Read Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti) Online
Authors: Thomas Mogford
The next-door office was marked with a shiny brass plaque: ‘Toby Riddell, Head of Corporate Security’. Spike tried the handle: locked. The adjacent door had two empty boreholes in the wood. Spike opened it and stepped inside.
A flat-pack desk faced a bare wall, the only window covered by a venetian blind with dusty blades, which Spike tugged up to a view of the neighbouring building’s featureless concrete. There was an empty space on the desk where a laptop might once have sat, a number of tiny yellow Post-it notes dotted around it: ‘NB future oil crunch for presentation’; ‘Mamma’s birthday – card
and
flowers’. Solomon’s precise, careful handwriting looked unchanged since their schooldays. Already it had the quality of a relic.
Spike tried the desk drawer. Alongside a tray of golden paper clips was a plastic cylinder, ‘CALIFORNIA MUSCLES’ emblazoned on the front above an image of a bronzed he-man giving it the flex. Spike undid the taped-down foil, sniffed the powder, then put it back in the drawer.
Behind the desk stood a metal filing cabinet, a ‘Gibraltar Rocks!’ coffee mug on its top, encrusted with the same vanilla-scented powder. Five green suspension folders hung inside. Spike ran a fingertip over the tabs: ‘DUNETECH Phase 1’, ‘DUNETECH Phase 2’, ‘Q1 Budget Review’, ‘Zagora Zween’, ‘Legal’. He drew out the last and opened it. Most of the correspondence was with Ruggles & Mistry, Spike’s former employers. A cursory scan of the documentation revealed that Dunetech were looking to expand operations, keen to use Gibraltar’s competitive tax rates to minimise their liability. So far so sensible, but if Solomon were already instructing Ruggles, why not ask them to represent him now? They had the best criminal practice on the Rock. Professional embarrassment, presumably.
Footsteps outside; Spike quickly replaced the file, knocking a Post-it to the floor. As he crouched to pick it up, he noticed something behind the back of the desk. He strained forward to a stiff card invitation: ‘Dunetech Investor Roadshow’. Voices now; Spike folded the invitation into his inside pocket and walked out.
Nadeer’s door was wedged open on the carpet. Ahead, Spike saw the crumpled back of Toby Riddell’s seersucker jacket. Nadeer had his elbows on the desk, talking in an undertone. He broke off when he saw Spike. ‘Find any lead piping? A candlestick?’
Riddell turned. The mirror shades were off, exposing a pink V on the bridge of his nose. In his right hand he cupped an olive-green squash ball, which he compressed back and forth like a miniature heart.
‘I’ll have Tobes run you back to your hotel,’ Nadeer said. ‘Where did you say you were staying?’
‘I didn’t. Hotel Continental.’
Nadeer waved a hand like the choppy sea. ‘Traditional, I suppose. How long are you with us?’
‘Three nights. Maybe less.’
‘Well, I’ve got your card. In the meantime, enjoy our fine city. It’s still Ramadan, so everyone’s a bit grouchy, but it’ll liven up after sundown.’ Nadeer stood, running his fingers through his wavy black hair before limply shaking Spike’s hand.
Spike turned at the door. ‘Either of you know the Sundowner Club?’
Riddell pumped at his squash ball.
‘What’s that?’ Nadeer said.
‘Some kind of beach bar, I think. Esperanza went there the night of her death.’
‘Oh, that place,’ Nadeer said as he sat back down. ‘Those cathouses change their name by the week. Go there by all means, but if you’re thinking of late-night entertainment, I’d advise you to tread carefully. Tobes?’
Riddell escorted Spike down the corridor. ‘Give ’em half an inch,’ he muttered.
‘I’ll walk from here,’ Spike said as the lift arrived. ‘Get my bearings.’
