husband, you see. We were on holiday in Morocco, Marrakech actually, and one night he simply disappeared. Only when I got back did I discover that he had transferred his savings abroad.”
“Tell him the details, my dear.” Binden’s head wobbled. “Courtley here is much more likely to be able to assist. There’s little I can do what with one thing and another...”
I knew what was on his mind. The investigation into my conduct had duly been abandoned after the intervention of the Lord Chief Justice and, as a result, Lady Hudibrass cut Binden dead at a Buckingham Palace garden party which had been mortifying for him.
Mrs Plunt had begun to cry quietly into her handkerchief.
“Perhaps It’d be better for Mrs Plunt to tell me the details in another room – alone. It’s much easier if there’s just the two of us,” I said. “I’ll get the staff to bring us both a cup of coffee.”
Minutes later, Violet Plunt began her tale.
“It all began when Harold said he wanted to go somewhere different on holiday. Previously, it had always been France, you see, but this time, he suggested Morocco – now, I realize why. Quite frankly, I found the country depressingly hot and teeming with people. When we arrived in the afternoon a wind from the Sahara was blowing and there was sand everywhere. It even got under my clothes.” She blushed. “That was very uncomfortable. I suppose the hotel we stayed at wasn’t too bad – it was called a Riyadh, I think and had an internal courtyard full of flowering plants and a pretty little fountain but the view from our outside window was dreadful. Horrible buildings with flat roofs – many just covered with corrugated iron or plain wooden boards. However, Harold found it very exciting. He said you could taste the mystery of the East in the air but all it did for me was make me cough! Then he pointed out a minaret in the distance. ‘That’s the Koutoubia Tower,’ he said. ‘It’s just off the Grande Place – Marrakech’s most famous square,’ and that’s where he insisted we go the very first night. I found it perfectly ghastly; all those crowds of horrible people, huddling in little groups – snake charmers, men drinking boiling water, eating fire, it was quite frightening!”
“You’re very good at describing the places,” I observed.
“I’ve had a lot of time to recall every last detail – with the help of a guidebook, of course,” she said grimly. “Anyway, after a while Harold said he wanted to see what he called the Gwana dancers and we went to this cafe where they were due to perform. After a while, they duly appeared but I certainly wasn’t impressed. All they actually did was to prance about, beat drums, and yell at the top of their voices. Then one of the women – oh, she was so huge and ugly – reached out to Harold and he actually took her hand. Next thing, he was capering about too – making such a spectacle of himself!”
I suppressed a grin. “Well, you were on holiday.”
“But that wasn’t the end of it. The awful hussy then produced a...bong, I think they call it. ”
“A cannabis pipe, I believe. Well, that’s not so unusual in Morocco.”
“Maybe, but Harold had never smoked in his life! Anyway, after puffing away, he told me he was breaking away from his old life and going off with this woman…and disappeared into the night!”
“Without saying anything more?”
“Just told me that everything I needed to know was in a packet of correspondence which included a note to me, back home in his desk.”
She grabbed my hand.
“What could I do? I thought of going to the local police but that wouldn’t be any good – Harold went of his own free will, after all. So I caught a plane back home and located the packet. There were letters from a dating agency giving details of contacts abroad. Through this, he had met a penfriend, called Bertine Quissaria of all outrageous names, from Morocco. She’d persuaded him to take a holiday in Marrakech, bring some money and a life of bliss awaited him in that city of dreams. He took our savings but said I would get the pension due to him in three years’ time. I’ve a little money of my own, but that’s not the point – I want him back! Please, Mr Courtley, he might listen to you. Could you go to Morocco for me and try to persuade him to return? Binden says you’re just the man for the job.”
* * *
“Plunt’s wife should just let him to go to hell!” Andrea said adamantly when I told her later.
“Well, she thinks poor old Harold is suffering from a midlife crisis and could be made to see sense. Anyway, she’s asked me if I’d go to Morocco to sort out his foolish behaviour. Binden says the office will pay for the trip. Nothing has come out in the press as yet but, if it did, the army would have a field day at our expense! You know their attitude to us civvy lawyers.”
