I KILL

by Lex Lander

  ‘Ah, good morning.’ The cheery greeting came from the doorway behind me. I twisted in my seat to receive a matey slap on the shoulder from a well-built guy with a square beard. My hand was pumped like a long-lost brother’s.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said in impeccable English. ‘My name is Ramouz. Commissaire de Police Ramouz.’

  ‘How do you do?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’ He marched around the desk and settled in the swivel chair. He was about fifty, grey invading the black silky hair but not the beard. ‘I am the head of the Sureté Nationale here in Tangier.’

  An important personage then. Flattering, you could say. A carnation adorned the lapel of his fawn, lightweight suit. He bent his nose to sniff at it, his eyes cowled, probing me.

  A little humility in the presence of the exalted never does any harm. So I said, ‘I’m honoured. I appreciate your seeing me personally, Commissaire.’ The way I said it made it sound as if this were a business appointment not an enquiry into a homicide.

  ‘Would you care for coffee or tea?’

  ‘Coffee. Thanks.’

  He rustled up coffee by phone, then steepled his fingers and rocked back in his chair to fix me with a hard cop stare.

  ‘I haven’t had any breakfast,’ I pointed out, taking the initiative. ‘In fact, I’ve had nothing to eat since I was brought here, and only water to drink. And I’d like a shave.’

  He chuckled. ‘My apologies, Mr Melville. The service here is not quite up to the standard of the Rif. These, er … oversights will be rectified presently. In the meantime we must decide what is to be done with you.’

  ‘Done with me? What do you usually do with people who try to prevent a kidnapping?’

  ‘Is that what it was?’ His eyebrows had edged upwards, but the tone remained smooth as butter.

  ‘Didn’t the girl tell you? Miss Power.’ I frowned at him. Until this moment I had assumed Lizzy was in safe hands. ‘Where is she? Is she okay?’

  ‘Oh, oh, so many questions.’ He made soothing motions. ‘Do not worry about the young lady. She is being cared for by my wife.’ He smiled then, and that at least was genuine. ‘I also have daughters.’

  ‘If she … if Miss Power is all right, then she must have explained to you that she and her mother were abducted by three Arabs.’

  Ramouz nodded. ‘Oh, indeed she did.’

  ‘She also presumably explained that she escaped from the car but her mother didn’t, and that one of the men came after her to drag her back into the car.’

  The nods continued. We were making progress.

  ‘And that I disarmed the man and shot him with his own gun.’

  Now the bear-like head was still.

  ‘It is there we enter what I believe is known as a grey area.’

  I had not expected my story to be accepted at face value. Some embellishment was called for.

  ‘Then let me colour it black and white for you, Commissioner. This is what happened: the man who went after Miss Power was armed. He shot at me and set my car on fire. Presumably believing me to be incinerated inside it, he turned his attentions to the girl. Are you getting the picture? She’s a gutsy kid, she didn’t make it easy for him.’ In all essentials this was close to factual. Ramouz’s moderately-pigmented countenance showed neither belief nor disbelief. I continued, ‘While he had his hands full I tackled him from behind; I once trained in unarmed combat.’ It was true, courtesy of the British Secret Service. ‘He was one very surprised kidnapper when I took his gun away.’

  ‘You … took it away?’

  ‘Want me to demonstrate?’

  Ramouz made a pretence of alarm. ‘No, no. That will not be necessary.’ He drummed softly on his desk blotter. ‘So far I am inclined to accept your story, Mr Melville. What I am not clear about is why, having disarmed the man, you then shot him.’

  This was the tricky part. I had my improvised explanation ready. It was riddled with flaws, yet not implausible.

  ‘It was a sort of accident …’

  The door opened on an underling bringing refreshments, consisting of a pot of coffee, its aroma preceding it, with two diminutive cups and a dish of pastries, all on a copper tray. I suspended my narrative.

  ‘An accident, you were saying.’ Ramouz decanted coffee for both of us. ‘Please elaborate.’

