Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1) (15 page)

Chapter 40

Marrakesh, Morocco 

Gripping Eleanor’s hand, Sam shot left down an alleyway between two shops until they came to a low arch to their side. He looked back. His instinct had been right. The man was now running too. Sam pulled Eleanor under the arch and into darkness.

   They moved rapidly down the narrow alleyway towards a source of light at the end, the cobbles of the souk now replaced by dusty, impacted earth.

   At the end of the alleyway, Sam didn’t stop to think, darting right and then left past gaudy displays of decorated slippers, hoping to God they’d lose the man simply by getting lost themselves.

   They ran between crumbling red buildings that leaned towards each other across the street. Strung between the houses, washing lines heavy with clothes compounded the sensation that they were in a tunnel. Sam felt his throat tighten, as if a noose were being pulled taut.

   They dashed towards another darkened alleyway only to halt in their tracks as a moped emerged out of the shadows, the young male rider skidding in front of them and firing off expletives as he sought to right his bike. They dodged past him into the gloom but then, as they reached light, they came face to face with a plastic barrier emblazoned with a message in both Arabic and French. The latter’s meaning was unmistakeable: ‘Police – Défense d’entrer.

   ‘Shit,’ said Sam.

   He turned. They seemed to have lost their tail – for now. The wound Sam had sustained in the lake had begun to pulse with pain, as if his body were reminding him where all this activity inevitably led. But there was no time to contemplate other courses of action.

   Sam guided Eleanor back up the dark alley and took the first left. The route was wider and Sam breathed again, sensing that this would take them to a more open, populated area. The alley wound to the left slightly and Sam saw, with enormous relief, a semblance of activity ahead. A barber’s shop – the internationally recognisable red-and-white pole hanging outside – and a small workshop. As they passed, the dark interior was momentarily illuminated by sparks. A man holding a welding torch turned to watch them.

   But just ahead was the thing Sam had most dreaded. Another police sign stopping them in their tracks.

   He turned in exasperation – and froze. There, just metres away, was the man in the black leather jacket. He was slowly approaching them, his face stripped of emotion. Eleanor had turned now and flinched.

   They had a choice. Leap the barrier and hope to run into a sympathetic policeman, or try and find refuge in one of the shops they’d passed.

   Sam didn’t stop to think long. He grabbed Eleanor’s arm and made for the barber’s shop. As they burst in, the barber, who’d been sitting reading a newspaper, leapt up. But no sooner had he registered their presence and they were running through a beaded curtain for the back door. Up ahead, past shelves packed tightly with cardboard boxes, was a closed door. Sam turned to see that the man in the leather jacket had entered the shop behind them. The barber was barking something at him in Arabic. The man said nothing in response.

   They reached the door. Sam tried the handle. It was locked. He began to push his shoulder against it. But it was jammed tight. He took a small run and charged at the door. With a splinter of wood, it gave way and they ran into daylight – and a cramped and high-walled backyard.  

Chapter 41

Marrakesh, Morocco 

Cornered in the backyard of the barber’s shop, Sam felt two overwhelming sensations in quick succession.

   The first was the all-too-familiar feeling of claustrophobia. He’d just about held it together in the warren-like alleys of the souk. Now, as the walls closed in on him, Sam felt as if he were being choked. But then he saw the man approach and knew that protecting Eleanor was the priority. He felt his body flood with adrenaline. But as he tensed, preparing for confrontation, Sam noticed his pursuer’s now contradictory signals. His palms were raised and when he spoke, it was with an unthreatening voice.

   ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I mean no harm. I am here to protect Miss Scott.’

   At this, Sam’s aggression cooled a fraction.

   ‘How do you know her name?’ he uttered, between rapid breaths.

   ‘I will explain,’ said the man, ‘but first let us go somewhere a little calmer.’

   Sam turned to Eleanor. She nodded.

   The man spoke to the irate barber, handing him a wad of notes, then gestured for Sam and Eleanor to follow him back through the maze of alleyways.

   They walked, Sam still uneasy about their companion but convinced that, had he meant them harm, he would already have caused it.

   At a certain stage, as if they had crossed an invisible line in the medina, Sam became aware of posters stuck on walls and doorways, all depicting the same image – a pretty young woman – and some words in a language he didn’t recognise, daubed in red.

   A moment later they walked through an ornate carved doorway, down a corridor of heavily patterned tilework, then turned into a courtyard open to the sky. Around them were sand-coloured walls and orange trees in large terracotta pots. Empty tables were ranged around a small marble fountain in which water gently burbled. Somewhere in the courtyard a bird was singing. Save a handful of waiters standing idle, they were alone with the man. 

