THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK

by Richard Savin

  ‘It will be, and when it is, my father and his money will no longer matter.’

  ‘How soon before that will be?’ His reaction caught her by surprise. It was as if she had asked one question too many; that she had tried to step too far into his private world. His response was sullen. It had a blunt edge to it.

  ‘Soon. I shall go to Buenos Aires at the end of the month. I expect to return with very good news; but please, do not tax me on this matter. It is business and not a woman’s concern.’

  With that he ended the conversation and, getting up, left her and went back into the house. It was the first time since the marriage that he had been short with her and it left her feeling unsettled. After a few minutes she went back into the house to find him. She felt the need to resolve the sense of anxiety that had stirred inside her. She had not seen him like this before. In recent days she felt there had been a shift in his temperament and she could not let it lie unaddressed.

  She found him in the room that had once been the library. When he had moved into the house he had claimed it as his study. It was his domain, the place in which he kept his papers and things pertaining to his private affairs; a place into which he could retreat when he did not wish to be disturbed.

  Evangeline tapped lightly on the door, waited for two beats of her heart then opened it. He was sitting behind a large rosewood desk and looked up abruptly. The look he gave her was not welcoming.

  ‘Are you all right?’ She went quickly to where he sat and put an arm around his shoulder. He closed the portfolio he had been studying. ‘Of course, sweet flower.’ He smiled but it was a smile that lacked warmth.

  ‘Only I thought you seemed cross when I asked you about the mining. I’m sorry if I made you angry.’

  He rubbed the back of the hand she had draped across his shoulder. ‘It is nothing, don’t worry. I am just pre-occupied by this business with my father. It will pass – but, please, Evangeline, when I am in my study I do not like to be disturbed.’

  As she left him and closed the door the feeling of unease remained. Something had changed. Something was not right. Ever since they had married he had taken to calling her his ‘sweet flower’. Since that time he had never called her by her given name – until now.

  She left and went to the kitchen to find Tamaya. She felt the need for a woman’s company and, besides, there was something she needed to do in the town and since the incident with the Rojas woman she did not like to go alone. Not that there would now be a problem for her. Carlos had instructed Señor Rojas to keep his wife in order. If he did not he would lose his job and be thrown out of their cottage on the family estate.

  Ramirez, too, had backed away from her, and the corpse in the garden appeared finally to have been laid to rest.

  They left the house and walked down the hill to the town. When they came to a square in the centre, the two women stopped. In front of them was a solid, bourgeois house, double-fronted with generous windows. There was a polished brass plate screwed to the wall next to the door: ‘Doctora V Lopez, Medico’.

  Tamaya stepped forward, banged the knocker twice, then took two paces back to stand behind Evangeline. The door was opened by a young woman who conducted them through to a waiting room. ‘The doctor will see you shortly, señora.’ She threw a glance at Tamaya. ‘Do you wish to have your …,’ she hesitated, ‘… this lady to be with you for the consultation?’

  ‘No.’ Evangeline looked briefly at Tamaya. ‘Please wait for me here.’

  As they walked back towards the house Tamaya could clearly see the look of concern on the face of her mistress. ‘Are you not well, madame?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Is your health not good?’

  Evangeline considered the question and there was a pause before she answered. ‘I don’t know, Tamaya, but thank you for your concern. The doctor will carry out some tests and let me know.’

  They walked the rest of the way back to the house in silence, neither woman wanting to talk about what was yet unknown. ‘Please do not speak of this to Don Carlos,’ Evangeline said when they reached the front gate. ‘He has enough worries for the moment.’

  ‘Of course, madame. I hope it is not serious.’

  The following morning Evangeline was sure she knew the problem. Something was different and she could feel it in her being. She would wait for the doctor’s call and then she would have to tell Carlos. She was unsure of how he would take it.

  ‘Where is Don Carlos this morning?’ she asked Tamaya when she came into the dining room with the breakfast tray.

  ‘He has gone out, madame. I hope you are feeling well this morning.’

