Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti)

by Mogford, Thomas

  Spike saw the audience transfixed as Nadeer penetrated them one by one, giving each a taste of those glittering tawny eyes. ‘Investing in Dunetech,’ he continued, sliding his spectacles back on, ‘is not just about buying into the most democratic and politically stable of all North African countries. It is not just about the provision of renewable, environmentally friendly energy as the world’s oil and gas supplies run dry. It is about an immediate and urgent need. A need that will only grow more acute as global climate change exacerbates. One last chance to eradicate the scourge of modern Morocco. Poverty.’

  Nadeer turned his head as a series of images of rag-doll children and lean-to huts appeared on the screen. Spike thought he recognised the effluent stream of Chinatown.

  ‘What has traditionally constrained our ability to tap into the immense power of solar energy,’ Nadeer resumed sadly, ‘is what we in the industry call the three Cs. Cabling, cost and collection. If I may, I will explain to you how Dunetech plans to revolutionise these one by one. First . . . cabling.’ The images switched to a diagram as Nadeer began talking about how Dunetech had secured permission to lay cables from the Sahara, over the Atlas Mountains and into the major cities of Tangiers and Rabat. Spike’s neighbour began taking conscientious notes.

  ‘. . . using technology designed exclusively by Professor Ángel Castillo . . .’ Spike tuned back in. Fuck off back to Ángel, Zahra had said. So Ángel was Esperanza’s stepfather. How had Zahra known his name?

  Spike opened the prospectus. The first pages were dedicated to exploring the science behind a ‘heliopod’, one of the futuristic triffids he’d seen in the promo. Hourglass-shaped, each unit stood two metres tall, with a smooth metal base leading up to two concave solar panels. The panels seemed capable of movement, opening and closing like a clam shell as the sun passed overhead.

  Spike flicked onwards, stopping at the ‘Who we are’ section. The first photograph showed Nadeer, narrow chin pinched pensively between thumb and forefinger. His bio revealed him as the son of Yusuf Ziyad, a personal adviser to the King of Morocco – educated at Eton College, Cambridge University, Harvard Business School . . . Spike flipped over to the head shot of Ángel Castillo. The eyebrows were bushy, the salt-and-pepper goatee a luxuriant oval. Bags hung like dried apricots beneath his eyes, creases ran between his nostrils and mouth, and the dismissive smile suggested he had better things to do than pose for a publicity shot. The blue cravat under the collar gave a slightly nautical look. ‘Educated at the Complutense in Madrid,’ the prospectus said, ‘and now tenured at the Universidad de Sevilla, Professor Castillo has worked all his life in Africa and lived in Morocco for the last decade, using his expertise to assist the country’s poor. Known affectionately in renewable energy circles as the Sun King, his patents in solar technology have . . .’

  Spike returned his eyes to the stage, where Nadeer was onto the final C, Collection, explaining how a single concrete storage tower could regulate energy distribution both at night and in the rare event of cloudy weather. The screen faded back to the Dunetech insignia as Nadeer tucked his glasses into the breast pocket of his suit. ‘I thank you all for your patience. Now, any questions?’

  ‘Will Professor Castillo be speaking later?’ came a Texan drawl.

  ‘Ángel is slightly unwell. Upset stomach. Incidental pleasure of living in Tangiers.’

  A ripple of uneasy laughter.

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘This afternoon, inshallah.’

  Another hand at the front, a Scandinavian lady enquiring after the timeline of ‘Phase Two Expansion’. A moment later, the curtains behind Spike opened to reveal trestle tables of champagne and canapés. Nadeer stepped down to another volley of applause. Spike picked up the prospectus and followed him out.

  Chapter 26

  Spike declined a smoked salmon blini. Beyond the buffet, a bank of sliding glass doors gave onto the hotel swimming pool. Spike watched a pale, expensive redhead sway across the suntrap terrace, fanning a hand down the back of her bikini before diving neatly into the water. In the main room, the Roadshow guests seemed more interested in networking than refreshments. Spike looked over as the young projectionist struggled to fit the DVD unit back into a cardboard box. ‘Need any help?’

  The projectionist shrank back as though he’d done something wrong. The rims of his ears broke the sheen of his hair like two dolphins breaching.

