On finally locating the shop after a circuitous walk through more alleyways, they discovered it closed. In the end, there was nothing to do but head back to the hotel.
Once in the room, Eleanor headed into the bathroom for a shower, emerging a little later with a towel wrapped around her. Sam, who was watching a local news channel completely devoted to the continued tensions in the city – with excitable commentary in Arabic and images of small skirmishes between police and youths wearing balaclavas – tried to respect her privacy. But when her back was turned, he couldn’t help but take in the graceful lines of her shoulder blades, the dark wet hair clinging to her back. At that moment Eleanor turned, catching him right at it. Sam smiled awkwardly, then hastily made for the bathroom to take a shower.
When they headed downstairs later, Kamal was on reception. Sam asked him if he knew the name of the restaurant where Charles Scott had dined on his last evening in Marrakesh.
‘I’d like to go,’ said Eleanor, noticing the doubt on Kamal’s face. ‘See the places he visited.’
Kamal reluctantly gave them the name of a place in the medina, but urged caution and insisted they took a cab.
It was dark as they left the hotel, a scattering of taxis and two slowly cruising police cars the only vehicles they passed.
They were dropped at Bab Laksour, an old gate north-west of the Djemma el Fna. Passing under a stone arch they moved down an ill-lit, near-empty street, the few people out walking at a pace, as if there were a curfew that Sam and Eleanor hadn’t been told of. They passed a pile of rubbish bags that had been ripped open by an animal, the smell of festering food waste filling the warm air. A door slammed shut behind them, making Sam flinch.
As his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, Sam noticed that the walls were covered with the posters he’d seen earlier, of the young woman. He looked again at the angry red message below her. The characters – a mix of simple loops, hard angles and what looked like symbols – had an ancient feel to them. Sam could easily imagine them on a cave wall, carved thousands of years ago.
At the restaurant, the atmosphere in the alleyways was banished in an instant. They were greeted warmly by a maitre d’ in a dinner jacket – a man clearly on a mission to dispel the atmosphere in the city – and led into a courtyard. Eleanor gasped at the sight before her. It was entirely lit by candles and enclosed by deep red walls. Underfoot were thick patterned carpets while the white table cloths were sprinkled with rose petals. Somewhere out of sight, possibly on the floor above, musicians were playing a haunting tune that somehow combined blues with a distinctly North African sound.
Sam guessed that most of the restaurant’s guests, although foreign, were not tourists. In the midst of rising turmoil in the city, they seemed too calm, chatting in hushed tones. Sam made out French, Dutch and German voices.
An hour or so later, after courses of pigeon bstilla and lamb tagine, washed down with a bottle of French red, Sam realised he was staring at Eleanor again, and she was staring right back at him.
‘Do you know,’ she said, as if she suddenly felt the need to break the spell, ‘this is the most relaxed I’ve felt in days. There may be riots breaking out everywhere, but I feel safe here, miles from the UK.’
When their waiter returned, they ordered tea and, inspired by the restaurant’s other guests, a shisha pipe. Before the waiter departed, Sam asked him if he remembered a dinner given for the British PM. The waiter beamed and gestured to Sam to follow him back to the passage that led into the courtyard. There, on the wall, was a series of framed photographs that neither of them had noticed when they’d arrived. In each, the cheery maitre d’ was seen shaking hands with some dignitary. Some Sam did not know – North African politicians or celebrities, he guessed – but others were instantly recognisable. There were faded photos of Chirac and Boris Yeltsin. Clearer ones of Blair, Clinton, Sarkozy and Angela Merkel. Then below, a photo of the night in question. It showed the grinning maitre d’ flanked on one side by a man who had to be the Moroccan Prime Minister, his wife and a boy, possibly aged about ten, and on the other, by Philip and Charlotte Stirling. Sam darted back into the courtyard and gestured to Eleanor to come and look.
‘Charlotte Stirling,’ said Eleanor, looking at the picture. ‘I remember her well. We used to go on holiday with them when I was a teenager. Most of the time she was drinking on the quiet, or in her room crying.’
