Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti) (17 page)

‘Did she talk about meeting him the day she died?’

‘I told you, Spike, she never mentioned his name.’

‘What else did she do that day?’

‘Went to see some crystal-gazer. She was into all that crap.’

‘But no mention of Abdallah al-Manajah?’

‘No, Spike. Why do you keep asking?’

‘What about the stepfather? Castillo. What’s his story?’

‘They didn’t get on. She said he made her flesh creep. That’s why she hadn’t seen him in years.’

‘Why change now?’

‘How the hell should I know? Maybe she liked the sound of Dunetech. Wanted to give him a second chance.’

A Hollywood symphony filled the silence. ‘What about Toby Riddell?’ Spike said.

‘What about him?’

‘Trustworthy?’

‘Decent enough, if a little slow. I think he went to school with Nadeer in England. Couldn’t get into university so he tried Sandhurst. Saw some action in Northern Ireland. Then Gib. After that he was decommissioned and got in touch with Nadeer.’

Spike heard Solomon’s hoarse, asthmatic breathing.

‘Spike?’

‘Yes?’

‘They’re going to send me back to Tangiers, aren’t they?’

‘Almost certainly, pal.’

Chapter 39

The
petit taxi
puttered along the brow of the hill. Spike stared out at another flawlessly clipped lawn. A sprinkler clicked and whirred as a green-uniformed gardener tilled the soil. ‘What do you call this area?’ Spike said.

The driver grinned. His two front teeth were missing and he worked a furry tongue through the gap. ‘Is
La Montagne
. Or Beverly Hills. See here?’ He pulled up beside a red all-weather driveway leading to a pair of spiked gates. Two armed soldiers guarded the posts. ‘Here is the summer palace for our King.’

‘Is he in?’

The taxi returned to the main road as one of the guards stepped forward. ‘It is Ramadan – the King is in his castle in Rabat. And here –’ they passed a higher set of gates; above, Spike saw the top half of what looked like a replica of the White House – ‘here is for Sheikh Ben-Adis, Prince for Saudi Arabia. And here –’ the driver pointed to another neo-Palladian Christmas cake – ‘is for Mister Forbes.’
Fourbez
, he pronounced it. ‘American magazines.
Multi
million.’ He sawed his tongue back and forth. ‘And here –’

‘OK,’ Spike said. ‘I get it.’

They continued along the ridge, a medley of gardeners and security men sending over heavy, sweaty glances. Below, the Medina and Kasbah were clustered neatly on the hillside. To the right, the Straits glowed tangerine in the setting sun.

At the next corner the taxi pulled up. Two life-size stone lions guarded a pair of iron gates. ‘
Voilà
,’ the driver said. ‘
La Villa des Lions
.’

An open-doored sentry box stood to the right, from which a mustachioed security guard emerged. The driver rolled down his window as the guard peered past him to Spike. ‘Name?’

‘Sanguinetti.’

‘Uh?’

‘San-guin-etti.’

Back in his cabin, the guard spoke into a phone; a moment later the gates began to open.

‘You like Mister Fourbez,’ the driver said, tonguing his teeth.

The driveway was lined on each side by sickly, thin-trunked palms. Between them, Spike caught a glimpse of a concrete helipad on the grass. Thirty metres on, the driveway opened into a turning circle, an umbrella pine spreading in its centre. Parked around the outside like dates in a box were twenty or so executive cars, chauffeurs at the wheels, capped and bored.

A rectangular yellow building blocked the far side of the circle, a smartly dressed flunkey already striding from its central archway.

The taxi driver started to reverse into a space beside a Bentley, leaving Spike room to get out, but squeezing his own door so close to its bodywork that the uniformed chauffeur glared up from a paperback.

The footman wore full livery. For a grim moment Spike thought the function might be fancy dress. He turned to the driver. ‘Wait here. OK?’

The footman opened Spike’s door as the taxi driver killed the engine.

‘Welcome, Mr Sanguinetti, please.’

They crunched over gravel towards the gatehouse, Spike smoothing the creases from his blue linen shirt. After passing through the arch, they emerged into a terrace to the sound of soft music and chatter.

The pool was long and broad, mosaic-tiled and with shallow marble steps at the end. On one edge Spike saw a heliopod solar-power unit, both panels splayed open, crouching like a hothoused carnivorous plant patiently waiting for prey.

The guests were gathered in the last of the sun on the opposite edge of the pool. Moroccan girls in black, sunray-pleated skirts sashayed between them holding trays. A jungle of palms and sunflowers lined the terrace, fed by a serpentine watering system. In front of the main house, a tablecloth-draped bar was staffed by three men, to the right of which a band of traditionally dressed Berbers were knocking on drums and tootling on flutes.

‘Most welcome, sir,’ the footman concluded, sweeping an arm over the guests. Spike continued onto the bar, recognising faces from the Roadshow. ‘Coca-Cola,’ he said. ‘Cold as you can.’ The barman decapitated a bottle with a flair that suggested Spike’s order left him seriously underused.

Spike stood with his back to the bar. The pool lights flashed on, sending turquoise sea snakes shimmering through the water. A waitress with hoop earrings offered him a canapé; as he passed up the chance for a second, he made out Nadeer Ziyad among the guests. Eschewing his Savile Row threads, Nadeer sported a full-length burnous, yellow and white striped with a baggy, hanging hood. On his head was a tassel-free fez; on his feet, soft
babouche
slippers. He raised an arm and started walking over, arching an eyebrow in a manner that suggested he was no fan of this frippery either. ‘Hello, mate,’ he said. Rather than a handshake, he went for the full body-clasp. ‘Thank God you’re here. Some sanity at last.’