  ‘Fortunately I know a bit about guns,’ I said as I selected a pastry. ‘I was an officer in the British army. The gun I took off the kidnapper was more like a machine pistol but, well, not at all complicated. And the safety catch was off. Anyhow, as I was saying …’ I frowned disingenuously. ‘Or was I saying? Never mind. The thing is, at the point when I knocked him down his friends decided to help. They got out of the car. They were both armed, they fired at me and missed, I fired back, a short burst. At the same time the first guy threw himself at me, and … and … well, he just got in the way of a bullet.’

  To my culpable ears it sounded weak. Perhaps therein lay its strength, though. A cleverly crafted lie can excite more suspicion in a cop than a bumbling account such as mine.

  ‘Who was he?’ I asked, between munches of pastry. ‘The … you know, the dead man.’ I put the pastry down as if the talk of death had killed my appetite. I just hoped I wasn’t overdoing the ham.

  ‘The man you killed? At any rate, do not be concerned that he was a worthy citizen. He was a known pimp and drug peddler called Lalla Yousef. We believed he had left the country. It seems we were wrong.’ The interrogatory stare, lately relaxed, was reinstated. ‘Tell me, how did you come to be there, at that spot, at that particular time?’

  ‘Pure chance.’ Another truth. I licked pastry flakes from my fingers. ‘I’d driven to Asilah for the day. Mrs Power and her daughter were also there, but independently, as they had their own transport. I was on my way back to Tangier when I witnessed the abduction. I recognised the Powers from the road.’

  ‘Oh? While you were driving past at, what, sixty, seventy kph?’ His tone was incredulous.

  ‘Not facially, but by the clothes they were wearing.’

  ‘It’s fortunate that you did. Otherwise we would be investigating a double kidnapping.’

  Ramouz extracted an unopened pack of American Chesterfield cigarettes from a drawer, peeled off the cellophane, thrust the pack at me.

  ‘Thanks, I don’t.’ My stomach grumbled in protest at the interruption to my breakfast. I tried to avert my eyes from the uneaten pastry. ‘What are you doing about tracing Mrs Power?’

  ‘Everything that can be done.’ He drew on his cigarette, holding it between the roots of index and middle fingers, and sucking through the funnel of his clenched fist.

  ‘Have you tried calling her cell phone?’

  ‘No, because it was not with her when she was taken. She left it in her hotel room, charging the battery.’

  ‘How do you rate your chances of finding her?’ When he made no reply, I said, a shade more forcefully, ‘Do you expect to find her alive?’

  Again he declined to reply, asking me instead, ‘Have you any opinions on the motive behind the abduction? I understand you and Mrs Power had been seeing each other regularly.’

  ‘We have, yes,’ I said, amending the tense. ‘As for the motive …’ I was reluctant to pass my theories on to Ramouz. The Warner rulebook stated that information must never be volunteered to the police beyond the minimum necessary to save your own hide. I sighed inwardly. Forget the rules. This was about Clair’s hide, not mine. If help was available, I had no right to obstruct it.

  ‘Yes?’ Ramouz prompted.

  ‘A Dutch guy has been hanging around her, called Henrik de Bruin. He kept pestering her, wouldn’t give up. He tried to buy me off. You might want to write this down,’ I added, when he made no move to record my revelations.

  ‘Do not worry. The recording machine has been running since you came in.’

  Smooth bastard. Around a crooked grin, I went on, ‘Naturally. Anyhow, as I was saying, this de Bruin charac
ter was obviously besotted with her.’

  ‘Bee-sotted? You mean he wanted to fuck her?’

  ‘Very subtly put, Commissioner. But, yes, that was my conclusion.’

  ‘Enough to abduct her? That does not seem very likely, Mr Melville.’ Ramouz toyed with a pen. ‘Even so, we will follow it up. Tell me all you know about him, including a physical description.’

  I complied, but only in part. The existence of de Bruin’s residence in Tangier I kept to myself. Checking it out was going to be my first move, and I didn’t want the police trampling through it ahead of me.

