Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti) (18 page)

‘Well, hopefully the evidence stacks up against this other suspect. The barman or what have you.’ He passed Spike a glass of champagne. ‘Of course we’d have Solomon back here like a shot. Exciting times ahead at Dunetech. Need minds like his on board.’

‘He was hardly Brain of Britain at school.’

‘But you can’t teach business acumen, Spike. It’s like courage. Or survival instinct. Either you’ve got it or you don’t.’ He held up his fizzing flute. ‘To Solomon and the future.’

Spike smelled the sour tang of bursting bubbles. ‘Fuck it.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s how we say cheers in Gibraltar.’

Nadeer grinned. ‘Fuck it,’ he repeated, and they chinked glasses.

Eyes closed, Spike took a deep, sparkling gulp. Then another. When he opened his eyes, Nadeer was watching, drink untouched, smile on his delicate lips.

‘Impressive set-up you’ve got,’ Spike said, wiping his mouth.

Nadeer scanned around. ‘I suppose so. The firm’s based in Tangiers, so there’s a certain pressure to appear . . . settled.’

‘And your father still lives in Rabat?’

‘Yes.’

On the opposite side of the pool, Toby Riddell was pointing a group of Asian investors towards the heliopod. One of the panels moved, making them jump in fright, then laugh nervously at their mistake.

‘Ever heard of a man called Abdallah al-Manajah?’ Spike said.

Nadeer’s champagne flute stopped en route to his mouth. ‘Don’t think so.’

‘One of your employees?’

He lowered his glass. ‘That doesn’t narrow it down.’

‘Solomon seems to think he might work for Dunetech. A Bedouin?’

‘The Bedouins are our main source of human capital,’ Nadeer replied as though that settled it. ‘Our site is close to a Bedouin village so we provide jobs for what’s a largely disenfranchised section of society. They’re far less numerous than the Berbers, Tuareg or Reguibat, and as such are treated as second-class citizens.’ He nodded towards an overweight American-looking man. ‘Duty calls,’ he sighed. ‘Got to press the flesh. And by the look of it, there’s a fair old bit of it over there.’ He gazed past Spike to the heliopod. ‘Christ. What a sunset. Enjoy the party.’ Snatching Spike’s hand again, he gave it a squeeze.

Spike turned back to the bar. ‘Another, please,’ he said, putting down his flute, ‘this time with some booze in it.’ He pointed to a brandy bottle behind.

Drink fortified, he walked over to the far side of the pool. The band were playing the same tune on repeat, some facile flute jig. Ahead loomed the heliopod. At any point it looked as though it might swivel on its stand and blast Spike like some intergalactic droid.

‘You like?’

Spike turned into the pale, laughing eyes of Miss Solness.

‘Not much.’

‘See that mirrored panel? It reflects the sun onto the darker-coloured cells, so they get the natural
and
reflected rays. Doubles the output.’

‘The Sun King rules OK.’

Miss Solness smiled. ‘
And
the panels clean themselves of sand as they move. My name’s Regina.’ The ‘G’ of her Christian name was hard, her English as faultless as most Scandinavians’.

‘Spike.’

Spike saw that the tip of her nose was peeling. She followed his gaze. ‘What can I say? I’m Norwegian. Land of the snow-white tan. You?’

‘From Gibraltar.’

‘Investor?’

‘Not today.’

‘You seem pretty close to the money though.’ She glanced over to the other side of the pool, where Nadeer was working the crowd. ‘You know,’ she said, passing her tongue across her pink, chapped lips, ‘what the best thing is about Dunetech?’

‘What is the best thing about Dunetech?’

She tucked a hank of shiny hair behind her ear. ‘Once they get the power into Tangiers, they can start laying cables over the Straits.’

‘Underwater?’

‘HVDC – high voltage direct current.’ She prodded the ground with a diamanté-encrusted sandal: a thin black wire stretched from the base of the heliopod to the side wall of the house. ‘Barely any energy-loss. And once you’re over the Straits, you can plug into the European grid and sell to the whole of the West. No more worries about Russia dominating the market.’

‘Is that part of the official business plan?’

Regina leaned in close to let Spike light her thin cigarette with a tea light. Her scent was sharp and musky, like a man’s cologne. ‘It’s what’s exciting investors, I can tell you that much. Why else headquarter the company in Tangiers? It’s smaller than Casablanca and Rabat. But closer to Europe. Isn’t that what’s always made Tangiers special?’

Spike put down the candle and reached over to the shining shaft of the heliopod. He whipped back his hand: felt like he’d just been stabbed with a pin.

‘Ouch,’ Regina said.

‘Not such a friendly source of energy after all,’ Spike said, shaking his fingers.

Regina took a step forward. She had a pair of oversize designer sunglasses hooked to her top, their weight tugging down the silk to reveal a smooth arc of breast. ‘I’m stuck here with my trade mag till they sign,’ she said. ‘Want to grab a drink in town?’

‘Maybe some other time.’

She tapped at her clutch bag. ‘Not tempted by the local specialities?’

Spike shook his head, and Regina shrugged, sliding on her sunglasses and setting off in the direction of the house, a swarm of eyes following her haunch as she swayed across the flagstones. When she was gone, Spike looked down at his hand. A small, greenish burn scored the index nail.

Chapter 41

High-wattage uplights blazed from the terrace. A cicada in an olive bough duetted with an unseen sprinkler. Spike zoned in on it, amazed as usual that something so small could create such a racket.