  Before she could answer, the telephone rang in the salon. ‘It will be the doctor,’ Evangeline said and abruptly left the table. When she came back she looked pale, as if she had witnessed or heard something shocking.

  ‘What is it, madame, are you all right?’ There was a hint of dread in Tamaya’s eyes.

  ‘I am pregnant; there will be a child.’

  Tamaya’s faced bloomed. ‘Oh, madame. How wonderful.’

  ‘Yes – though I don’t know how Don Carlos will take the news.’

  When Carlos returned it was early afternoon. She heard him come into the house but he went directly to his study and shut himself in. An hour had passed, and then another. At six she decided she would have to disturb him. She needed to know how he would take the news that he was to be a father. She was piling hope on hope that the news would help to heal the rift with Don Ferdinand and bring them closer to the family. Only Carlos could tell her the answer. She went to the study and, tapping on the door, opened it. Seeing her he snapped shut the book he was consulting.

  ‘Not now!’ It was all he said but it was enough. She shut the door and retreated.

  Their routine was to dine at 8.30 pm. For a Spanish family this was unusual. Carlos, by upbringing, was accustomed to sitting down nearer to ten, but out of courtesy he had made the concession to her French habit of eating earlier in the evening. At nine she had to instruct Tamaya to delay dinner.

  It was almost ten when he came to the table and she could sense his mood was not good. ‘I am sorry, sweet flower,’ he said, but there was little warmth in the way he said it.

  ‘I didn’t want to interrupt you …,’ she wanted to say more but he cut her short.

  ‘Then why do it!’

  His tone surprised her and she felt a pang of hurt. ‘I have some news and I wanted to share it with you.’

  At this his mood hardened. ‘How many times must I tell you that I will not have my sanctity disturbed? If I am in the study, you wait. You wait until I come out or I call you.’

  That was too much for Evangeline. She bristled. ‘I am not some servant you are talking to. I am your WIFE, for God’s sake.’

  Carlos banged a hand down on the table so hard it made her flinch. ‘Then act like a wife; be obedient, know your place. When I am working I will not be disturbed. Is that clear?’ The words came gratingly hard from his mouth.

  ‘It was important,’ Evangeline bit back.

  ‘Hah,’ he exploded and threw his head back. ‘What is it that could be so important!’

  For a moment she was shocked into silence. Seconds crossed the void between them. Then calmly she said, ‘I am pregnant, Carlos, I am carrying your child and you are to become a father. I had thought that important, Carlos – do you not?’

  His reaction was not anything that she had anticipated. With his elbows on the table he cradled his head, his hands clasping each of his temples. He sat motionless, his breathing the only audible sound. When he finally spoke his voice was soft, but without sympathy.

  ‘Sweet flower, this is not a good time to bring a child into my world. We shall have to be rid of it. I am sorry for you but there is no other way. Tomorrow I must fly to Buenos Aires; I am needed at the mine. A taxi will come for me in the morning to take me to the airport at Barcelona. I know a good doctor. When I return I shall arrange it. Now I have things to do and I must beg yo
u to excuse me.’ He said no more; he got up from the table and went back to his office.

  When Tamaya came in to clear the table Evangeline was sitting quietly. It was evident that she had been crying. Having heard the sound of raised voices Tamaya guessed that Don Carlos had not taken the news well. She felt a pang of sorrow for the woman sitting in front of her and wanted to hold her and comfort her. But she was a servant and she knew that it would not be right. It was not her place.

  ‘Is there anything else I can get or do for you, madame?’

  Evangeline conjured a frail smile. ‘No, thank you, Tamaya. I think I shall go to my bed.’

  In the dark of the bedroom she wept bitterly and wondered how it had all come to this. She had lost Richard, the only man she had ever loved, and she was shackled to a man she was coming to despise. What had happened to her life? How could it have all gone so wrong?

  Carlos did not come to the marital bed and for that she was grateful; she could not have brought herself to accommodate him. She supposed he had slept in the library and when, at the first light of dawn, she heard the hollow boom of the front door being shut she was relieved. She was not sure for how long he would be gone; he had not said. She just hoped it would be enough time for her to come to terms with what must now happen.