‘I wonder who that is?’ asked Sam, pointing to the figure next to Stirling. The PM had an arm around the shoulders of another man, who was taller. There was a slight distance between the men as if, possibly, they weren’t as chummy as the gesture suggested.
‘Looks an unusually relaxed pose for a Prime Minister,’ said Eleanor. ‘Could be my father, I guess.’ She looked a little closer. ‘It’s a bit out of focus at the edge. You can only see a corner of the head. The hair looks quite long, or is that a shadow? It’s so hard to tell.’
The maitre d’ passed by as they were studying the photo.
‘Ah,’ he gushed. ‘Prime Minister Stirling. A charming man. And the beautiful Mrs Stirling.’
Sam realised that they had little hope of gaining any objective information from him.
‘Can you remember who else was here that evening?’ he ventured.
The maitre d’ shrugged his shoulders, sweeping an arm across the gallery of photos.
They returned to the table for their tea and pipe. Eleanor was the first to take a hit, the smoke drawn through water from a small bowl in which coals gently glowed. She exhaled, the air around their table suddenly dense with fruity smoke. She passed the pipe to Sam, who drew on it. The smoke was cool, soothing. He could feel his head lighten.
In the cab back to the hotel, Eleanor sat close, her knee touching Sam’s. She did not remove it for the duration of the journey, leaving Sam with the sensation of a small electric current flowing upwards from his leg.
In the hotel reception, a group of guests had gathered round a widescreen television. There seemed to be some heated discussion. Sam and Eleanor approached and saw, over someone’s shoulder, a man in a suit on the television giving a stilted address. Below him, Arabic words ran along the bottom of the screen.
‘What’s happening?’ Eleanor asked a woman next to her.
The woman, who was wearing a hijab and a smart tailored suit, turned to Eleanor with a grim look on her face. ‘The man on the television is a government official,’ she said. ‘He is asking everyone to stay at home tomorrow. A lot of people are coming to march, people from outside the city. It will not end well.’
Chapter 44
Marrakesh, Morocco
Traffic in the district around the Sofitel was virtually non-existent. Clad in flak jackets, helmets and protective visors, riot police were out in force, groups of them standing at regular intervals along the avenues Sam and Eleanor’s cab passed down. Their belts were heavy with crowd controlling gear – truncheons and canisters of what Sam guessed was tear gas. Others wore machine guns slung over their shoulders. Barricades had been erected to keep the crowds contained.
Down one side street Sam noticed a convoy of armoured vehicles, water cannons mounted on the drivers’ compartments. He heard the buzz of a helicopter and looked up to see one hovering overhead. The State was watching and waiting, preparing to react with force if the day’s march got out of control.
The cab driver dropped them before the Djemma el Fna, pointing ahead to explain why he was not going any further. At the edge of Place Foucauld, the tips of palm trees were just visible above a street-level cloud of dust and diesel fumes. Dozens of old coaches, their battered and dirty state suggesting they’d come some distance, were disgorging hundreds of passengers.
Sam and Eleanor paid up and got out of the cab, pausing for a moment to take in the scene before them. It was as if the clock had been turned back and the modern Morocco of broad avenues, sleek cars and men dressed in business suits had been forgotten. The crowd that had assembled were dressed in altogether
more timeless garb: turbans and djellaba for the men, ornate, highly coloured kaftans heavy with jewellery for the women.
For now, there was a calm atmosphere, families and small groups sharing picnic breakfasts on the pavement. But Sam sensed that a protest this size, if pushed, could easily turn.
Eleanor consulted their street map, aware that approaching the souk through the Djemma el Fna was going to be impossible. She pointed out a route to Sam and they turned and headed south west, before cutting into the medina via a broad street.
After a few wrong turns, they were winding their way down a familiar alley towards the antique shop. Every door was closed and window shuttered. Down one side alley they saw a small boy kicking a football around, but within seconds he was scooped up by his father and pulled inside.
Unsurprisingly, the shop was closed, a wall of steel shutter drawn down. Sam pounded in frustration on the metal. Given what they’d seen so far in the city, he knew it was fruitless. Hadad had locked up, and probably left the city.