   He signalled to a waiter then sat in silence, as if there were no point in attempting to explain anything until his order arrived.

   Minutes later, the waiter returned carrying a tray loaded with a stainless steel teapot and three engraved glass beakers filled with mint leaves. He placed the tray down on a neighbouring table then, with a slight flourish, poured the tea from on high. The beakers were then placed in front of them, sending a calming cloud of minty steam into the air.    Sam took a sip. The tea was laced with sugar.

   The man introduced himself as Kamal. He had short dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He was, he said, the deputy manager of the Sofitel and, as such, he’d known Charles Scott from what he described as the Minister’s ‘frequent trips to Marrakesh’.

   ‘The day I heard that your father had died,’ said Kamal, his English, though spoken in a heavy French accent, flawless, ‘I was so sorry.’ His head dipped in a small bow.

   ‘Thank you,’ said Eleanor, clearly touched.

   ‘When I saw your name on the hotel’s computer, I wondered whether it might be my friend’s daughter. Then I saw you, and I was sure. You have the same eyes – and the same kind face.’

  Eleanor’s eyes welled.

  ‘I was going to introduce myself,’ continued Kamal, ‘but our paths had not yet crossed. But then, when I came to the hotel this morning, I heard that you were heading out and, given the atmosphere in the city, I wanted to ensure you and your friend came to no harm. So I followed you at a discreet distance.’ He smiled. ‘Clearly I have something to learn about surveillance. I think you saw me several times and all I ended up achieving was scaring you. For this, I apologise.’

   Eleanor thanked Kamal for his kind words – and for his chivalrous attempt at protecting her.

   ‘Kamal,’ she then said, her voice a little hesitant. Sam could see that this sudden opportunity to talk to someone who, like him, had been with her father in his last few days, had taken Eleanor aback. But, resolute as ever, she was not going to miss it. ‘Could you tell me everything you remember about my father’s last stay in Marrakesh?’

   Kamal nodded, clearly happy, after his botched attempt at protection, to help Eleanor any way he could. He then described how, one afternoon, the Minister had returned to the hotel and he and Kamal had got talking over tea. Scott had said that his visits seemed to be dominated by meetings and while these were very fruitful – he did not go into any detail about their content – he still knew little of the city. It was his last day – there was to be a dinner that evening with senior members of both the British and Moroccan delegations – and tomorrow they were all heading back to the UK.

   Kamal offered to take the afternoon off and show him a little of Marrakesh. Scott seemed delighted. The next few hours were his last opportunity to see the city and he accepted gladly.

   ‘Your father was an enormously knowledgeable man,’ Kamal said. ‘His understanding of Morocco’s history and culture was exemplary.’

   They visited the Kotoubia Mosque, Scott apparently bowled over by the building’s simplicity and the feeling of peace.

   ‘Your father,’ Kamal continued, ‘said that people in the West often chose to ignore the connections between religions and focus only on the differences. He talked about how Jesus Christ and John the Baptist are prophets in our faith and, more surprisingly, how the design of the mosque’s minaret had influenced many church towers in Spain and Eastern Europe. I didn’t know this myself.’

   They then wandered the souks, visiting the different markets. A little later, Scott asked if he might visit a good antique shop so that he could buy some presents.

   Kamal led him to a street south of the Djemma el Fna and to a shop run by a man called Marcel Hadad, a famous antique dealer in the city. But as they neared it, Kamal realised it was already hosting some illustrious visitors. Two men, clearly some kind of Moroccan security, stood outside scanning the streets. As Kamal and Scott neared the door, the men tried to bar their entrance. But then Scott heard a voice from inside.

   ‘It was the voice of an Englishman,’ said Kamal. ‘He was calling your father by his first name.’

   Sam and Eleanor exchanged puzzled looks.

   Kamal looked in the open doorway, where by now the men outside had relaxed, knowing that Scott was acquainted with the people inside. Kamal instantly recognised the owner of the voice. It was Philip Stirling, the Prime Minister.

   ‘I knew your Prime Minister was in Marrakesh for talks,’ said Kamal. ‘We’d seen him on television. But I never dreamed I’d meet him.’

   Stirling, who was enjoying his own tour of the medina – his care of the Moroccan Minister for Tourism – beckoned Scott in. Scott introduced Kamal to Stirling, which made Kamal’s day, thanked him for the tour and Kamal returned to the Sofitel.

   ‘Did you see him again?’

   Kamal looked down. When his face rose again it was sombre.