  Chapter 17

  Dead ending

  When they arrived the carpet shop was unattended. The shutters were not barred and the door was not locked, but there was no evidence of anyone inside. When Grainger pushed his way in the bell hanging above the door let out its clanking ring. Nobody came. They got as far as the table and chairs at which they had taken tea with Karmalan the day before.

  ‘That’s a bit odd.’ Grainger pointed to where the tea glasses were still sitting on the table top, the remnants of the tea dried out to a sticky brown stain.

  Jordan pulled the trench gun from the canvas bag he had once again brought with them. A little insurance in case things got rough, he had told Grainger when they had left the villa. ‘I don’t like this, it makes me kinda nervous.’

  Grainger took the automatic he was carrying out of his pocket. He motioned to Jordan that they should separate, then he went behind the table to where a curtain covered an entrance. When he opened it a small cloud of flies buzzed past his head. The room he stepped into was stacked with bales of carpets, tied into bundles. A rough wood-framed window let in enough light for him to make out the lay of the room. On one wall he found a switch. He flipped it and a single bare bulb hanging down on a length of flex added to the illumination. Jordan stuck his head through the curtain. ‘Okay, Richard, whada we got?’

  ‘A lot of carpets, Tommy – and more flies than I like. That’s the trouble with these hot countries. You always get flies.’

  Jordan wrinkled his nose. He sniffed. ‘Doesn’t smell too sweet either.’

  Grainger cast a quick glance at Jordan then smelt the air noisily. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  Jordan nodded. ‘Better take a look.’

  They found them under a pile of carpets that had been broken out of its bale – the bodies of Hajji Karmalan and the youth Hassan.

  Jordan knelt down beside Karmalan. He picked up an arm then let it fall loosely back onto the chest of the body. He looked at his watch. ‘Blood’s really dry so this happened a while back. Rigor mortis has worn off so they’ve been dead at least 18 hours.’ He looked again at his watch. ‘This must have happened just after we left. They took a beating before they were killed by the look of them.’ He stood up. ‘Seems like the opposition are one jump ahead of us again.’

  ‘Well, we can’t stand around here lamenting.’ Grainger flipped the light switch to off. ‘Better make ourselves scarce before anyone else turns up.’

  Outside, the street was quiet. It was two in the afternoon and the sun was hot. People were sleeping off their lunch.

  As they turned a corner into a shaded alley, Jordan swerved suddenly and ducked into an open doorway. Parting a bead curtain, he stepped into the cool of a mud-walled room, tugging Grainger after him. An elderly woman was crouched in one corner, beside her an elderly man. The man jumped up aggressively and took a pace forward only to find himself looking into the barrel of Jordan’s army Colt. The man froze. Jordan raised a finger to his lips, then signalled for the man to sit down. He did as he was bid. The woman just stared wide eyed and bemused.

  ‘What is it?’ Grainger whispered.

  Jordan went back to the bead curtain and stood silently behind its cover. Moments later a man walked slowly past. From the way he moved it was clear he was acting with caution. Grainger raised his eyebrows, throwing Jordan a questioning glance. He was about to say something when the figure reappeared. It hovered in the open doorway. With one hand Jordan signalled that they should stand away from the bead curtain. With the other he pulled the trench gun out of the canvas bag. Silhouetted against the light of the street, they watched as the man reached under the armpit of his jacket and drew out what was clearly a gun. Cautiously he came forward. Then in a rapid movement he parted the bead curtain and stepped through it.

  The butt of the trench gun hit him squarely on the forehead as Jordan swung it like a baseball bat, hard into the intruder’s head. The man folded like an empty sack and crumpled to the floor. The old woman began moaning and rocking back and forth where she crouched. The man jumped up and stood like a petrified rock, wide eyed and motionless.

  Jordan held up his open hands to them and half bowed in an effort to show that they were friendly and meant them no harm. He stuffed the trench gun back into the canvas bag and looked over at Grainger. ‘Gimme a hand. We can’t just dump this clown on these good people.’