‘Shit,’ said Sam. Through small gaps in the metal shutters, they could see inside the shop. It was like an Aladdin’s cave, clearly supplying a great deal more than just antiques. Walls were stacked with carved screens or hung with kilims, shelves piled high with clothing and scarves.
Sam hammered one more time on the shutters, more in frustration than with any hope that it would result in Hadad’s miraculous arrival. He turned to see Eleanor shaking her head.
But just as they were turning away, they heard the sound of a lock turning. From inside the shop, an angry voice shouted out in Arabic.
Sam and Eleanor rushed back to the shutters. Inside, standing by an open door but with the metal shutters still firmly closed, was a rotund man with a moustache and small round spectacles.
‘Mr Hadad,’ said Sam. ‘We urgently need to talk to you.’
‘Who are you?’
‘My father came here about two weeks ago with the British Prime Minister,’ said Eleanor.
From behind the shutters a clearly irritated Marcel Hadad was struggling to make sense of what they wanted.
‘It’s complicated, Mr Hadad,’ said Eleanor. She sighed. ‘My father killed himself. And I am trying to piece together his last weeks, find out why he did what he did.’
Sam watched Hadad. He was looking at Eleanor, weighing up this strange piece of candour – and how it might relate to him.
But then, from inside the shop, they could hear another lock being turned and a moment later, the shutters were flung upwards. Hadad gestured for them to step inside. Now the full glory of the shop was revealed. Inlaid cabinets, tables and chairs, intricately patterned metal lanterns, a corridor narrowed by roll upon roll of rugs. Elsewhere, a wall dominated by a display of silver bracelets and necklaces, another with daggers and knives. The air was thick with the smell of cedarwood, metal and mothballs.
‘I am sorry to hear about your father,’ said Hadad. ‘What was his name? We had a lot of visitors while Mr Stirling was here in Marrakesh.’
‘Charles Scott,’ said Eleanor.
‘I remember him,’ said Hadad. ‘He seemed a good man. I am so sorry for your loss.’
He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘You will have to forgive me though. I still do not understand how I can help.’
‘It’s a really simple request,’ said Eleanor. ‘Can you tell me what happened at your shop?’
Hadad scratched his head. ‘The Minister for Tourism called to ask if he could bring the British Prime Minister to my shop. Naturally I said yes. They arrived some time in the afternoon – I can find the exact date if you wish – a whole group of them. They browsed the shop for an hour or so. We had tea. Then your father arrived with another man, a Moroccan.’
‘What was the atmosphere like?’
Hadad gave them another puzzled look. ‘It was good. Your father and Stirling seemed to be friends. They were both in good spirits, almost as if they were celebrating.’
‘And did they buy anything?’ Sam asked. It was hardly likely to shed any light on matters, but in the absence of any other questions, Sam thought it worth asking
This prompted the most incredulous look so far. ‘Do you really think I would allow people to leave my shop after such a long period empty-handed? They bought – or tried to buy – a long list of items.’
‘“Tried to buy”?’ asked Sam.
‘The Minister for Tourism insisted on purchasing them. He said it was a gift from the State.’
‘And can you remember what was bought?’
Hadad moved to a till in the middle of the shop, behind a pale marble fountain.
‘I keep my receipts under here. It should not be hard to find.’ He pulled a lever-arched file from some shelves beneath the till, gesturing for Sam and Eleanor to sit at a large table inlaid with small pieces of paler wood and mother-of-pearl.
Hadad took off his glasses, gave them a rub on his shirt and then placed them back on. He started leafing through the file.
‘Here we are,’ he said finally. He sucked his teeth. ‘It was a good afternoon. Your father and the Prime Minister left with many things. Scarves, wooden boxes, tilework like this,’ Hadad gestured to a set of tiles decorated with a star motif that was mounted on a small easel above the till, ‘a watercolour of the medina by an English Victorian painter.’
At that moment a gang of men ran down the street, chanting angrily. Hadad looked up nervously.
‘Mr Hadad,’ said Sam. ‘Is there any way we can take a copy of the list with us? I’m sure you’re keen to shut up your shop.’
‘Take this,’ said Hadad, handing them the piece of paper.