“So you’re going to go on your own then? Couldn’t you take me as well?”
“Plunt might think he was being crowded in if I did that, darling.”
“I thought you would say that.”
There was an ominous note in her voice. Suddenly she sighed and collapsed into a chair, holding her face in her hands.
“Charlie, do you ever really think about me or the quality of my life on this garrison? Working in the Thrift Shop is all that’s left to me now. I shan’t be seeing Beatrix much longer. She and Roland have decided they need a fresh start after all that’s happened and are emigrating to Greece.”
I frowned.
“Darling, of course I think about you but you know our situation – we have to stay in Germany for the time being. I suppose when I come back from Morocco I could always ask for a transfer.”
Andrea was sobbing by now.
“Damn you, Charlie! You could have done that anyway. Peascod owes you a tremendous favour, getting him off the hook the way you did. Well, I’ve decided I need a bit of space and intend to go back to Brighton for a bit. I shall take Boz with me. Our house is empty of tenants at the moment. You can contact me when you get back from Morocco.”
* * *
As the plane entered into its final descent towards Marrakech Airport a high wind slashed at it disconcertingly with a ‘ratatat’ of noise. A steward, noticing my concern, sought to reassure me.
“Just a sandstorm, sir, straight from the Sahara Desert. Common enough in Marrakech.”
Well, Violet Plunt had warned me, I thought wryly.
I had spent most of the four-hour flight brooding about the state of our marriage. Andrea had said she really only wanted a break – but would she want to stay on in England after I returned from Morocco? I would just have to wait.
An hour after touchdown (the airport being only 15 minutes away from the Old Town) I arrived by taxi at my hotel located in the centre with a thumping headache, initiated by the choking dust and compounded by the pungent petrol fumes of the area. The outside of the building looked unprepossessing. A thick panelled door set in a blank wall faced me, leading off a dingy alley. I dreaded what I should find inside but soon was to learn why Arab houses are designed so differently from our own. Once inside, a tranquil yard met my gaze surrounded by a perimeter walkway made of arches constructed in brilliantly-coloured mosaic. Water gurgled from a fountain into a pool lined with black and white tiles.
After checking in, I changed my clothes and made my way to an enclosed terrace on the first floor which contained the restaurant. After consuming a delicious meal of Harira (a local soup) followed by a Moroccan pigeon dish, I began to contemplate the task before me. How was I ever going to contact this Bertine – or anybody who actually knew her? There was not much to go on from what I had been told.
Harold had obviously arranged to meet her at the Jemaa El Fina ( the Arabic name for the Grande Place) when he disappeared. This was the area where the Moroccans gathered at night to revel in the local entertainment of snake charming, fire eating, gambling, and the telling of mysterious and romantic tales.
But first, I needed to locate the cafè where the Gwana dancers congregated as that was the one place poor old Violet had not been able to identify and I decided that the wi
zened, ancient concierge attached to the hotel might be able to help. Time was getting on when I approached him as he was engaged in the process of shutting and locking the one entrance to the hotel at eleven o’clock. Thereafter, the only access (for guests) was with their own key. Watching him perform what was obviously a nightly duty, I could not help noticing that the street outside was a maelstrom of humanity of all sexes and ages, jabbering volubly. I began to wonder what the Grande Place would be like if this was anything to go by.
My French was poor but I soon discovered that the concierge’s English was good enough to answer what he obviously regarded as being a common request.
“You want woman, sair. Plenty, I find for you!”
“No, no, you don’t understand. I don’t want any girl. Dancers actually – Gwana dancers.”
“Gwana dancers? No problem, no problem. I take you to my friend. He own cafe in the square. Best Gwana dancers in Morocco, you will see!”