The tight, whitewashed streets of the Medina were a hotchpotch of religious dress. Men wore beige hooded cloaks, or candy-striped
djellabas
, or immaculate white robes with perforated
kufi
caps; the few women wore black veils with eye slits, or embroidered kaftans, or jeans with bandannas over mouths and chunky black Ray-Bans perched on noses. Sub-Saharan Africans strode among them, broad-nosed Nigerians in tribal dress, gangly Masai with tartan blankets draped over shoulders. It was as though the continent of Africa had been tipped upside down and shaken like a pepper pot.
Schoolboys in tunics poured from a side door of the Grand Mosque. Seeing a shadow beneath a scooter trailer, one of them jabbed in a sandal. A kitten darted away as the boy high-fived his friend.
Rugs had been laid out on the road, heaped with pyramids of prickly pears, baskets of star anise, packets of crispy sunflower seeds. The rugs were for sale as well, judging by a merchant thumbing the weave at Spike. A barefoot man in rag trousers staggered by with a tray of samosas on his head, brown chair hooked over a browner arm.
Spike continued up the concentric circles towards the Kasbah, the fortified complex at the top of the hill that had once been the Sultan’s palace. When he saw the white, crenulated walls, he knew he’d gone too far. He tried a different route down, passing an American woman of a certain age arm in arm with a handsome Moroccan youth. The irresistible pheromones of the green card.
Just around the corner was an alley lined with beggars. Spike dropped all his coins into the lap of a cowl-draped amputee. As he rounded the next corner, he found a woman with glaucous eyes, rocking on her hunkers.
Hawkers appeared, the first tapping at a bongo. Offers were made in a babel of languages but Spike strode away, dragging the more persistent in his slipstream. He was closer to the sea now, the air fresh and saline, blending with the fragrant smoke of joss sticks that were wedged in the shutter hinges of leather shops. The owners sat on stools outside, fiddling with prayer beads, watching the sky, waiting.
A cross-eyed man crawled by on his knees, scouring for cigarette ends. Spike watched him stop and pick up a twig, then jam it upright in a drain as though it were the centrepiece of some elegant flower arrangement. Two boys in fake Barcelona football shirts crunched it down as they passed by hand in hand, chatting.
At last Spike saw the sign, painted on a stucco archway.
Hotel Continental
. Rufus had made the recommendation. ‘An institution, son,’ he’d promised, ‘good enough for Winston Churchill.’ Spike entered the courtyard, where a uniformed security guard sat in a fogged-up hut watching football. He glanced over at Spike, then returned to his black-and-white TV.
Two men stood together at the reception desk. On the counter in front of them sat a triangular cardboard sign:
Together Against Terrorism
. The floor was of chequerboard marble, with a grand piano with the lid down and a smoked-glass art deco chandelier hanging from the wooden latticework ceiling. The curved staircase looked like it hadn’t been dusted since Churchill’s last visit.
The receptionist was jotting down directions on a free map. The guests said ‘
Shukran
’ in a Spanish accent, then walked away. One had a shaven head with sideburns like drips of dried blood, the other peroxide hair and sugary aftershave. Both made a moue at Spike as they left.
‘Single, please,’ Spike said. Though old and grey, the receptionist had a chubby, beatific face. He wore the standard white
djellaba
and sandals but with silver stubble rather than full beard.
‘Is the restaurant open?’ Spike asked once he’d checked in.
The receptionist handed over the key. ‘Hunger is housed in the body, satisfaction in the soul.’
Spike waited for further enlightenment, but the receptionist returned to his seat to pick up a book.
The third-floor landing was decorated with framed maps of Tangiers through the ages: as a Roman provincial capital, a Portuguese colony, an English naval base, and more recently as a hedonistic international freeport, independent of the French and Spanish protectorates that ruled the rest of the country until 1956. Tangier, Tanjah, Tanger, Tangiers – even the present-day name seemed hard to pin down. As Spike passed a doorway, he heard a film blaring within. The adjoining room was his; groaning slightly, he slid his key into the lock.