At the doorway, Hadad looked anxiously up and down the alley. He then shook their hands. ‘Miss Scott. I hope I have been of some assistance. Now, if you’ll forgive me.’
*
The cab driver took them a circuitous route round the city, apologising, in bad English, for the long journey.
‘Many street closed,’ he said.
In the back, Sam and Eleanor sat together, poring over the receipt Hadad had given them. There was a great deal more than he had mentioned: pieces of jewellery, ceramics, a knotted carpet, something called a koumyya, several sets of necklaces, kaftans, a chess set.
Sam felt Eleanor’s hand reach for his and a warm memory flooded his mind. He turned and smiled at her. That morning, mindful of the rising tensions in the city, they’d got up in a hurry and rushed to Hadad’s shop. There had been no chance to acknowledge what had been evident to both of them in the restaurant – the slow build of sexual tension – before the woman’s comments in the hotel foyer had acted like a bucket of cold water. They had shared the bed again, but only to cling to each other as cold fear took a hold.
‘You OK?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. She smiled, squeezing his hand.
The cab had stopped at some red lights. By the side of the road, an old man, seemingly immune to the rising hysteria in the city, ambled across their path leading a tired-looking donkey. Sam watched him pass before his eye was caught by a poster plastered to the side of a building. It was another image of the girl. The same angry red writing beneath.
He leaned forward to catch the driver’s attention. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I keep seeing these pictures everywhere.’ He gestured to the poster. ‘Who is she?’
The driver turned, the dark look on his face suggesting to Sam that he’d made a terrible mistake. But then he seemed to soften, as if he knew Sam could not be blamed for his ignorance.
‘She is Lalla, a Berber girl from the Atlas Mountains. She was killed about three week before. The police say a Berber man kill her. But her family do not believe this. Now it is big mess.’
The lights turned green and the cab sped off, with an impatient and noisy surge of acceleration.
‘I think the police are right,’ continued the cabbie. ‘A man from her village kill her. Her lover. But these people cannot see this. They just shout: “Just
ice for Lalla! Justice for Berbers!” Pah!’ This was accompanied by a dismissive wave of his hand.
‘Where did this killing happen?’ asked Sam, feeling a knot tighten in his stomach.
Just then one of the few other vehicles on the road, a dusty looking estate car crammed with sullen men, swerved across their path. The cabbie slammed on his brake and horn, shouting obscenities in the car’s direction.
‘The girl was killed in the medina,’ the man said. ‘Souk Sebbaghine’.
‘Souk Sebbaghine,’ repeated Sam, almost to himself.
The driver’s eyes shot Sam a look from the rearview mirror, one that seemed to convey impatience. ‘Sebbaghine, the dyers’ souk,’ said the man, with irritation. This was clearly hardly the point. He slammed the dashboard in anger. ‘It is terrible thing for Marrakesh. Terrible thing for Morocco.’
But Sam wasn’t listening any more. The hairs on the back of his neck had gone up.
‘Your hand has gone cold and clammy, Sam,’ said Eleanor. ‘What is it?’
But her voice suggested that she already knew what he was thinking.
The cab came to a sudden halt. They had rounded a corner and come face to face with a wall of people moving across the junction in front of them. The driver pounded the steering wheel with the palm of his hand and barked more angry words. He then turned to Sam and Eleanor.
‘No good,’ he said. ‘You must walk.’
Sam paid the cabbie and they stepped into the street. The noise of the crowds, audible from inside the cab, was deafening outside, a wave of voices chanting in unison. The protest was moving like a huge animal, its leisurely pace at odds with the heightened emotions on display. Clutching placards all featuring the girl’s image and the same red message, they punched the air with their fists, faces filled with a mixture of anger, sadness and fear. One of their own had been killed. And this seemed to have spoken to them at a deep level.
Sam watched the crowd slowly edge by. He looked at the street they were moving down, and the direction they’d come from. Both were jammed with people. There were, he guessed, thousands out protesting. Despite the show of Moroccan State force Sam and Eleanor had seen earlier, this was a group who would not give up easily. A confrontation was all but inevitable.
Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1) Page 15
