‘Can you describe him?’
The manager was now looking mortified. He gave a negative shake of his head. ‘Frankly I find it hard to tell one from another, sir. He was respectably dressed, in a business suit, and he was wearing a fez ...,’ he was shaking his head again, ‘… but they all wear those funny little Egyptian hats.’
Grainger drew a deep breath. ‘Thank you,’ he said politely, ‘I can see this has all been a dreadful error.’ He stood up and as he did cast a glance down at Jordan who had remained seated. He gave a barely perceptible wink of his eye and the smallest motion of his head towards the door. Jordan stood up, whereupon the manager scuffled to his feet.
‘I don’t know what to say gentlemen, I hope there was nothing of great value in the package.’
‘Just a cheap shawl for his auntie,’ Grainger grinned. ‘We can get another one in the bazaar. Come along, Tommy, we’ll have to get one before the shops shut.’
The manager stood and watched them go, a look of deep relief on his face.
‘What the hell was all that about my aunt and a shawl?’ Jordan said in a low voice as they came down the front steps of the hotel.
‘Well, there was no point arguing with the man. How much did we lose?’
‘Jesus, the whole friggin’ bribe for Boukhari, that’s all. Ten grand in good old US greenbacks.’
Grainger frowned, his top lip curled up and his mouth tight. ‘Well, since our man’s had his money – I imagine it was his lacky who pulled the stunt – perhaps we should go and ask for his side of the bargain. We know where he lives.’
Jordan stood and thought about it for a moment. ‘Good move. Why don’t we find a café and get some chow.’
They had finished breakfast and were down to the dregs of the coffee pot when a familiar face appeared at their table. ‘Hey, mister, you got some baksheesh for Jamil?’
Jordan flicked a cigarette at him. ‘Here, now scram kid, we have private matters to discuss.’
‘You give one franc. I tell you good story – very top story.’
Jordan flicked his hand again. ‘Like I said, beat it kid.’
‘Hold on.’ Grainger turned to the boy, ‘What sort of story?’
‘You give one franc.’
‘If the story is good, yes.’
Jamil pulled a chair across from another table. ‘Okay, mister. There is a man, big man, he was there, last night, banging the gate of that rich bastard house. You see him? He had one hat made from straw.’
Grainger looked across to Jordan. ‘Yes, the man in the boater. What about him?’
‘He follow you, mister. He follow you everywhere – here, Tangier.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Easy, I watch big bastard follow you in Tangier, so I follow big bastard. Easy.’
Grainger took a franc from his pocket and placed it on the table. ‘Where is he now, this man in the straw hat?’
‘This morning he goes.’
‘Do you know where?’
‘I ask souk peoples, maybe they know.’ He scooped up the franc piece and left.
Jordan widened his eyes and screwed up his mouth; there was an air of revelation in his voice. ‘Well, looks like the whole damn world knows our business.’
‘Yep, if you ask me I’d say we’ve got a leak somewhere. I need to let my people in London know.’
‘Likewise my guys. One consolation, we know what they look like even if we don’t know who they are. Except they’re German. Or at least the big guy in the boater is. I heard him shouting at the kid. He called him a little turd and told him to piss off. I did German in college.’
‘Okay. That’s what we know. Let’s see if we can find out more. I’m sure brother Boukhari will have some answers.’
Jordan threw five francs on the table and got up. ‘Right, let’s go visiting.’
In the bright light of a morning sun the riad in the street called Bab Khuokha no longer held the air of intimidation. It looked like any other well-to-do mansion in its quiet suburban setting.
Jordan drew the Packard to a halt a good fifty yards back along the street and the two men got out. From the pocket in the open door of the car he pulled an army Colt .38 automatic. He flipped out the clip, and checked the ammunition. Satisfied, he pushed the clip back into the butt of the gun, pulled back the slide to load a round into the breech, snapped on the safety catch, then tucked the weapon into the waistband of his slacks. He looked at Grainger with raised eyebrows. ‘In through the front door?’