  ‘Ayuda?’

  Understanding now, the projectionist passed Spike one half of the unit, which they lowered into a Japanese-marked box. ‘Shukran,’ he said, eyes drifting hungrily to the buffet.

  Nadeer was in the centre of the room, trailed by the immaculate Scandinavian, who kept staring into his eyes as though he were imparting religious homilies. Three Asian men lurked behind, prospectuses under arms. Outside, the redhead drew herself sleekly out of the pool.

  As Spike closed in, Nadeer appraised him with an impassive glance, before turning the whole of his head. ‘We’ve already secured second-round investment from – Mr Sanguinetti, what a surprise.’

  ‘I was thinking of upgrading hotel. Saw the Dunetech poster outside.’

  ‘Of course. Miss Solness? This is Mr Sanguinetti.’

  The Scandinavian held a Mont Blanc in one hand and a reporter’s pad in the other. She bestowed a tight, glossy smile on Spike before turning back to Nadeer, who opened his mouth to continue.

  ‘How did you get on with the governor?’ Spike interrupted.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Have you fixed up a meeting yet?’

  ‘There’s a function tomorrow at my villa. I’ll have Toby furnish you with the details.’ He turned back to the girl, who swept a manicured hand through her ash-blonde bob.

  ‘Is Ángel Castillo in town?’

  One of the Asians stepped forward. ‘Castillo,’ he repeated, nodding approval as his colleagues did the same. The Scandinavian’s gaze dipped from Spike’s dark stubble to his red espadrilles.

  ‘As I mentioned earlier, he’s not been well,’ Nadeer replied. ‘Though hopefully,’ he added with a smile to the Asians, ‘he’ll be sufficiently recovered to attend this afternoon’s session.’

  ‘I wanted to ask him about Esperanza’s final movements.’

  The Scandinavian frowned at this new name, and Nadeer gave a subtle nod to the middle distance; almost instantaneously, Spike felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Toby Riddell behind him. Riddell’s open-necked shirt revealed a sandy patch of chest hair. His Adam’s apple was prominent, one or two reddish whiskers missed on the gristle.

  ‘Toby will be delighted to answer any questions you may have,’ Nadeer said, turning back to the Asians.

  After tossing a nod at the Scandinavian, Spike followed Riddell to the door. In his right hand he was still pumping that squash ball, back and forth.

  Chapter 27

  No one accosted Spike in the cooler lanes of the souk. The covered stalls offered meat, fish, herbs and vegetables, their clientele local, no call for the tourist buck. Craggy Berber ladies in straw hats sold mountain cheeses, while high on butchers’ shelves, rows of skinned lambs’ heads seemed to follow Spike, eyeballs bulging as though still coming to terms with their unexpected deaths.

  Stepping out onto street level, Spike jumped as an engine roared by. Just a rusty three-wheeler, belching fumes. He walked on into the Medina.

  A hawker was flogging pirated DVDs; Spike showed him the map that Riddell had sketched out on El Minzah notepaper. Once the hawker had adjusted to the role reversal, he pointed up the hill towards a small enclosed square. The Arabic street sign had a French translation beneath: Petit Socco.

  The stones of the Petit Socco undulated with the ancient, lumpy quality that suggested continuous use throughout the many guises of Tangiers. The proximity of its two main cafés, Tingis and Central, put Spike in mind of other famous rivalries: Florian and Quadri, Flore and Les Deux Magots, Rick’s and the Blue Parrot. An elderly man passed by, dragging a
wooden cart as he croaked out his wares, three plump silvery fish reclining behind him on crushed ice. Above, on the wooden balcony of a pensión, a woman in a diaphanous veil crooked a long, pink finger Spike’s way.

  A waiter from the Café Central directed Spike to a lane climbing towards the Kasbah. He passed beneath an arch, turning into a narrow alleyway to find a wall tile painted with the words, ‘Numéro Seize’.

  An Arabic voice crackled from a speaker in the wall; Spike said ‘Ángel Castillo’ and the voice fell silent. He took a step back: the facade was blue-and-white-tiled, delineating its boundary from less salubrious neighbours. The front door was of thick, carved oak, the louvred shutters closed, as were all the shutters on this side of the alley. Those opposite were open – it seemed that in the Kasbah, where the streets were too narrow for both sides to open their shutters at the same time, the residents divided their use to one half of the day each.