Well, at least I was a step forward although I had no idea whether this particular Gwana troupe was actually the one of which Bertine was a member. Half an hour later, I found myself sitting alone at a small table just off the Grande Place, sipping coffee and watching a Moroccan floor show. Although alcohol was available, I indulged instead in a shisha (being a pipe smoker anyway), having been assured that it contained only tobacco and not cannabis.
To begin with, I was obliged to watch the contortions of a middle-aged belly dancer who waggled her stomach unenthusiastically to scratchy recorded music. It was almost a relief when five fat, heavily-bejewelled women appeared, one wielding a large drum. Three puny men followed, carrying stringed instruments, one similar to a violin, the others unrecognizable. After a tremendous blow to the drum which almost shattered my eardrums, the women began to ululate and keen at the top of their voices to a cacophonic wail from the ‘orchestra’.
Gradually, I realized that this whole performance was really for my benefit. Most of the other customers drifted off, leaving only a few locals playing cards. I soon became bored and decided the only way to stop the infernal racket was to produce some money and signify I was about to leave. But first I was determined to obtain as much information as I could. The violinist seemed to sense what was on my mind. Dropping his bow, he hurried over, his hand outstretched for a tip. I waved a large note in his face.
“I – looking for – Bertine Quissaria – a Gwana dancer – you know her?”
The man’s eyebrows shot up.
“You are a friend of Al Plunt, yes?”
“Al?”
Then I recalled that the prefix ‘Al’ was used as an honorific in an Arab country.
“Er, yes. Do you know him?”
By this time, the others had gathered round and began to chatter amongst themselves. The violinist turned towards me, shrugging his shoulders.
“He with Bertine now. Before, she dance with us always. Then this man come and now they are drinking in the big hotels. She no longer work here.”
“I need to find them,” I persisted. “Which big hotels do they frequent?”
The man did not seem to understand and gabbled something to his companions. Then one of the women waved a hand in a direction away from the square.
“Bertine, she never come here now. In the night, she go with Al Plunt to the Mamounia – for the rich people. Bah!”
Her companions echoed her disapproval with a chorus of ‘bahs’ and swiftly dispersed into the milling throng filling the square. At last I had some idea where I might find them, knowing that the Mamounia was Marrakech’s most famous hotel. Late it might be, but it was time to investigate.
* * *
Sure enough, there they were in the casino. Harold was slumped in an armchair, nursing a very large brandy next to Bertine who was ensconced at the roulette table. She was everything I had imagined: large, blousy with vulgar gold earrings and dozens of jangling bangles on both wrists. But her huge, black eyes, heavily marked with eyeliner, sparkled with fun and she possessed an infectious laugh. Harold too might have been half-sloshed, but his face radiated contentment as he observed his beloved at play.
Instead of the black jacket and pinstriped trousers, Harold now wore khaki slacks and a purple shirt, with a yellow scarf loosely tied around his neck. Perhaps because of his state of inebriation, he did not seem surprised to see me as I tapped his shoulder and he grabbed my hand in return.
“Good to see you, old boy! Let me order you a drink. I’d recommend the local cocktail, Marrakech Express I believe it’s called, or perhaps you’ll join me in a brandy? Real VSOP too, not the local gut-rot.”
“Thanks, I’m glad I found you...er...Veejag.”
“Oh, for God’s sake call me Harry! I’ve left all that office business behind, you know. Wait a minute, don’t tell me that Violet has sent you here encouraged by that miserable old bugger, Peascod!”
“Well, your wife was very upset by your sudden departure, Harold, with...er...your lady friend.”
“Serves her right, Charles! Bloody army wife! Never satisfied and always nagging me about not doing well enough. Firstly, it was why I hadn’t risen to colonel whilst in the army. Then, in the present job, why I never became JAG! Well, I decided I’d had enough of all of it, so did my own thing – isn’t that the way they describe it these days – and found Bertine. She’s good fun. She laughs! Sure, she loves gambling but I’m prepared to indulge that in exchange for the best time I’ve had in years. Moreover, we can live cheaply here in a nice little flat I’ve found for the two of us. Violet’s got my pension so when my savings dry up…by then, I’ll be dead anyway. Prostate cancer, you see – pretty advanced too. Bertine knows the score but she’ll go back to the dancing when I’m gone. Meanwhile, we’re both having the time of our lives!”