Grainger nodded. ‘Don’t fancy climbing over that bloody wall again.’
When they reached the front gate Jordan held up a hand, motioning Granger to hold back. ‘Best if we stand apart, just in case the welcome gets hot and the lead starts to fly.’ He stepped up to the gate and banged on it with his fist. He waited, but there was nothing. He banged again and when there was still no response he found a sizeable rock and hammered with that. The clanging metal resonated around the courtyard behind the gate, but still nothing. He stood back. ‘Sounds deserted,’ he called over his shoulder to Grainger. ‘Looks like it’s gotta be over the wall. Let’s go round the side.’
At the point where he and the boy had climbed out the night before, Grainger stopped. ‘If we go over here that fig tree will give some cover. Give me a leg up and I’ll pull you up behind me.’
Jordan cupped his hands into a stirrup. ‘Okay, step on.’
Heaved up, Grainger clambered astride the wall, then leant down to give Jordan his hand, pulling him up beside him. They shinned down the fig tree and made their way cautiously towards the courtyard. There was a stillness about the place.
‘Looks like there’s nobody home,’ Jordan whispered. They rounded the corner at the front of the building and emerged into the courtyard. There was still no one.
‘Oh dear.’ Grainger pointed to where the two guard dogs lay, a few feet apart, slumped like old rags, the flies swarming over them to feast on their congealing blood. At the sight of this they both drew guns.
‘There’s another one.’ Jordan waved the Colt at where a body lay in the dust close to the front gate. ‘Cover me while I take a look.’ Grainger’s eyes scanned the house, searching for any movement, but there was nothing, only the stillness.
When Jordan got back he was shaking his head, a worried expression veiled his face. He motioned in the direction of the house. ‘Looks like we have a massacre on our hands.’ Grainger’s gaze followed to where Jordan was pointing. The front door was partially open, an arm spilling out through the gap.
They pushed their way in and stepped over the body that Grainger recognised as the man in the fez hat – the man who had led him to that house two days before. He had been shot in the chest and through the head, the hallmarks of a professional killing.
They went quietly and carefully along the corridor that led to the inner courtyard, now suspecting what they might find. Their assumptions were right. There was Boukhari, a single blue-rimmed hole in the centre of his forehead, his back wedged up against the fountain where he fell. Further over by a side door were two more bodies, gunned down as they had emerged into the courtyard, one still clutching a revolver.
For almost a minute they stood in the calm of the dead laid out around them. Grainger quickly cast a glance around the scene. ‘We ought to search this place, maybe we can get some kind of handle on what’s going on.’
Jordan held up his hand and gave a short negative wave. ‘Uh, uh, I think we should just get out’a here. I’m getting a bad feeling.’ They went the way they came, up the fig tree and over the wall. As they hit the ground they heard the noise of a siren.
Jordan cupped a hand around his ear. ‘That’s what I call good timing. Come on, we don’t wanna be around when the cops show up.’ As the Packard pulled away a Citroën car with a blue light flashing scrunched to a halt outside the riad.
Grainger settled back into his seat and stretched out his legs. ‘Okay, what now?’
‘We need
to find somewhere to hang out while I get instructions from my guys. Then we need to see if we can work out what the hell is going on.’
Grainger pulled himself upright in his seat. ‘You know what. There’s something that’s been bothering me here. Maybe I’m not quite following the plot, but it seems like they, whoever they are, wanted me alive and you dead. Why would they want that?’
They found another hotel. The Moulay Rashid had five stars. ‘It’s the best joint in the city,’ Jordan casually observed, as they walked up the marble steps and into a cool, lofty entrance hall big enough to swallow a barn. ‘I figure we’re safer here than in some downtown dump.’
Grainger looked admiringly at the opulence of the space that surrounded them. ‘Well, if we’re going to get bumped off, might as well do it in luxury.’