  Spike buzzed again. This time he added the word ‘Dunetech’ and the catch snapped. He pushed into a gloomy hallway. A shuffling came from above; after climbing a few steps he made out a small, shadowy figure.

  ‘Duna, duna,’ came a voice.

  He climbed further to find an old woman in a black shawl standing in the doorway. She waved him into a long reception room with an intricately-carved arabesque ceiling. A garish acrylic of the Kasbah dominated one wall; on another hung a bank of carved African fertility masks, black-stained and with deep, empty holes for the eyes. The marble floor shone like a mirror; Spike saw a stepladder ahead, its bottom rung draped with a cloth.

  ‘Min fadhlek,’ the woman said, jabbing forward with her broomstick. Spike slid his rope soles over the gleaming floor. To the left was a tiled room of cushioned marble benches with a plasma TV; to the right, a corridor cross-hatched with light. A spiral staircase rose at the end; the woman pointed towards it.

  The staircase led to a cramped doorway. As Spike hunched to step outside, the sunlight stung his eyes. Shielding his face, he crossed a roof terrace surrounded by trellises. A hot tub bubbled in the centre like a cauldron. Beyond stretched a wooden bar backed by shelves of dusty glasses. A table stood to one side with four heavy-looking teak chairs. Slumped in one was a man.

  ‘Hola?’ Spike called out. The hot tub was redolent of chlorine and something worse; as Spike passed he saw a dead chick churning in its filthy froth. In front of the bar was a binful of empties, fizzing with wasps. The man half sat up: a glass was raised to the mouth, then replaced on the table.

  Spike recognised Ángel Castillo from the Dunetech prospectus. He wore beige chinos and a navy, horizontally striped polo shirt. His greying hair and goatee were damp with grease or perspiration. Cracked lips moved as though in silent prayer; a whisky bottle stood at his naked, sunburnt feet.

  ‘Profesor Castillo?’

  The man squinted up. ‘Heebralta?’ he said. His voice was croaky, as though it hadn’t been used in a while.

  ‘Sí.’

  ‘Here to replace the Jew?’ he asked, switching to a serviceable English.

  ‘In a sense.’

  ‘Have a drink, then. Cagana, I believe you call it in your Gibberish.’

  Spike helped himself to a tumbler at the bar. Ángel picked up the bottle, sloshing brown liquid into Spike’s glass before topping up his own. His hand shook; Spike waited for him to raise his glass and drink. ‘The answer is no,’ he said once he’d managed to put the tumbler down.

  Something flashed in the sky above, a swallow, dipping down to the hot tub, chattering as it skipped up over the wooden trellis then down across the rooftops of the Kasbah.

  ‘No to what?’

  ‘I will not come. You can tell him that yourself.’

  Spike breathed in the fumes of his glass. ‘I’m not from Dunetech,’ he said, eventually. ‘I’m a lawyer from Gibraltar. I represent Solomon Hassan.’

  The swallow swept back over. The bubbles stopped and Spike saw that the chick was still paddling in the water with a wing. Ángel’s eyes were closed; Spike stood and went to the water’s edge. The mother swallow boomeranged past as Spike cupped his hands into the hot froth and scooped out the chick. Black claws scratched feebly at the decking. Spike returned to the chair.

  ‘There is a nest in the eaves,’ Ángel said, eyes still shut. ‘It was learning to fly but it fell.’

  Spike paused. ‘I’m sorry about your stepdaughter, Professor Castillo. You have my sympathy.’

  Ángel refilled his glass.

  ‘But I do need to ask you some questions.’

  He drank deeply, spilling whisky on the thigh of his chinos.

  ‘Do you believe Solomon Hassan killed your stepdaughter?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Do you know who might have?’

  He shrugged again, wincing this time; beneath the sweat-soaked collar, his neck was tender from the sun.

  ‘Do you care who killed her?’

  ‘Caring does not bring her back.’

  ‘But you do want justice?’