Alongside the panel that controlled the pool lights was a doorway. Still facing the terrace, Spike leaned against it, feeling behind for a handle. It twisted and he held it down, kicking backwards with his heel. Another quick glance at the guests, and he stepped inside.

The air had the close, mushroomy smell of an old cellar. Spike felt for the switch and watched the strip lights wink and flicker, eventually revealing a damp concrete stairwell. Downstairs was another switch. A dingy, gaping underground space emerged.

Ranged along one side of the garage was a collection of gardening equipment: rakes, hosepipes, shiny four-pronged forks. Beneath the mouldy ceiling ran a bank of video monitors, each displaying black-and-white images of the terrace, the driveway, the gatehouse, the turning circle, two cars already pulling out . . . Spike located his
petit taxi
, still parked beside the Bentley. A row of numbers updated at the base of the screen. Beneath lay a metal chair flanked by an ashtray and a Moroccan newspaper.

On the other side of the garage, four vehicles were parked, noses pointed towards a ramp which appeared to lead up to the turning circle. A yellow Ferrari, a Hummer with glittering wheel spokes, the silver Mercedes which had picked Spike up. And a jeep with tinted windows and bull-bar bumper.

The jeep was painted electric blue. Putting his champagne flute down on the concrete, Spike delved into his pocket for a ten-dirham coin, then crouched to the mudguard and scraped at the bodywork. Nothing happened so he twisted the coin in a circle. Powdery flakes came away; he brushed them off and saw jet-black paint beneath.

A metallic clank sounded from upstairs. Spike crouched behind the jeep. Footsteps on the concrete, slow then quick; flattening himself, he peered beneath the chassis and caught a flash of diamanté.

Spike rose to his feet. Regina’s long legs were tensed in their gleaming heels. Her tuxedo jacket was draped over her forearm like a sommelier’s towel. She threw it onto the metal chair and it fell to the floor. Her bra was a similar pale pink to her skin.

‘Bit hot up there, is it?’ Spike called out, glancing suspiciously over her shoulder. As he stooped to pick up her jacket, he checked her eyes. The pupils were dilated, rolling back and forth in her head as though drawn by a magnet.

Regina smiled lazily as she put down her handbag. A new image was flickering on the monitors above her head: a black-and-white Toby Riddell, striding across the empty side of the terrace. As Riddell reached the heliopod he paused, hand testing for something tucked in the waistband of his chinos. Spike turned to the opposite wall, where a small black CCTV camera was fixed. On one of the monitors, Riddell’s arm was extending for the gatehouse door.

Spike looked back to Regina. Her bra was unfastened, exposing two neat, coral nipples. She beckoned at Spike, pupils still rolling, and he stepped forward to kiss her. Her saliva had a sharp chemical taste. ‘Fuck me,’ she hissed in his ear, Scandinavian accent thickening. ‘Fuck me on the Ferrari.’

Spike felt her tongue probe forcefully against his. From upstairs came a creak; he slid his hand across her stomach and cupped a breast.

‘Squeeze it,’ she breathed. ‘Harder.’

Taking the stiffening nipple in his fingertips, Spike steered her round until she was facing the stairwell. She’d unclipped her trousers: no underwear, the smooth, pinker skin between her thighs hairless save for a slim strip of blonde. She reached down to his flies: ‘Hel-
lo
. . .’ she began, before suddenly tensing up and drawing her elbows across her chest.

Spike turned to see Riddell on the bottom stair, hand still tucked beneath his jacket. He drew Regina close, face twisted in disgusted shock. ‘Some privacy, maybe?’ he shouted.

Riddell continued to stand.

‘Piss
off
!’ Regina snarled, pressing her half-naked body to Spike’s.

Riddell took a hesitant backward step, catching the leather sole of his shoe and stumbling, hand still beneath jacket. He held his watery eyes on Regina, before turning and climbing back up to the door.

‘Pervert,’ giggled Regina, leaning in and gnawing at Spike’s lower lip. He drew away and pointed at the camera. ‘Not sure we want to end up online.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Behind the Hummer?’

‘Probably best not.’

Regina started to blink, as though slowly becoming aware of where she was. She shook her glassy eyes in an attempt to focus, then reached down for her trousers. Spike passed over her bag and jacket, zipping himself up and taking her hand to lead her, dressed, up the car ramp at the other end of the garage. There was a red lever box on the wall; Spike yanked it down and the gates began to open.

They emerged at the edge of the turning circle. Most of the cars were gone but the
petit taxi
was still waiting. Regina laid her head on Spike’s shoulder, twining a white lock of hair around one finger. ‘Feel a bit sick,’ she said in her sing-song accent.

Spike stuck a thumb up at the taxi driver. ‘Still time for a loosener?’ he asked Regina.

She brightened, lifting her head, and they walked back through the tunnel to the pool terrace. There were fifteen or so guests left, all gathered by the bar. The band had packed up; of Nadeer and Riddell there was no sign. Seeing Nadeer’s overweight American friend, Spike led Regina over. ‘Do you two . . .?’

‘Oh sure,’ the Texan drawled. ‘Reggie’s gonna do a piece on me.’

‘Maybe you could give her a lift into town.’

‘If she’ll wait till this numbskull masters the mint julep.’

Spike turned to Regina. Her jawbone poked in and out as she chewed her teeth.

‘Got to go,’ Spike said.

‘What?’

‘Boat to catch.’

‘But –’

He squeezed her hand – ‘Sorry’ – then set off back to the turning circle.

Chapter 42

The usual traffic hierarchy had been reversed, cars waiting for pedestrians, the road a pavement, choked with people, the majority fighting their way towards a single narrow gateway in a whitewashed wall.