It was another day before contact could be made with the embassy in Tangier. ‘We have to sit tight and stooge around while they try another lead,’ Jordan told him.
That evening they went to a café and sat out among the smokers of water pipes, and there they drank beer and waited for news. It came sooner than they expected, but not from where they expected.
‘Mister, mister.’
Jordan almost dropped the glass he was holding. ‘It’s that kid again. Hey, kid, you got something for us?’ He pulled a cigarette out of the pack lying on the table and flicked it to the boy, who grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the table where they were sitting.
‘How did you find us?’ Grainger gave the boy a wide grin. This urchin seemed to pop up from nowhere like a genie out of a bottle; and like the genie he seemed to be able to conjure up magic.
‘No problem, mister. Everyone in souks know you. Now I tell you. Every peoples in souks talk about killings in the riad on Bab Khuokha. Did you know, mister?’
Grainger nodded. ‘We heard.’
‘They say big bastard in straw hat do this thing. Kill every peoples and go. He crazy German bastard.’
‘Go where? Is he still in the city?’
‘No mister, he go Casablanca.’
‘How do you know?’
The boy’s eyes lit up and his face split into a wide grin like a pumpkin lantern on All Hallows eve. ‘They tell in souks. All peoples knows this thing. Now, you give Jamil five francs baksheesh?’
Jordan sank the dregs of his beer. ‘Looks like next stop Casablanca. Hey, kid, don’t suppose you know where in Casablanca?’
The boy thought for a moment. ‘You give me ten francs. Maybe, inshallah, some mens in souks will know – but I must give baksheesh. Give me ten, Jamil will find for you.’
Grainger fished a note from his wallet and handed it over. The boy kissed the money, touched it to his forehead, tucked it in under the prayer cap he was wearing, and left.
Jordan prodded Grainger in the shoulder. ‘Sucker, that’s the last you’ll see of that ten spot – or the kid for that matter.’
‘The boy’s okay – at least it’s not ten grand.’
Jordan winced. ‘Ouch, that hurt. Anyway, maybe we’ll find it in Casablanca.’
Chapter 12
A new beginning
She woke to the feeling that something was not right. Then as the consciousness came fully to her, a heavy sense of awfulness crept over her whole being. For a little while she felt sick and depressed. This would be the reality; it was the beginning of a life without Richard. She had clung to the hope of his return as a drowning person clings to the sinking debris of a wrecked ship. Hope had filled her days and now they would be empty. Like all those who face unbearable loss she refused to accept it. She would not accept it. There had to be something else other than this version of reality.
When Tamaya tapped on the door to ask where breakfast should be served, she refused to answer and instead turned over in her bed and tried to immerse herself into the counterfeit world of sleep. It would not come to her, and she felt it would never come again.
It was two days before she came out of her bedroom and in that time she had eaten nothing and drunk little. Tamaya had knocked and called and pleaded with her mistress, but it had been without use. Eventually the slow drip of reason dissolved the hard edges of her grief. She got up, took a bath, and went down to the dining room where, to Tamaya’s relief, she accepted coffee and a buttered tartine. It was a start, a new beginning.
Tamaya had seen these things before. She had seen it in her mother when her father died, and she knew the anatomy of grief. On the first Saturday following the news Tamaya thought she might try to gently persuade her forward.
‘You should go out, mademoiselle,’ she suggested. ‘It is not good to stay all this time in the house. I could accompany you to the town if you wish.’
Evangeline took a deep breath then blew it out through tightened lips. She considered it for a moment, then shook her head. ‘That is a kind thought, Tamaya, but not just now; I am not ready.’
The next day when she heard the bells ringing out for the Sunday Mass, something inside her clicked. She went to the kitchen where Tamaya was preparing food. ‘I have thought about it, Tamaya, and think you are right. After lunch I shall go for a walk. I would like you to accompany me.’
Tamaya turned from her task to face Evangeline. ‘Yes, mademoiselle, of course,’ she said respectfully, and resumed what she was doing, her face wreathed in an unseen smile.