Wooden-framed bed, cracked dressing-table mirror, en-suite bathroom with inevitable dripping tap. Spike took off his suit, feeling the office lift away as he stripped down to his boxers to unpack his overnight bag: fresh white T-shirts, loose cargo trousers, crisp linen shirt. He’d forgotten his sunglasses, he realised as he stowed the empty bag inside the cupboard. The shutters were closed; he pushed them open to a rooftop vista of water tanks, aerials and washing lines. Doves cooed. The sky was pink, the sun finally gone.
Sitting at the foot of the bed, he picked up the TV remote and found it mummified with yellowing Sellotape. He took out his phone instead as the film soundtrack throbbed through the walls.
‘Been to prison yet?’ said Peter Galliano.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Is that your squeaky fiddler playing?’
‘It’s the next-door room.’
‘Good hotel?’
‘Charming. Listen, Peter . . .’
Spike told Galliano about his meeting with Nadeer Ziyad. ‘He was talking about getting me an audience with the governor of Tangiers. I promised him a media blackout as long as the trial takes place in Gib.’
‘What does he care?’
‘There’s been nothing so far in the Moroccan papers. Dunetech won’t want any bad publicity, particularly as an eco company.’
‘So what’s he like, this Nadeer Ziyad?’
‘Not short on confidence.’
‘To those who have, Spike, shall be given. And you really feel we can keep the media at bay?’
‘All that matters is they think we can.’
‘I’ve already had the Moroccan authorities on to me. They want a DNA swab.’
‘Do it. Keep ’em sweet on the small stuff.’
‘Still no bail though. Flight risk.’
‘Ask Alan Gaggero to schedule me a phone call with Solomon. If Alan’s off duty, try Jessica Navarro. Just don’t say it’s for me. Anything from the Uzbeks?’
‘They liked the vodka bar.’
‘
Grevi
. I’ll call you later then.’
‘Careful, Spike. I know that tone.’
‘
Non me voy de weeken
.’
The soundtrack next door had taken on a pornographic slant: moaning, panting. Spike hoisted the shower head to the top of its mast, washed, changed, then descended into the Tangerine dusk.
The sand felt warm between Spike’s toes. Seeing a discarded syringe ahead, he dropped his espadrilles back to the ground and kicked them on. The breadth of the beach had been a surprise, more than half a kilometre wide, continuing all along the inlet of the bay, port to the left, hills to the right, bright wasps’-nest city rising behind.
Waves lapped at Spike’s feet, propelled by their cross-mix of currents. A shelf of sand rose at the tidemark: if someone had wanted to sit by the sea they could lean on the sandbank and be out of sight of anyone walking behind. Washed up against it was a mêlée of debris: punctured lilo, toothbrush, a plastic doll with a melted face.
Spike took a bite of sandwich. The flat, semolina-dusted bread was spread with a sour and rather delicious goat’s cheese. He looked out at the late sun, spray-painting the crests of the wavelets blood orange. It was a still evening, the beach a biscuity colour in the fading light. In its hard-packed centre, street kids were playing football – the ball spilled to Spike and he side-footed it firmly back. Beyond, the lights of Spain gave a watered-down glow. There was something tantalising about that view, Spike thought, close by yet out of reach.
He walked past the footballers towards the road. The row of beach bars was set beneath it, most of them little more than concrete bunkers. Some had gone for a Miami deckchair look, others fenced-off dance floors. Spike took in the plagiarised names: ‘Snob’, ‘Pasha’, ‘Ritzys’. Most looked defunct – boarded-up windows, trussed parasols, tubs of dead hydrangeas with fag butts jammed into soil.
Spike was about to climb back up to the road when he stopped. Thirty metres ahead, a whitewashed customs depot marked the end of the beach. Just in front, sunk into the sand at an angle, was a wooden sign. Half a setting sun surmounted by a curving word, ‘Sundowner’.