  Ángel reached back for the bottle but found it empty. Returning to the bar, Spike found a plywood case in a cupboard, its side plastered with yellow customs stickers. He drew out a fresh bottle of J&B, glancing through the trellis as he walked back – another landslip below, beggar-built shacks in the rubble. One seemed to be constructed from a framework of shopping trolleys.

  ‘Gracias,’ Ángel muttered, ‘you understand drunks.’ He refreshed his glass with a steadier hand. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘my work has taken me all over Africa, but never have I seen poverty like Morocco. Supermodels partying in Marrakesh while children rot on the streets. New luxury hotels in Rabat, while the population flocks in from the countryside with nowhere to live. Rising birth rate, falling employment, corrupt politicians, and not a thing done to change it.’ He smiled, teeth indecently white among the raw stubble. ‘Until now.’

  The bubbles came back on in the hot tub.

  ‘Do you know how many lives Dunetech will save?’ Ángel said. ‘In five years, it can free up more than one hundred million euros for the King to use against poverty. Think how many deaths that can prevent. Millions.’

  ‘I’m afraid my humanitarian work is on a smaller scale,’ Spike said. ‘My client is facing a potential death penalty, or an extradition order that amounts to the same thing. Did you see Esperanza the day she died?’

  ‘She was staying here; I saw her every day.’

  ‘And that day?’

  ‘We had lunch together at the Café Central. She went for a beauty treatment – hot wax, I believe.’ His tone was of bitter irony.

  ‘Then?’

  ‘She saw a fortune-teller about her luck.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Some street rat. The police picked him up. Esperanza was superstitious, like her mother. They both had to believe in something.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘She met the Jew. He was showing her round town.’

  ‘She hadn’t been here before?’

  ‘Hadn’t wanted to.’

  ‘What changed?’

  ‘She got older.’

  ‘Did she like Solomon Hassan?’

  ‘Did anyone?’

  ‘Did you?’

  Ángel drank again. ‘He was back office; I rarely saw him. When I did, he was always keen . . . to ingratiate himself.’

  ‘Did your stepdaughter have enemies?’

  ‘She was a child.’

  Spike paused. ‘Have you heard of a girl called Zahra?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A Bedouin?’

  ‘Qué dices?’

  ‘Beduina?’

  Ángel suddenly drew himself up, grabbing the whisky bottle and slamming its base onto the end of the table. Shards of glass skittered across the decking. He held out the dripping, jagged stump, hooded eyes peeling back. ‘You use that word,’ he said, ‘in my house?’

  Spike edged towards the bar, Ángel jabbing at him with the sawtooth end.

  ‘Get out.�
��

  ‘Easy, pal.’

  ‘Out!’ Ángel’s bare soles had found an unexpected nimbleness on the decking. The swallow chick, semi-recovered, flopped back into the hot tub. ‘OUT!’

  The doorway part-opened to reveal the maid, beckoning as though afraid to emerge fully. Spike looked back at Ángel’s now unshaking hand, then ducked beneath the lintel. ‘Samt,’ the maid said soothingly, ‘la taklak.’

  On his way out, Spike paused at a room off the hallway. The walls and ceiling were tiled like a Turkish hammam; in one corner stood a wooden console table covered in picture frames. All showed Esperanza, alone or with friends. She looked thinner, younger. Innocent.

  Outside, the maid was mopping up Spike’s footprints. She murmured to herself as she worked; Spike thought he recognised a word. ‘Beduina?’ he repeated.

  Head down, with a low guttural sound, the maid sliced a broad thumbnail across her throat. She was still mopping as Spike crossed the sparkling marble floor back down to the street.

  Chapter 28

  Spike sat beneath the awning of the Café Central, eating an omelette au fromage, the cheese just a rubbery orange bookmark between two fluffy folds of egg. He mopped up the sunflower oil with his bread before pouring himself another cup of super-sweet mint tea. The perforated silver pot had a pleasing ability to yield up another cup just when it looked like supplies had run dry.

  A bearded Moroccan with a shaven moustache was watching him from across the square. Spike stared back and the man crept furtively away, up the hill towards the Kasbah. Strapped to his back was a small red rucksack.

  At the table to Spike’s right sat a couple of gap-year girls, German or Austrian. They kept glancing at him before returning to their guidebooks, giggling as he met their gaze. He had a missed call, he saw – number withheld. He took a punt and rang.