They walked down the hill from the house and along the promenade which curved around the edge of the bay in which Cadaqués sheltered. The day had become quite hot and although they walked with parasols it was not long before Evangeline made the decision that they should sit under the awning of one of the seafront restaurants. She ordered iced cordials and they sat there looking out across the bay.
‘Tell me about your family, Tamaya. It seems strange to me that you live under my roof and yet I know so little about you.’
Tamaya gave her a look of surprise. Her former master, Don Ferdinand, had not shown any interest in her or her background. She was, after all, only a servant of the lowest rank. She did not expect anyone to be concerned about who she was or how she felt. She was in essence a domestic slave; her life was the property of others. She was not sure where she should begin or how much she should tell.
‘I was born in Abyssinia, mademoiselle, as you already know. My father was an engineer. When I was twelve we moved to Tangier where he went to work on the construction of a new harbour. Then, when I was fourteen, there was a plague of cholera in the city. My father got sick and died. A year later my mother was taken by the cancer. I had very little money, so I could not stay in the house that we rented. One day the owner came to me. He said that if I slept with him I could stay. I decided I would rather be a slave than a whore, mademoiselle. I found a man in the Tangier souk whose business it was selling domestic slaves. He sold me to the house of Don Ferdinand and I was there until I came to you.’
Evangeline stared motionless out at the sea. She could not find any words to express what she was feeling. ‘How old are you?’
‘I was fifteen years when I came to this country, mademoiselle. I had stayed in the house of Don Ferdinand for eleven years before I was sent to you.’
‘Twenty-six – you are the same age as me.’ At this Tamaya smiled. It was the first time she had been asked her age since her parents died. No one else had cared.
‘And what about your education? Did you have an education?’
‘My mother taught me to read and write and my father taught me mathematics. That is all. Only that.’
Evangeline was about to reply but then a familiar figure walked up to their table. Carlos gave his usual punctilious bow. ‘Evangeline, it is so good to see you out again. I hope you are recovered from your distressing news.’
‘Thank you, Carlos, that is kind of you. I am feeling a little better.’
‘Could I perhaps call on you some time?’
‘Thank you, but I still find things difficult. I hope you understand. Give me a little while.’
‘Of
course. Have a pleasant promenade.’ After he had left Evangeline decided they would go back to the house, telling Tamaya it was enough for one day.
She spent what was left of the afternoon sitting on the garden bench under the orange tree with a book. After dinner she sat for a while in the salon, then went to bed. She could not get the tragic story of Tamaya out of her mind. It left her to wonder if she was not being self-indulgent over her grief for Richard. If this woman, who was her servant, and who had been sold into slavery, could bear what she had lost in her life, then so should she. It would not be easy, but she could do it.
*
Before lunch there was a visitor.
‘There is a guardia at the gate, mademoiselle. He says he has been sent by Sub-Inspector Ramirez and you must go with him to the Residencia.’
Evangeline felt a stab of apprehension. In her struggle to cope with the news of Richard and her preoccupation with the management of Tamaya, she had put the incident of the dead man in her garden to the back of her mind. Now it seemed the corpse with no face had risen again.
‘Do you wish me to come with you, mademoiselle?’ Evangeline’s mind was already racing over what might be waiting for her in the rooms of the Hotel Residencia. She had hoped not to go back there again. ‘Yes, Tamaya. I think that may be for the best. The inspector’s French is not good and my Spanish is even worse. You can translate for me.’
Ramirez looked at the women standing in front of him. ‘Who is this woman?’ He gestured at Tamaya.
‘She is my servant; she will translate for me in case I do not properly understand the French you speak.’
He shrugged dismissively. ‘That will not be necessary, señorita. She must leave.’ He picked up a small bell and gave it a shake. The sharp brassy ring brought a knock on the door and a sergeant appeared – the same ugly-mannered man who had conducted her home after her last visit.
THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK Page 10