  Grainger walked over to the elderly man and stuffed a fifty franc note into his trembling hand.

  ‘What the hell are you doing? Come on, gimme some help.’ Between them they hauled the intruder upright. He groaned, but he was out of it.

  ‘Shokran baba, shokran,’ Grainger shouted over his shoulder as between them they dragged the recumbent body out into the street.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We find a convenient doorway and dump him,’ Jordan grunted. ‘What the hell was the money about back there?’

  ‘Just thought it seemed fair – seeing as we pretty much broke into their home and then made a ruckus duffing up this character.’

  A hundred yards on they came to an ideal spot, an open yard with a broken wooden fence. It was filled with building rubble and discarded rusting metal. They pulled the man through the fence and propped him up against a large rock.

  ‘Okay, we need to make this look like a mugging.’ Grainger went through the man’s jacket until he found a wallet with an ID card. ‘Alphonse Bouchard, Vichy French.’ He picked up the man’s left arm and slid off a wrist watch with an expensive gold bracelet. ‘Swiss,’ he said, holding it up for Jordan to see. ‘Classy.’ He removed a gold and diamond ring from a finger and put it into his pocket. ‘That should do it.’

  At a café in the old quarter they ordered two beers and took stock. Grainger went through the wallet they had taken, examining the contents. He took out the money, then the ID card. Jordan stretched out a hand. ‘Why don’t I give that to the embassy. Maybe they can give us a lead on who this guy is.’

  ‘Ha, ha, what have we here.’ Grainger laid out two business cards and a folded piece of paper torn from a notebook. He held up one of the cards. ‘Tapis Orientale et Perse.’ He held up the second one. ‘Excelsior Hotel. Now isn’t that just the coincidence.’ He took his beer glass and raised it in a mock toast. ‘I think dear old Alphonse in the builders yard is a professional hitman. Looks like you did the right thing, smacking him in the face back there.’

  Jordan winked an eye and clucked his tongue. He unfolded the page from the notebook and smoothed it out. ‘Well lookee here, will ya. We have an address. In the souk – a butcher’s shop – and look at the names: Aziz and Mohammed Ben Tazi. Ring any bells?’

  ‘The two brothe
rs who carried the carpets for Hajji Karmalan?’

  ‘The very same. I think you hit the nail. Looks like Alphonse is a hired killer, and these were the next on his list.’

  Grainger screwed up his nose and rubbed a finger roughly across his top lip. ‘Maybe we should go back and finish him off?’

  ‘Nah, nah, that would be murder. Much better we go visit the brothers Ben Tazi. Let’s hear what they gotta say.’

  There was a camel’s head hung up on a rail, a hook through one ragged ear. It looked like a hunting trophy – the kind of thing that gets mounted on a plaque and screwed to the wall, except this was ragged and bloody where it had been hacked off the body, and whoever bought it would be cooking it, not hanging it in their salon. Next to it was the whole carcass of a goat, skinned naked but with the head on and the eyes still staring out from their sockets.

  A crowd, mostly of women, their heads and faces covered, bantered and cackled among themselves, some calling out their orders.

  Behind a white marble slab, among trays of sheep’s brains, kidneys of goats, livers and other offal, three men worked methodically. Their sharp knives sliced and chopped the meat from camels, sheep, goats, and chickens, shouting out above the din as they took the orders. The air was filled with the iron bitter smell of blood, and flies crawled over everything.

  ‘Jesus,’ Jordan said, looking up at the camel’s head hooked on the rail. ‘I will never get used to these places – or the smell.’

  ‘Boucherie Ben Tazi?’ Grainger shouted over the heads of the women. One of the butchers shouted back something in Darija Arabic. Grainger shook his head in an exaggerated motion to show he did not understand then yelled out a single word. ‘Français.’

  The man beckoned him to come closer and called to the women to make space for him to pass through them.

  ‘I’m looking for the boucherie of the Ben Tazi family,’ he said in French when he was close enough to be heard. ‘Aziz and Mohammed, are they here in this souk?’