Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1)

by Paddy Magrane

  By Sam’s reckoning the crowd was heading towards the hotel district – the very area they needed to get to. Despite the prospect of being hemmed in – and the very thought made his throat constrict – Sam knew they had no choice. They would have to join the protest, at least for a while, until they found another route to their hotel. Sam hoped the police he’d seen earlier allowed them through the barricades.

  ‘We have to join the crowd,’ said Sam. ‘It’s the only way we can get back to the hotel.’

  ‘Couldn’t we wait until later?’ said Eleanor, her voice hesitant.

  ‘I don’t want to be out on the streets later,’ said Sam.

  Eleanor paused, weighing up what he’d said, then nodded in agreement.

  They entered the crowd, Sam gripping Eleanor’s hand tightly.

  As he attempted to lead her through the dense mass of people, the thoughts layered themselves over each other with increasing weight. Was this the secret that Charles Scott had been referring to in that second session? And if so, what was his involvement?

  Before long, his thinking was drowned out by a roar that seemed to reverberate, not just in his ears, but throughout his body. The people on the streets had generated a fierce collective energy, as if the march itself were a simmering beast.

  The protestors that they moved past, who were dressed, like the crowds at Place Foucauld, in traditional Berber clothes, paid the Europeans in their midst little attention. Still holding Eleanor’s hand tightly, Sam moved past a group of women screaming their lungs out; a couple, the man’s arm protectively around the shoulder of his young wife, a red headscarf over her dark eyes; an old man in a turban walking with a stick. But while Sam and Eleanor’s presence was barely noted, their progress was seriously impeded by the sheer density of the crowd.

  Marchers had spread right across the street, meaning that crossing the protest – effectively moving against the flow – was going to take some time. For now, the only option possible was to slowly edge sideways, hoping that, when they got to the other side, an opportunity to escape would eventually present itself.

  Chapter 45

  Marrakesh, Morocco

  Several metres behind them, a broad, unshaven man was making slightly better progress as he kept Eleanor and Sam firmly in his sights. Not afraid to push his way through the crowds, he was slowly gaining on them.

  He moved diagonally across the protestors, angry chants ringing in his ears. Slipping his right hand inside his jacket, he felt for the hard rubber of the knife’s handle. The blade beneath was razor sharp, with a thin point that he could, with little effort, slide into the backs of both his victims, moving from the girl to the man within seconds.

  He’d followed them from their hotel that morning, waiting for a discreet place to act. This was perfect. Two foolish Europeans caught up in the fervour of the day, stabbed by a petty criminal. He’d simply slip away, evaporating into the march.

  The crowd around him felt like a river, one with currents that could easily pull him off-course. Like the group of older men that had now moved to block his diagonal path. He slowed, allowing them to move forward, before cutting across the direction of the marchers. He looked up, then cursed under his breath. His targets had disappeared. But they couldn’t have been more than a few metres away.

  He pushed on, stepping on a man’s foot. The man turned to swear at him and he apologised profusely. In any other situation he’d have taken him on, shown him in no uncertain terms what he thought of such disrespect. But today he had an overriding agenda. His hand tightened around the knife’s handle.

  There they were again. The woman’s hair gave their position away. Hers was one of the few female heads that wasn’t covered – thick hair, cut in a Western style.

  He pressed on, edging closer. How odd, he thought, that it was taking so long to reach them, when the final moment would be a matter of seconds.

  He was now little under a metre from the girl. It was a shame. From what he could see of her, she had a nice body. He pulled the knife from his jacket, lowering the blade so that it pointed to the ground, ready to be lifted up and quickly plunged into her lower back.

  He was now inches from her. He began to raise the knife, drawing back his hand ready to press the blade forward.

  It was then that he felt his wrist being gripped hard by a hand. Another grabbed his other arm, wrenching it, in one swift and very painful move, behind his back. The hand holding the blade was being twisted and he felt the knife slip from his fingers to the ground. He struggled against those holding him, but this only increased the angle his arm was pushed up his back. He tried one last time to pull free, then felt the impact of a blunt-ended object to the back of his head – and everything go black.

  Chapter 46

  Marrakesh, Morocco

  Out of the corner of his eye, Sam had noticed a brief commotion behind him. A man appeared to have been dragged backwards. Sam turned only to see him consumed by the advancing crowds.

  He could feel his throat tighten again. The idea of thousands of people pressing in on him would, combined with the right level of anxiety, give him a huge panic attack. He had to concentrate. It was down to him to get them both out of here.

  They were now about two-thirds of the way across the march, the side of the street – the pavements sealed off with barricades – now visible. Two policemen stood scanning the crowds from behind their visors.

  Sam guessed that the march was heading down the city’s main artery towards the Ville Nouvelle. Ahead he could see the minaret of the Koutoubia Mosque, its pinky red stone soaring above the heads and placards of the crowd. If they could just peel off and get through the barricades, it was a short walk west to the Sofitel and safety – at least for now.