He joined Spike by the bar. Guests kept shooting looks their way. On the other side of the pool, Toby Riddell was telling a story to a group of Middle Eastern investors, pointing towards the heliopod. He wore a brass-buttoned blazer and high-waisted chinos. His black shoes gleamed.

‘There comes a point in a man’s life when he must say, No, there shall be no more vol-au-vents.’ Nadeer smiled. ‘So how’s tricks?’

‘There’s been a development.’

Nadeer pinched his hawk’s nose. ‘Yes, I heard about the post-mortem. Not good. Not good at all.’

‘Is the governor here?’

Nadeer’s irises glittered like champagne diamonds. ‘The governor is what my father likes to call a dear, dear friend. He doesn’t blow out a Ziyad.’

With a firm but gentle grip, Nadeer took hold of Spike’s hand. Though Spike had seen men walking this way in the Medina, he still let go after a few paces, and they continued onwards to an urn of sunflowers, where a suited Moroccan was chatting to a blonde girl. Spike recognised Miss Solness, the Scandinavian from the Roadshow, slick in a trouser suit, kitten heels and silver top. Her companion glanced over as they approached. His shaven scalp had a covering of stubble midway up, as though a tide of skin were rising. He whispered something to Miss Solness; she looked on nonchalantly, sipping from a foliage-stuffed tumbler.

When the Moroccan was close enough, Nadeer put an arm around him. ‘Spike Sanguinetti,’ he said, ‘I’d like you to meet His Excellency, the Governor of Tangiers.’

The governor looked barely older than Spike. His smile reconfigured to gruff mistrust. ‘Let’s go inside,’ he grunted, accent tinged with American.

Nadeer turned to walk back across the terrace, Spike and the governor following behind like a couple of international bodyguards. The governor gave Spike a glance, then increased his pace to catch Nadeer up. The band played faster – as they passed through the sliding doors to the main house, the lute player was strumming like a North African Paganini.

The hallway was paved in stone, bisected by a staircase with a curving silver banister. A chandelier hung above a table fanned with copies of
Country Life
and
The Field
. A vase of orchids gave off the fleshy scent of carrion.

On the stairs hung a full-length portrait of Nadeer, leaning on a rifle, foot pressed triumphantly down on the tongue-lolling head of a leopard, the backdrop mountainous and romantic. Neither Nadeer nor the governor looked at the painting, passing instead through a padded doorway.

Spike followed them into an oak-panelled study. Another portrait of Nadeer graced the empty fireplace, his wavy hair slicked back, pastel jumper lightly laid over the shoulders of an open-necked shirt as he perched on a boardroom table.

The governor slumped into a knobbly leather armchair, Nadeer sitting down next to him, Spike opposite.

‘You see,’ the governor began, as if picking up on an earlier conversation, ‘the situation is very delicate.’ His voice was deep and slow, as though distorted for a ransom demand. Nadeer kept his eyes on Spike, smiling expectantly like the giver of a present gauging the recipient’s reaction.

‘It’s a mess that just keeps on getting messier,’ the governor said. ‘And now I hear about some pregnancy?’ Flecks of spittle flew from his mouth as he rasped the ‘r’. ‘And another arrest?’ He turned to Nadeer for confirmation. ‘A barman?’

‘He works in the nightclub where the girl was last seen,’ Spike said. ‘He had her handbag. I told the police.’

‘Ugly,’ the governor replied. ‘Ugly, ugly, ugly.’

‘Have they pressed charges?’

The governor waved a hand as though swatting away a mosquito. ‘The issue is as follows. Your client’s former employer is about to sign a deal of great importance to the future of this region. It cannot be jeopardised by the death of some Spanish whore.’ He stared at Spike, his eyes a nervous brown, ill-suited to the strong, gravelly voice. ‘Nadeer tells me you’re well connected in Gibraltar?’

‘It’s a small place.’

‘The deal signs sundown Thursday, the last day of Ramadan. The court of assizes will waive extradition on one condition. That you delay the trial until at least three months after the Dunetech deal is concluded. I make that –’ the governor glanced down at a chunky sports watch – ‘November the 29th. So roll out the red tape. Sit on your hands. Slow-walk the situation. You people do that better than anyone.’

‘And any trial will take place in Gibraltar?’

‘Agreed.’ The governor thrust out a hand. It quaked a little, like a drinker’s. Spike reached out and shook it, then followed him and Nadeer out of the study, wondering why he didn’t feel quite as elated as he might.

Chapter 40

The governor strode beneath the gatehouse arch, the liveried footman slipping in behind him. ‘He’s a cold fish,’ Nadeer said. ‘But effective. Tourism on the up.’

‘How old?’

‘Thirty-eight.’

‘Your voters like ’em young.’

‘Regional governors are still personally appointed by the King.’

‘I thought you said Morocco was a democracy.’

‘Even with our Arab Spring, there are many ways to define the word.’

The party had hit a pitch that suggested the barmen now had the chance to express themselves. Guests kept trying to catch Nadeer’s eye. He reached again for Spike’s hand. This time Spike reduced the contact to an elbow-touch.

‘He’s certainly right about the mess though,’ Nadeer said once they were at the bar. ‘Best to get it cleaned up. Sorted.’

Spike heard a discreet phut, then saw the barman expertly tip a flute.

‘At least it’s good news for Solomon,’ Nadeer said, turning.

‘He faces three months in Gibraltar without bail.’