   ‘I was not on reception that evening when your father left for his dinner engagement. I believe he was joining Mr Stirling and our Prime Minister at a restaurant here in the medina. The next time I saw him was the following morning, when he checked out.’

   Sam wondered why Kamal suddenly seemed so serious. He was looking Eleanor in the eye now, as if he felt the need to express maximum sincerity. ‘Your father was no longer the man I knew. He was – how can I describe it? – grey. Like a ghost. I wished him bon voyage but all he could manage in response was a weak smile.’

   Sam watched Eleanor’s face, wondering how she was taking this story. Something dreadful had clearly happened to Scott between leaving Kamal at the antiques shop and the following morning.

   Kamal glanced at his watch. ‘I should get back to the hotel.’

   He stood, dipping his head again in Eleanor’s direction. ‘I am so sorry for your loss, Miss Scott. And I am sorry if I have added to your sadness with my story.’

   Eleanor stood, taking Kamal’s hand in her own. ‘Not at all, Kamal,’ she said. ‘It’s been comforting to know how fondly you remember him.’

   And with that, Kamal was gone.

   ‘You OK?’ Sam asked.

   Eleanor had sat down, clearly a little shell-shocked. ‘These new glimpses of my Dad slightly freak me out. But yes, I’m fine. I want to find out what happened that night.’

   ‘I reckon our next move is to retrace your father’s footsteps as best we can,’ said Sam, sensing that support, not sympathy, was what was required. ‘At some point in the hours between when he left Kamal and when he saw him the next morning, we’ll find the event that unlocks this whole business.’

   Eleanor nodded. Then she looked up, right into Sam’s eyes.

   ‘How about you?’ she asked.

   ‘I’m OK,’ he said, unnerved by the penetrating stare.

   ‘You didn’t look that great in the barber’s shop.’

   ‘Just a bit out of shape,’ Sam said with a shrug. ‘And shit-scared.’

   ‘Something else was happening,’ Eleanor said. ‘I saw that look on your face as you were about to get in the lift at the hospital. Ashen white. Chest rising and falling too quickly. You’re claustrophobic, aren’t you?’

   Sam felt his body break into a cold sweat as a wall he’d carefully constructed in his head came tumbling down. He was completely unused to such direct questioning. Even his Jungian psychoanalyst, who could on occasion directly challenge, would never have been so blunt. But there was something about their situation – so far from the safe and, out here, somehow irrelevant, boundaries of therapeutic practice – that made him want to answer.

   ‘When I get extremely stressed and anxious – and these past few days have given plenty of opportunity for that – and I find myself in a confined space, the claustrophobia can be quite pronounced.’

   Eleanor placed her hands on the white tablecloth. ‘What’s that about?’

   Her approach was so different to the delicate therapeutic dances around pain he often found himself engaging in. She was attacking the issue with a lance – and Sam realised he didn’t want her to stop.

   ‘Without going into too much detail – it’s probably not wise right now; you don’t want me descending into self-pity – small spaces tend to remind me of a rather unhappy period of my life.’

   ‘I don’t understand.’

   ‘My mother,’ he said, the two words catching in his throat, ‘was a rather complex person.’ He let out a short, mirthless laugh, aware of other, less generous phrases he’d used in the past to describe the woman. ‘Her approach to parenting was a mix of harsh discipline and cold detachment.’ Sam could hardly believe he was revealing this information – and so easily. ‘The claustrophobia stems from when I was a toddler. I spent a great deal of it locked in a cupboard under the stairs. It was one of my mother’s favourite punishments.’

   He shook his head, attempted a smile, as if to say, ‘it’s nothing’. The throwaway description of those moments was, Sam knew, quite at odds with the intensity of his experience at the time; the knowledge, even at a very young age, that his mother’s only feelings for him were, at best, displeasure and indifference, at worst, intense anger.

   But Sam was also aware that while those early experiences had been hugely damaging to him, they paled when compared with her other legacy, a fear that had surfaced towards the end of his psychoanalysis. He’d ignored it then, but as with any part of a person’s subconscious, it had a habit of returning – in his case, as part of the recurring nightmare that would wrench him from sleep into wakefulness, leaving him drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. There was, he knew, only so long that he could continue to disregard such a significant part of his emotional DNA.

   Eleanor placed a hand over both of Sam’s, which had knotted together. ‘I’m sorry I pried. That was clumsy of me.’

   Sam felt a strange sensation come over him, one he had never felt with Kate. He wasn’t sure whether it was the circumstances he and Eleanor were in – their relationship being baptised in such a fiery way – but he realised that he trusted her. And the fact that he trusted anyone was a completely novel sensation.