Morocco plane crash:
jet was bombed in terror attack
A home-made bomb brought down the Air UK jet over Morocco’s countryside, the Moroccan president has said, confirming that the plane was destroyed by a terrorist act.
The president vowed to find and punish those responsible for the attack that killed 214 people on board, including seven returning British holidaymakers. Thirteen people survived.
Morocco confirmed reports that two employees at Marrakech Menara Airport had been arrested in connection with the bombing. The final flights clearing British tourists from Marrakech left on Wednesday.
‘She was in Morocco last week,’ a voice said behind Lucy, making her jump. She hadn’t realised anyone had come close.
‘Sorry.’ Karen looked at her curiously but Lucy wasn’t going to explain that her nerves had been shot ever since her attack.
‘She got back last Sunday. She rang him…’ Karen tapped Dan’s photograph with a finger ‘…after she’d landed back at Heathrow.’
‘Dan Forrester,’ Lucy said.
‘Yes.’ Karen nodded. ‘He told me you’ve worked together.’
Lucy turned back to look at Kaitlyn Rogers’ photograph. ‘What was she doing in Morocco?’
‘According to the API – Advance Passenger Information – she was on holiday.’
‘Interesting choice.’
Karen turned her head to look at a photograph of the airliner’s nose cone, buried in a sand dune. ‘SIO’s asked our counterparts over there for any intel, but they don’t want to know. Too long ago. Plus, they don’t want it all raked up so it scares the tourists away.’
At that moment, Lucy’s phone rang. Ricky’s solicitor. She mouthed sorry at Karen and moved away.
‘Thanks for ringing me back.’ Lucy quickly explained that although she was working with the Met on Ricky’s case, she was also a family friend.
‘Sweet.’ He sounded pleased. He also sounded absurdly young. ‘So, you saw Ricky yesterday. How was the man?’
Out of nowhere she felt a hot ball of anger lodge in her diaphragm. ‘His mouth is still swollen.’
‘What you talkin’ about?’
‘He’s allergic to peanuts. You gave him a sandwich with peanuts in it.’
‘What the fuck? I never gave him any sandwich.’
‘Really?’ Lucy was wrong-footed. ‘I was told when you visited him on Friday, you brought him a sandwich.’
‘No way! Seriously. Not me.’
‘Well, who did?’
‘No idea.’
‘Maybe it was someone else from your office.’
‘There ain’t nobody here ’cept me and I saw the man once, at ten thirty pm.’
‘Well, the records show someone from Pozo and Partners visited him again just after midnight.’
‘Shit, man. That’s someone lyin’. Nobody from here was there ’cept for me at ten thirty.’
A banner of lilac streamed across Lucy’s mind, intensifying her curiosity. He didn’t sound like your usual sort of solicitor. He sounded more like a rap artist. ‘I’d like to see you. Later today, if possible.’
‘Sure thing. How ’bout my office, four pm?’
She checked his address to see it was on Borough High Street, a ten-minute walk from her mum’s. ‘Can we make it after six?’
‘Cool.’
They hung up. Lucy headed to reception where she tracked down the custody sergeant who’d been on duty when Ricky had been brought in. Read the paperwork.
‘So…’ She pointed at the form on the screen. ‘Ajay Pozo attended Ricky at ten thirty pm, but who’s this second person?’
The sergeant looked at the form. ‘Chris Malone.’
‘Can you remember what he looked like?’
She got a look that said, you have to be kidding, do you know how busy it is here on Friday night?
‘Can I see the CCTV?’ She made begging motions. ‘Pretty please?’
He didn’t jump at the idea but once she’d explained, his face tightened. ‘Shit. You really think it was a murder attempt?’
‘I’d like to say no, but maybe Ricky can shed some light. He’s still here, I’m told.’
‘Yup. The boss wants to keep him as long as poss.’
Which meant up to ninety-six hours, by which time they either had to let him go or charge him by Tuesday 9pm. The sergeant led her to the custody suite. Flipped open the hatch on one of the cell doors. ‘Visitor for you, Ricky. Lucy Davies. Okay?’
‘Yeah.’ Ricky’s voice was low.
The sergeant unlocked the door. Lucy stepped inside. Daylight filtered through a Perspex window, lighting the cheery yellow walls, the vivid blue chair and mattress. At the far end stood a WC and basin. A CCTV camera monitored every move.
‘Knock on the door when you’re done.’ The sergeant locked the door behind her. ‘I’ll get the tape for you later.’
Ricky had been sitting in the chair when she came in, but now he stood up. His shirt was open at the neck, and he’d taken his shoes off. Now, he put them on, and buttoned up his top button.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hi.’ She wanted to ask how he was but when she took in the way his fingers were trembling, decided it might be prudent to leave him with some dignity. ‘Look, I just wanted to ask about the person who brought you the sandwich on Friday night.’
‘Chris?’
‘Yes. How do you know him?’
‘Chris isn’t a man. She’s a woman. And I don’t know her. Well, I do now, obviously. She’s from Pozo and Partners.’
‘Ajay says she isn’t.’
‘What?’ He looked blank.
‘Ajay says he’s the only person from his firm to see you.’
The blank look remained. ‘But Chris brought me something to sign. It was a client care letter, defining the work to be done, and how I’ll pay for it. She said Ajay needed it before he’d represent me. She had his letterhead and everything. She was really nice.’
‘She also brought you the sandwich that had peanut butter in it.’
Ricky stared at her.
‘I
