Read Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti) Online
Authors: Thomas Mogford
‘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.
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.
‘Hello, Tax Man.’
‘Hi, Jess. Did you call?’
‘Nope. I’m on foot patrol in Irish Town. So how’s Tangiers?’
‘They don’t seem to like me much.’
‘That makes a –’ Jessica checked herself. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘Hotel Continental.’
‘
Una tanita?
’
‘Seen better days.’
‘And you hooked up OK with Eldrassi?’
‘Yeah. You sure he’s straight?’
‘As they go.’
‘How’s Solomon?’
‘Still complaining.’
‘I need to talk to him.’
‘I’ve scheduled you a call for 4 p.m. tomorrow.’
‘
Tenkiu
, Jess. And let’s have that drink when I get back.’
‘You OK, Spike?’
‘Why?’
‘You sound . . . different.’
Spike paused. ‘What do you know about Bedouins?’
‘Bedouins? Come from the desert. Move about a lot. Big on honour codes, like most nomadic people. Not many left in Morocco, I think. Why?’
‘What sort of honour codes?’
‘Blood feuds, that sort of thing. Why? Have you fallen for one?’
‘A whole tribe. So I call the Castle tomorrow at four?
‘
Está penene
, Spike.’
The sun was passing above the square, dragging its shadow line over the cobbles like a tarpaulin drawn by invisible ball boys. Spike’s phone rang again. ‘Yes?’ he said irritably. Damp breathing poured down the line. ‘Hello?’
‘Is Marouane.’
‘Who?’
‘From the Sundowner. You come now. Alone.’
The breathing was replaced by dead air.
Swimmers and sun worshippers disported themselves in the distance. At this end of the beach, clusters of men loitered in full-length robes, cupping illicit Ramadan cigarettes, chatting surreptitiously as they glanced out to sea. A father and son flew a home-made kite, a mongrel gleefully chasing its shadow. Spike skirted around them to follow the perimeter fence of the Sundowner Club.
The gate hatch was open; Spike ducked beneath and slipped through the metal door. The velvet curtain was hooked onto a nail in the concrete; ahead, Spike saw the back of Marouane, bucket at his feet as he slopped down the bar top. He wore pink Hawaiian shorts, Jesus sandals and a hard-rock T-shirt. His hair was loose, lank black locks spilling over narrow shoulders.
Spike gave a sharp enough whistle to be heard above the brutal music. Marouane turned, tossing his cloth into the bucket. ‘You happy with your Marouane,’ he shouted. ‘Yessir.’
‘Turn the music off.’
After glancing left and right, as though appealing to an imaginary referee, Marouane moved to the bar top and turned the music down.
‘Off.
Apagada
.’
Finally, silence. ‘Vodka?’ Marouane said, but Spike ignored the offer, drawing up a chair beside the bench seats. As Marouane came over, he paused by the podium to lick a fingertip. A trail of crusty powder ran along the black-painted plywood; Marouane reconstituted it with his saliva, dabbing the ball of a finger onto his tongue. He grinned. ‘You like Tatiana, no?’
‘You asked to see me.’
Marouane sat down on the sticky bench seat. ‘Marouane must eat, you know?’
‘Is Zahra back?’
‘Fuck that Bedouin bitch. I see her, I cut her. No . . . Better.’ He stood and went to a doorway adjacent to the ‘private room’. Spike heard two short, crisp sniffs from inside before he reappeared, handbag over shoulder, sauntering towards the bench seats, hips jigging, one wrist cocked as he placed the handbag on the podium. Sitting back down, he pinched both nostrils, eyeballs bulging.
The handbag was made of expensive brown leather with a zip down the middle. ‘One
thousand
dirham,’ Marouane declared, holding out a hand, then shaking his head in frustration, hair exuding a stale pomade. Picking up the bag, he set it on the bulge in his Hawaiian shorts, unzipping it and drawing out a wallet with a familiarity that suggested lengthy acquaintanceship. He slung the wallet at Spike’s chest; it fell into his lap.
Spike picked it up. Spanish driver’s licence in the gauze flap: Esperanza Castillo, smiling, neat collar of a white frilly blouse around her neck. ‘Did you show this to the police?’ Spike said.
Marouane flashed a gold molar. ‘Police don’t pay.’
Spike opened the opposite flap – Spanish ID, picture more recent, plumper, scowling – as Marouane removed a tampon from the handbag. Using his right hand, he formed a tunnel into which he jabbed the tampon back and forth. ‘Uh, uh, uh. Big bitch,’ he chuckled.
Spike stuck out an arm. ‘The bag.’
As Marouane passed it over by the strap, Spike caught his hand, wrapping his fingers around the knuckles. Marouane frowned; Spike gave a brisk and vicious twist. His free hand grabbed at the source of the pain.
‘Drop it.’
‘I’m trying to.’
Spike twisted further until Marouane began to screech, clawing at Spike’s forearm. Finally he managed to release the strap, huddling back into the bench seat, hand to his stomach, rocking. ‘You break my fuckin’
arm
. . .’
Spike reached down for the handbag, then stood.
‘Hey!’ Marouane called out. ‘One thousand dirham.’