‘And you are?’ She bet it was Teflon Tom and inside, she cringed. Nothing like starting off on the wrong foot.
‘You first. You rang me, remember?’
So, he wanted to play that old game.
‘DC Lucy Davies,’ she sighed. ‘Okay?’
‘I’m sorry?’ The man sounded startled.
‘Lucy Davies. Detective Constable.’
Silence.
‘Hello?’
‘Lucy? As in Lucy Demi Davies?’
The skin at the back of her neck began to prickle. Nobody knew her ridiculous middle name, chosen by her mother who’d been star-struck by Demi Moore posing naked and pregnant on the cover of Vanity Fair just before she was also pregnant, with Lucy.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s me, Lucy. It’s your dad.’
19
Dan took a taxi from his riad to Commissariat Central. A twenty-minute trip which would have taken ten if a brick lorry hadn’t broken down on the Rue el Gza. It was sunny and dry, the sky a clear blue. Twenty-three degrees or so. Not too hot, not too cool. He could see why it was peak season for tourists.
Palm trees lined the road, the green a vibrant contrast against the ochre buildings. He wound down the window. Inhaled a foreign country’s scent. Dust and diesel with a hint of cinnamon maybe, but when a waft of dung sailed inside the car, he smiled ruefully. He’d probably imagined the smell of spices.
Three police vans were parked on a broad pavement outside the Commissariat when he arrived. Two cops stood outside, smoking. They watched him out of the corners of their eyes as he pushed open the swing doors into reception. Inside, it was cool. Air-conditioned. Lots of concrete and tiles. A metal double door on the right that was heavily dented from years of abuse. No chairs. No posters. A no-frills station. His footsteps echoed as he approached the desk sergeant. Her hair was scraped back tightly, her dark brown eyes made up to look huge and smoky.
‘Marhabaan,’ Dan said with a smile. Hello.
She nodded. No smile in return.
‘Do you speak English?’
A sideways nod that meant maybe, maybe not.
‘I have a meeting with Hafid Khatabi. He’s expecting me.’
Her perfectly plucked eyebrows rose into peaks. ‘And you are…?’
‘Chief Inspector Bakkar. Attached to Sûreté Nationale, Rabat.’
She frowned and to his surprise she didn’t challenge the fact that he didn’t look Moroccan, or speak the language. Nor did she ask for any ID, just picked up the phone and spoke. He hoped she would simply tell Khatabi his name and rank, and that he’d come from the capital. And not mention that he was English.
The receptionist hung up. ‘Please wait. He will be here soon.’
He kept his face perfectly neutral even though his nerves tightened. Had his ruse worked?
‘Shukraan.’ Thank you.
He’d downloaded a Moroccan phrase book at home and memorised a handful of words and phrases on his flight. Not much, but enough to be polite. He went and stood with his back to the wall. Kept his arms loose and relaxed.
A uniformed cop strode through the double doors. Flicked a look at Dan, walked outside.
The next person was Khatabi. Dan recognised him from the photograph on Kaitlyn’s wall. He was bigger than he’d expected, over six foot, with the broad chest and thick thighs of a rugby player. Dressed in an immaculate uniform, he was staring at Dan as though unable to put the face against whatever picture he’d imagined.
‘Rayiys Almufatishiin?’ Chief Inspector? His voice rumbled loud as a truck.
Dan took a step forward. Put out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’
The man didn’t move.
‘You’re English?’
‘I was on flight EG220. I saved Kaitlyn Rogers’ life. And that of her brother. Kaitlyn was murdered four days ago. Friday. I’m working with the investigative team to find her killer.’
Khatabi stared at him some more.
‘Murdered?’
‘Yes.’
Khatabi’s eyed darkened, but what with? Shock? Anger? Disbelief? Dan couldn’t tell.
‘We know you helped Kaitlyn–’
‘We?’ A look of alarm crossed the man’s face.
‘The Kensington and Chelsea Police. London.’
Khatabi gave Dan a long look as though he was committing his face to memory. Then he barked something at the receptionist who jammed her hand beneath her desk, eyes wide and riveted on Dan.
‘We know you helped Kaitlyn in her search for justice. She was incredibly grateful. But I’m concerned about the information you gave her, because…’
The door burst open and two cops arrived in a rush. Khatabi snapped out what sounded like several commands, jabbing a finger at Dan. Dan didn’t move. Not an inch. He let them take position on either side of him and grab his upper arms and wrists.
‘…whatever it was, could have got her killed.’
Khatabi came over. Put his face close to Dan’s. ‘If you come near me again, I will have you arrested. Our cells are not nice. Not like a hotel. You may suffer some… how do you say it? Accident injuries–’
‘Accidental.’
Khatabi’s lips turned white. ‘You will regret it.’ He snapped something at the two policemen. Gripping his arms hard enough to form bruises, they marched Dan outside.
‘You helped her,’ Dan called over his shoulder. ‘I need to know how. I want her killer caught and prosecuted. I’m betting you do too.’
Outside, the cops shoved Dan away from them so hard, the force almost brought him to his knees. He stumbled several times before standing tall. The cops gazed at him, stony-faced. Dan looked blandly back. He gave them a nod. They were only doing their job. He walked away.
He’d already studied the layout of Marrakech and headed south-east, aiming to return to the Medina. As he walked, he listened to the recording he’d made on his phone. Thanks to having kept his phone out of sight and in his jacket pocket, Khatabi’s words were muffled. Not that it mattered since Khatabi had probably only said things like Hit the emergency button and Get him the hell out of here, but at least he had a recording of the man’s voice for whatever it was worth.
He’d just stepped through the gates on the northern side of the ramparts when a boy, maybe ten or eleven, scampered up to Dan. Faded jeans, white T-shirt,
