While Lucy rifled through the desk drawers, Dan gazed at the wall above the computer. What grabbed his attention was a piece of paper torn from a yellow legal pad and folded in two, stuck at head height with a drawing pin. Kaitlyn, he assumed, had taken a red pen and scrawled in large, slashing letters:
TASS! Fucking TASS! If it wasn’t for TASS it would never have fucking happened!
TASS Russian News Agency? Or did she mean someone else? Dan looked up TASS on the internet to see it was an acronym for a variety of things which included the Talented Athlete Scholarship Scheme operating out of Bath in the UK. None looked as though it had anything to do with the crash.
He removed the note to find a photograph of a serious-looking, dark-skinned man. A phone number was scribbled over his forehead, along with a name. Hafid Khatabi. She had covered his cheeks with kisses and scribbled, I love you for helping me. I love you love you xxxx
Dan brought out his phone. Checked the code +212 and wasn’t surprised to find it was the country code for Morocco. He dialled.
‘Shurtat Marakish,’ a woman answered.
He ignored Lucy staring at him. ‘Hafid Khatabi, please.’
‘Just one moment.’
There was a click, then a ringing tone.
‘Khatabi.’ A man’s voice, curt.
‘Hello,’ Dan said. ‘I’m sorry I don’t speak Arabic. Perhaps you have a little English?’
‘A little,’ he said agreeably. Was he used to Western tourists?
‘Thank you. I got your number from Kaitlyn Rogers’ office. I’m a friend of hers.’
‘Kaitlyn?’ The man sounded astonished. ‘I don’t understand…’
‘I was wondering what you were helping her with.’
‘But…’ The man fell silent.
Dan waited.
More silence.
‘You see, I was on the same aeroplane. EG220. Like Kaitlyn, I survived–’
The man hung up. Dan dialled again.
‘Shurtat Marakish,’ the same woman answered.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but do you speak English?’
‘A little.’
‘I wanted to know what organisation you belong to.’
‘The Marrakech Police.’ Her tone implied what else?
‘And Hafid Khatabi?’
‘He is one of our senior investigators.’
‘How old is he?’
There was a short silence.
‘You ask this, why?’
‘I’m calling from the Kensington and Chelsea Police in London about an old case.’
He turned away so he couldn’t see Lucy widening her eyes warningly at him.
‘He is in his fifties. I’m not sure exactly.’
Which meant Khatabi would probably have been in his thirties when the plane went down.
‘Would you like me to put you through?’
‘Yes, please.’
Click. Ring tone.
‘Khatabi.’
‘Kaitlyn Rogers has–’
The man hung up again.
When Dan redialled the main number, the woman refused to put him through, and hung up. Khatabi had obviously told her to blank his calls.
‘He knew Kaitlyn,’ Dan told Lucy. He was staring at the man’s photograph. ‘He’s a cop. He knows something. We just have to find out what.’
15
‘And well done, Lucy.’ The SIO wrapped up the briefing first thing on Monday with a nod in Lucy’s direction. ‘Kaitlyn’s home computer is now with the tech team along with her laptop. Let’s hope we get some joy from it.’
Lucy didn’t look at Magellan but she could feel his killer stare drilling a hole in her forehead. He was hating every minute while she was loving it. Great rivers of green and gold bubbled happily through her mind, celebrating.
‘Unfortunately,’ Jon Banks went on, ‘Hafid Khatabi has gone on leave for the next two weeks and is out of touch. Apparently, he’s trekking in the Atlas Mountains.’
Lucy gave an audible snort. As if she believed that.
‘The Marrakech Police say they know nothing about Kaitlyn and are being particularly unhelpful. The air-crash investigation was run out of the capital, Rabat, but the Marrakech lot were heavily involved. However, nobody in Morocco is interested in us, or our murder case, and even less interested in raking things up over the EG220 disaster. They’ve got their bombers rotting in jail and will do pretty much anything to keep them there, guilty or not. They don’t want to be made to look stupid. Especially by us.’
The SIO went on to task the team over Ricky’s client list. ‘He has a hundred and twelve clients. He has three really big customers, one of which is Tomas Featherstone.’
There was a shifting movement through the room as people recognised the name. Teflon Tom’s notoriety had obviously broken the borders of Southwark and seeped across London.
‘Thanks again to Lucy for finding this little nugget…’
The bubbles turned to a joyful froth as the SIO praised her further. Lucy knew that if it hadn’t been for Jaya, Ricky would have tried to keep Tomas out of the spotlight. The last thing Ricky needed was for the police to see him as someone who helped criminals, but it was too late.
Lucy scanned the list on the board. Ricky had told her how he’d struggled to get clients to start with. Just twenty in the first year, and even fewer in the second. But then Teflon Tom came on board and the referrals started.
‘Lucy.’ The SIO fixed her with a steely gaze. ‘I want you to take Tomas. He’s a difficult customer and you may have more joy since you knew him at school.’
Yessss! She’d bagged the biggie! She tried not to grin. She didn’t want the rest of the team to resent her. Hoping she was keeping a straight face, she gave what she prayed was a cool and professional nod.
‘Ricky’s solicitor also represents Tomas Featherstone. They also share a racehorse, for what it’s worth.’ Another nod of approbation to Lucy. ‘I want to know what else they share. Gambling, drinking, women. Was there some jealousy or competitiveness over Kaitlyn? If so, I want to know about it.’
Lucy gave another nod. It had been Ajay who’d told her about the racehorse. She’d met him last night, as agreed, in his office, a small and neat white and chrome space above a French bistro and with a view of The Shard from his windows.
Ajay had dreadlocks and wore a skinny fit, shiny grey suit that looked as though it had been made out
