He hadn’t been impressed that Ricky had dropped Tomas Featherstone in the proverbial shit with the cops.
‘Doesn’t the man have any sense of self-preservation?’
‘It was Jaya who told me.’
Ajay rolled his eyes, showing their whites like a frightened horse. ‘Jaya.’ With the one word he conveyed despair and exasperation in equal measure.
‘She’s a good woman.’ Lucy couldn’t not defend her mum’s friend.
‘I know that, man. She’s as good as gold but I wish she’d back off and let me do my job.’
Jaya had been unrepentant when Lucy saw her last night. After Lucy had met Ajay, she’d walked to her childhood home where she’d found Jaya drinking tea with her mum in the kitchen.
‘Poor Ricky,’ her mother said gloomily. ‘I know his clients aren’t exactly snow-white but he really doesn’t deserve this.’
Lucy listened to them lament and sigh for a while before she announced she was going to head to the King’s Arms. Her mother looked surprised. Jaya swallowed and fixed her gaze on the teapot.
‘I just want to see if anyone from the old days is around,’ Lucy said, all innocence. Her mum would kill her if she knew she was going to ask Reg, the pub landlord, how to find her father – in Macclesfield, for God’s sake. She still couldn’t believe it.
Jaya jumped up. ‘I’ll walk with you, if you like.’
Thankfully the pub was on Jaya’s way home so it didn’t look odd when they left together. However, they’d barely reached the end of the street when Jaya stopped.
‘I’ve your dad’s number here.’ Jaya brought out her phone. ‘I’ll text it to you now.’
Lucy felt her phone vibrate. She opened her messages and there it was. A mobile number. She felt disbelief descend. Was it really her dad’s? Was it that easy?
‘Look, Lucy.’ Jaya’s voice dropped. ‘Don’t mention to Reg I gave it to you, will you?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, your mum made everyone promise… And you know what she’s like…’
‘Okay.’ Lucy was staring at her phone. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’
‘There’s a love.’
Lucy didn’t see Jaya leave. She was still staring at her father’s number. She didn’t have the guts to ring it straight away. She went to the pub and downed a vodka and tonic without talking to anyone. Walked back to her mum’s in a state of disbelief. She was distracted all evening, which luckily her mother put down to working Ricky’s case, and Lucy went to bed early where she lay awake for most of the night, rehearsing what to say.
Hi, Dad. It’s me, Lucy. Yes, it’s the daughter you abandoned when she was eight. Hi, Dad. It’s your daughter Lucy here. How are you? What the fuck are you doing in Macclesfield? Why aren’t you in fucking Sydney? Hi, Dad. It’s Lucy here…
She’d read somewhere that cold calls went down best between 8–9am and 4–5pm, with the lunchtime period of 1–2pm being the absolute worst. She didn’t think it would be particularly beneficial to ring first thing in the morning. He could be at work, or in a meeting. He’d also be distracted on a Monday, thinking about the week ahead.
She’d ring him tomorrow. Tuesday at 4pm, she decided.
Meanwhile, she’d better call Dan and fill him in.
16
Dan was in his work office when Lucy told him that Hafid Khatabi had supposedly gone walkabout. They were definitely onto something. However, although he and Lucy had spent the previous afternoon scouring Kaitlyn’s most recent notes and papers, nothing else had jumped out at them. Dan’s mind kept returning to the photograph of the Moroccan policeman and Kaitlyn’s scribble across his forehead.
I love you for helping me. I love you love you xxxx
‘Marrakech is pretty nice at this time of year,’ he told Lucy. ‘Mid-twenties during the day. Cool at night.’
‘Didn’t someone say Khatabi’s gone trekking in the mountains?’
‘Trust me, he’ll be at work. But if he has gone on holiday,’ he contemplated, ‘then I can have a break too. I can’t remember anything about Morocco. I’d like to rectify that.’
‘Well, bring me back a camel or something nice.’
‘A camel?’
‘Well, what else do they have out there, aside from marijuana?’
‘Tagines. Teapots, carpets, slippers…’
‘Stop right there. A bottle of duty-free vodka will do just fine.’
Dan hung up. Stared down the street where a man in a suit was climbing out of a black cab. Could he really go to Morocco? Should he? Curiosity aside, what did he really hope to achieve? If Khatabi continued to blank him the best he could hope for was a pleasant stroll around some souks and a traditional meal at the night market. He’d already been on the internet and had found a charming-looking riad to stay in, close to the centre. He was struggling to concentrate on his work, and if he didn’t go to Morocco he’d have to be careful not to let his disappointment taint his mood.
A knock on his door snapped him out of his reverie.
‘Dan.’ It was his boss, Philip Denton. ‘How did it go in Miami?’
Dan had been advising a British client whether to invest in a hotel chain in Florida, which was going for a rock-bottom price.
‘I’m advising against it.’ He talked Philip through his reasons, which included a tip-off through a CIA contact that the Russian mob were prohibitively active in the area.
‘I can see your point,’ Philip agreed. ‘Copy me your report, please. Anything else?’
‘Yes, there is.’ When Dan started to explain, about Kaitlyn Rogers’ murder and how he knew her, Philip closed the door behind him and came and sat in one of the chairs by the window. Folded his hands in his lap and waited for Dan to join him. Although Dan knew how busy Philip was, his boss looked as though he had all the time in the world. It was a quality Dan appreciated, the ability to switch priorities at a second’s