  ‘Is her family rich?’

  ‘Most of her family is dead. Including her husband. No, there’s no financial incentive I can think of.’

  Ramouz blew a perfectly symmetrical smoke ring before mashing his cigarette in an ash tray. He had consumed about a third of it.

  ‘Were you … are you going to marry her?’

  My instinctive reaction was to laugh off the idea. Certainly marriage had not formed part of the immediate plan. Then, on a hunch it might reinforce my innocence if I were thought of as Clair’s husband-to-be, I admitted it was under review.

  ‘I have asked her. She’s thinking it over.’

  Ramouz heaved a sigh that might have been disappointment. I guessed he was coming round to accepting my version of the incident as true in its essentials. He got up to switch on the air-conditioning and boost the speed of the ceiling fan, for the room had warmed up in the last half-hour. Sunlight, striped by the blinds, lay across the desk and the patterned rug that covered much of the floor. Before resuming his seat he altered the slats to deflect the light upwards.

  ‘Would you mind telling me what business you are in?’

  I dished up the usual yarn, now so familiar I could have recited it backwards. If you tell a lie often enough, I find, it becomes indistinguishable from the truth. I was at pains to stress my comparative wealth, making sure he understood I had no need to break any laws to provide life’s luxuries.

  ‘Stocks and shares are to me as the mysteries of outer space,’ he confessed.

  ‘All you need is good advice, and a certain amount of luck.’ That much I did know.

  Another cigarette travelled from pocket to mouth.

  ‘Luck, eh?’ He lit up, inhaled with the transparent relish of a nicotine addict. ‘Police work also requires luck. I suppose you have some proof of your financial situation.’

  I scratched my bristles. ‘I don’t carry bank statements around with me, but if you insist I can produce the necessary references so you can do your own checking. I’ve about seven or eight thousand dollars’ worth of travellers checks in my suitcase at the hotel.’

  He smiled thinly. ‘We know. You also have a large amount of cash.’ The hard cop stare was back in place. ‘More than is legally permitted.’

  ‘So fine me.’ My anger was not contrived. He was scratching around for justification for holding me. If a minor infringement of the currency restrictions was the best he could do, I was on safe ground.

  One of the black telephones shrilled. Untangling the cord to bring the receiver to his ear cost Ramouz several curse-laden seconds.

  ‘Si?’ he barked, listened frowningly then acknowledged in Spanish, the dominant language in this part of Morocco. Signing off with a grunt, he replaced the receiver. The cord immediately re-entangled itself.

  ‘A representative from the British Consulate is here,’ he informed me.

  ‘To see me? How did they know where to find me?’

  ‘We notified them, naturally.’ He blew another of his smoke rings, studied it critically as you might study an antique of uncertain provenance. ‘An American with Australian citizenship is kidnapped, leaving a child, who also has Australian citizenship, without parent or guardian. A British subject kills a Moroccan citizen. These are not everyday occurrences, even here in Tangier, Mr Melville. The tourist business is an important source of revenue for my country. We have enough problems with the Jihadist threat. Where our foreign visitors are concerned, we try to be especially scrupulous.’ He glanced up as the door opened. ‘Ah …’

  Our Man in Tangier was tall and spare, with a cap of jet black hair contrasting with his death’s head pallor and matching tropical suit. Ramouz greeted him with total correctitude if a noticeable lack of warmth.

  ‘May I present Mr Melville?’ he said, and I rose for the customary rites. ‘Mr Formby.’

  ‘Vice-Consul,’ Formby amplified frigidly. The turbulence from the fan ruffled his hair, and he glared up at the ceiling in unconcealed irritation. He gave the impression of being a man who would irritate all too easily. ‘Is Mr Melville ready?’

  ‘Are we going someplace?’ I said in surprise.

  We were, I learned, going to the Consulate.