I stayed for another drink when Bertine won at the roulette table and insisted on buying vintage champagne all round, but I knew that any attempt to persuade Plunt to change his mind would fail. This was more than confirmed by Plunt’s parting shot.
“Tell old Binden he can stuff his precious office and position up his backside! Actually, I’ve a better idea. Why doesn’t he propose to Violet after I die? At last, she’ll be able to call herself the Jaarge’s wife, won’t she?”
Thirteen
After returning from Morocco, my worst fears were realized: Andrea had met another man.
During one of her regular walks with Boswell in Preston Park, near where we used to live, she had fallen for a fellow dog walker; a man who owned a Giant Schnauzer. Now there was no question of her returning with me to Germany. I was devastated but all my entreaties to her failed. Despite my request that I be transferred back to England, Peascod insisted that I had to remain in Germany as this was a contractual requirement which could not be broken.
My separated status now caused another problem for me. As a single man, I would no longer be allowed to live in married quarters in Brockendorf and would be expected to live in the officers’ mess once again. The thought of being subjected to Strawbridge’s company there was just too much.
“I can’t see why I couldn’t live in the German community in a private hiring,” I protested to Binden. “After all, we are supposed to be independent of the army.”
“Well, yes – but no,” Binden said, being true to form, “not in relation to accommodation. The MOD pays for that, you see.”
“In that case, why can’t I live in one of the flats they rent in Bad Zur Linde? It’s only 20 kilometres away from the garrison. Come on, Binden, you could at least write to the new general,” I pleaded. “You owe me that…” I added meaningfully.
“Yes, yes, I suppose I could write to his Chief of Staff. However, I’m not sure what their reaction will be. It’s against all protocol, but I’ll try.”
With that, I had to be content.
Returning to my London club, the Wanderers, I contemplated taking a much-needed holiday when something in the newspaper caught my eye. A new Lord Chancellor, Hubert Sheckleworth QC,
had recently been appointed, causing some raised eyebrows. Hub, a criminal silk (who had once tried to make me plead guilty to a professional disciplinary charge), was not renowned for his academic credentials but happened to be very rich and, so rumour had it, a substantial donor to the present government’s party funds. The report I was reading concerned a shake-up of personnel in the Lord Chancellor’s department, and my old friend, Melanie Anstruther, had been made head of the Judicial Appointments division.
It was not just Strawbridge and living in the officers’ mess that put me off remaining in Germany. It was the sense of isolation of being out there at all, particularly without Andrea. I had decided that if I could get myself made a recorder (part-time Crown Court judge), I would, at least, be able to come back to England from time to time and be back on the judicial ladder for the purposes of promotion.
Despite repeated previous letters to Hub’s predecessor (the Lord Chancellor being responsible for appointing all judges – both full and part time) not leading to anything, I felt it was time to chase up my one personal contact. So I wrote her a short letter of congratulation with the suggestion that I go to see her to discuss my judicial future.
A few days later, I duly received a thank you note and an invitation to join her for tea in the House of Lords one afternoon at four o’clock. I flew to London that morning combining my appointment to see her with a routine visit to the London office.
Presenting an identity card to the police at St Stephen’s Tower, I was escorted up several sets of stairs to Melanie’s office – a narrow room glorified with pictures of previous Lord Chancellors and a magnificent view over the River Thames. Melanie rose, greeting me warmly.
“Charlie – thank God you’re conducting courts martial again. I heard all about the attempts to stop you sitting and was delighted when the Lord Chief Justice put a stop to that general’s shenanigans.”
“I seem to get into some scrapes, don’t I? What with being disbarred once before, and then falling out with that general. Oh God, Melanie, I hope that’s not the reason why the Lord Chancellor hasn’t made me a recorder?”
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