  Just then, above the din of the protestors, they heard the amplified voice of a man. The crowd was being addressed. A moment later, Sam saw the source of the noise, a police officer standing on the roof of an armoured vehicle clutching a megaphone to his mouth. Neither of them understood a word of what the man was saying but the sentiment of the message was obvious. They were all being warned.

  They were now feet from the barricade and Sam made a last push for the pavement. But no sooner had they reached it when a policeman arrived at the spot and started barking at them.

  Behind Sam and Eleanor, crowds were jostling their backs, threatening to pull them back into the flow of the march.

  Eleanor began pleading. The policeman could clearly understand the substance of her words, even if he was standing firm. But then another officer came over, cupped his hand to his colleague’s ear, and muttered something. A second later, the barricade was disengaged and pulled open like a gate, and Sam and Eleanor were free.

  As they walked away, Sam looked back. The barricade was back in place, and the police had maintained their vigilant scrutiny of the marchers. All, that is, except the officer who’d intervened, who was watching them as they walked away.

  *

  ‘You think he –’

  ‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Sam, cutting her off.

  Eleanor’s eyes were blazing, her face flushed and covered in a film of sweat.

  They were both fired up – struggling to calm down after the turmoil of the march, and with the implications of a new and poisonous knowledge.

  ‘I knew what you were thinking as soon as the cab driver started talking about that girl,’ she said, her voice raised. And with that, she collapsed on to the bed, her head in her hands.

  Sam remained standing. ‘Eleanor,’ he said, his voice more soothing. ‘We don’t even know the murder occurred the evening of their dinner.’

  Even though their window was closed, they could hear the protestors. A muffled noise that still conveyed the anger of thousands of people. Sam could scarcely believe that all of it stemmed from a single act. He moved to the closed windows, as if drawn to the crowds they’d so recently escaped.

  ‘I need to know, one way or another,’ said Eleanor. Sh
e paused. ‘What did my father say in his notes about what he’d done?’

  ‘Something terrible; something that haunted him day and night,’ Sam reluctantly replied.

  ‘Oh God.’

  Sam was standing at the closed window staring out at the rooftops of the city. From here you might have imagined the place was peaceful. But then another chant went up.

  He turned to Eleanor, who was still sitting on the bed, a finger to her mouth as she bit furiously at its tip.

  ‘We need to speak to Kamal.’

  .

  Chapter 47

  Marrakesh, Morocco

  Sam called reception, asking if Kamal was available. He was told that the deputy manager would be up in a matter of minutes. Sam was surprised that he was able to drop everything – particularly on a day like this – to see them.

  Sitting on the bed waiting for him to arrive, they discussed what to reveal if Kamal asked. In the end, they decided that the entire truth was needed. It was simply too complicated – and, by now, too pointless – to edit. They would give him the facts, from the moment Charles Scott first walked into Sam’s house.

  Kamal arrived and sat at the desk. Sam thanked him for coming so quickly and then came straight out with the question that had been sitting in the room between them, poisoning the air like some malevolent spirit.

  ‘Kamal,’ Sam said, ‘when did Lalla’s murder happen?’

  Kamal gave them a puzzled look. ‘Why do you need to know this?’

  ‘We will explain but please, if you can...’

  Kamal looked down, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to talk about.

  ‘The media is moderately free here,’ he said, ‘but journalism that is perceived to be challenging certain areas – the monarchy or Islam, for example – is not permitted. This kind of censorship is sometimes true of sensitive news. So it took a little time for the truth to come out. People only began talking about it some days after it had happened. What I began to hear was that a young Berber girl had been stabbed on the 9th September. The date has now taken on a mythical status. Berbers in the city refer to it as their day of awakening.’

  ‘And can you tell us when my father stayed here?’ asked Eleanor, her voice laden with dread.

  ‘It will take me a moment,’ said Kamal. He reached for the phone on the desk behind him and called reception. He spoke some words of Arabic and then waited as the person at the other end searched for the information. A moment later, he said ‘shokran’ and put the phone down. His face had paled.

  ‘Your father last stayed here between the 8th and 10th September. His dinner in the medina was on the last night – the 9th.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Eleanor buried her head in her hands again. Sam heard her wail softly. He pulled her into him, feeling her trembling body against his.

  ‘Please,’ said Kamal, ‘I don’t understand.’

  With Eleanor still clasped close to him, Sam began to explain. It took him about half-an-hour to tell the story fully, during which time the deputy manager’s eyes slowly widened in shock.

  Once the story was complete, the three of them sat in silence for a minute or so. Eleanor had calmed and was now looking at Kamal expectantly, as if hoping he might be able to make this whole thing go away.

  ‘So,’ said Kamal finally, ‘this is why you were so determined to visit the medina and the antique shop.’

  ‘We had to try and piece things together,’ said Eleanor. Her eyes were red and her cheeks streaked with tears.

  Kamal shook his head. ‘I cannot accept that your father would do this,’ he said. ‘I do not claim to know him as well as you, Miss Scott, but the man I became acquainted with was cultured and civilised. The murder that took place in the medina was brutal and inhuman.’

  ‘Kamal,’ said Sam, jumping in to spare Eleanor a chance to dwell on Kamal’s last words. ‘To prove, beyond any doubt, that Charles Scott did not kill that girl, we need to find out as much about what happened as possible.’

  Kamal looked reluctant to speak again.

  ‘Please,’ said Eleanor, ‘don’t worry about me. I’m beyond shocking now.’

  Kamal took a deep breath and began. ‘It happened in a place called Souk Sebbaghine. It’s where wool and skins are dyed and hung out to dry.’

  Sam remembered the cab driver’s words, but these were then eclipsed by what Kamal said next.

  ‘The girl was stabbed with a koumyya.’

  At the sound of this last word, Sam felt his body break out in a cold sweat.

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘A koumyya,’ said Kamal. ‘It’s a traditional dagger.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Kamal.

  Sam stood to root in his pockets for the receipt that Marcel Hadad had given them. Retrieving it, he then spread the page out on the desk before Kamal.

  ‘One of the items Philip Stirling and Eleanor’s father left Marcel Hadad’s shop with was a koumyya,’ he said.

  Kamal looked at the list and then the three of them sat in silence. If, thought Sam, the point of their conversation with Kamal had been to build a case for Charles Scott’s innocence, they were doing a bloody bad job.

  ‘OK,’ said Sam. ‘We don’t yet know what that proves, if anything. Please finish what you were saying, Kamal.’

  Kamal began hesitantly, as if aware that, with every word, he was making things worse for Eleanor.

  ‘The conclusion the police came to,’ he said, ‘was that this was a crime of passion committed by another Berber, the girl’s lover.’ He paused, clearly choosing his next words carefully. ‘The Berbers are now very angry. They are angry because one of their own has been murdered – and because of the way this case has been handled. They do not believe this man – who was to marry Lalla – did this. I think they are also angry because they are poor, on the fringes of society, struggling to keep their language and culture alive. I believe this terrible business has convinced them that modern Morocco no longer cares.’

  Sam had the distinct impression that Kamal was struggling to maintain a measured, calm appearance.

  Just then, another wave of chanting went up.

  ‘Justice for Lalla. Justice for Berbers,’ said Sam softly, now acutely aware of the words’ significance.

  ‘I fear this will be a bad day,’ said Kamal. ‘We’ve seen protests before in Morocco, but nothing on this scale. If they step out of line, there will be bloodshed.’

  A horrible image appeared in Sam’s head. Hundreds – possibly thousands – of bodies lying in the street.

  ‘We need to tell the authorities,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘Tell them what?’ said Sam, seeing the sudden look of purpose on her face.

  ‘That my father may have killed the girl.’

  Sam had seen this kind of anger before. Countless clients who had struggled to come to terms with a childhood experience of neglectful or abusive parenting and who, after finally acknowledging what had happened, moved into a period of rage. Eleanor was mad with her father for leaving her – and this was merely another reason to reject the man who had, she believed, rejected her.

  Eleanor was on a roll, the words spilling out of her with indignation. ‘We cannot stand by knowing that thousands of people are potentially putting themselves in harm’s way when the truth might protect them. If Kamal’s prediction of violence is true – and everything we’ve seen in the streets suggests that the State is ready to act with force – we will have corpses on our conscience. We have to act to protect those people. We have to tell the authorities.’

  ‘But we don’t know all the facts,’ said Sam. He was now pleading with her, desperately trying to prevent her going down a path that might destroy a once-cherished figure in her mind. ‘We can’t be sure the knife was in your father’s possession. Besides, remember the other phrase he used during therapy – that something had happened and he’d done nothing to stop it. If anything, that suggests a bystander, not a perpetr
ator.’

  ‘Even if we don’t know the complete truth,’ said Eleanor, ‘we must tell them.’

  ‘You need to be careful, Eleanor.’ Sam’s voice was frantic.

  ‘Time could be running out for those people, Sam,’ she said. She paused, seeing the look on his face. ‘You’re worried about me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ he said. He was suddenly aware that Kamal was scrutinising them both with great interest. Sam sat down by Eleanor again, gripping her shoulders with his hands. He wanted to shake her.

  ‘You have to remember,’ he said, ‘that there were others dining there that night. Other members of the British team. It could have been any one of them. Once we tell the authorities, that’s it. They are not going to be able to begin a lengthy investigation on British soil. They will want a suspect, fast. Your father will be condemned.’

  He could see the doubts suddenly in Eleanor’s eyes.

  ‘That’s not true,’ said a voice behind them.

  Sam turned to see Kamal standing, the look on his face one of deadly seriousness.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Sam.

  ‘The authorities will look at this properly. You have my word.’

  Sam and Eleanor exchanged puzzled glances.

  ‘I am from the Direction Générale de la Surveillance du Territoire,’ said Kamal. Then, seeing their expressions, he added: ‘State security. You must come with me.’

  Chapter 48

  Marrakesh, Morocco

  Outside, the marchers slowly progressed towards the Ville Nouvelle. They were inching down Avenue Mohammed V, the broad spine of Marrakesh that connects the old city and the new. From the police helicopters in the air, they appeared like a slow-moving army of ants.