  ‘I have finished with you for the time being, Mr Melville.’ Ramouz said, supplementing his words with the little sigh all cops give when parting with what they consider to be police property. ‘But you may not leave Tangier without my permission, and under no circumstances must you attempt to leave the country.’ A pause, a drumming of fingers on desk top. ‘We have, of course, confiscated your passport.’

  The grin that accompanied the last piece of news was sardonic, as if he were aware that the lack of a passport would not keep me in Morocco if I chose to abscond. It’s not as if it were the genuine product.

  For the sake of form though, I assumed an affronted air.

  ‘I resent the slur on my character, Commissaire,’ I said, playing the honourable English gentlemen to the last. ‘Mr Formby, I’m all yours.’

  Formby sniffed. His disapproval was unspoken but implied that people who have their passports seized are not nice to know. Ramouz, with more of that notorious police reluctance, passed my wallet and credit cards across the desk. I checked that none were missing, signed a receipt and minutes later Formby and I were out in the street. A white Ford Mondeo with CD plates awaited us, illegally parked in the block of shade cast by the police building.

  Well, I was out of the can, though it was a reprieve, not an acquittal. Ramouz wasn’t to be taken lightly, affable though he was. I wouldn’t put it past him to keep digging for dirt until he found some that would stick.

  I prevailed upon a grudging Formby to detour via the Rif and allow me ten minutes for ablutions and a change of outfit. Even such an insensitive soul as his could perceive that shorts, especially shorts bearing the scars of kidnapping, fires, and shooting, not to mention doing service as prison pyjamas, were not suitable attire in which to go calling on Her Britannic Majesty’s Consul.

  Years ago, when the British Diplomatic Service set much store by appearances, the Consulate General was an opulent mansion, fittingly set in the Rue d’Angleterre. This is the main artery through Consulate country to the south west of the old town: a district of tree-lined streets, parks and gardens, peace and tranquillity. When Thatcher came to the throne, as ever for reasons of economic exigency, the establishment was moved to a couple of floors in a seedy office block near the equally seedy Place du 9 Avril 1947. One of these days I would make it my business to find out what happened on that date.

  On arriving at the Consulate, Formby, who had spoken only in monosyllables during the drive, hustled me through the double frosted-glass doors, distinguished from similar neighbouring frosted-glass doors only by the royal coat of arms above them. From there we proceeded to the innermost sanctum, the Consul’s eyrie.

  In direct physical contrast to Formby, the Consul was short and rotund, and completely hairless. Half-moon spectacles sat on his button of a nose. He had a homely, lived-in presence, like a room in a house full of children. Formby did the introductions and bowed out.

  ‘Take no notice of Formby,’ the Consul said, mind-reading to perfection. ‘He’s a robot. Efficient, unflappable, and indispensable. How’d you get on with friend Ramouz?’

  Disconcerted by the sudden switch of topic, I looked blankly at him.

  ‘Sorry, old boy. Always s
wapping and changing, my wife tells me. You’ll get used to it.’

  The guy was so genial, you couldn’t but warm to him. In carefully chosen phraseology, I explained that Ramouz and I had come to a détente.

  He nodded at that. ‘The shooting – an accident, I imagine.’

  ‘Correct. As I told the commissaire, I’m a bit out of practice when it comes to guns.’

  He tugged at the blob that did duty for a nose. ‘You must have found the jolly old boar hunt a bit of a trial then.’

  My flesh seemed to contract. How much was implied by that throwaway remark?

  The twinkling eyes had ceased to twinkle, had become opaque like a darkened mirror. The innocuous exterior was no more. We were getting down to nitty-gritty.

  ‘Look, old boy, you could be the fastest draw in the West for all I care. I’m not prying, believe me, I’m not. I only heard about the boar hunt in casual conversation with Brigadier Hordern, whom I believe is an acquaintance of yours. My problem is not what to do about you, but what to do about that young lady in there.’ He jabbed a thumb at a door in the far corner of his office.

  ‘Lizzy? Is she here then?’

  ‘Where else? Ramouz and his wife looked after her last night, but clearly the responsibility rests with the Consulate. With me.’

  ‘But she’s American, or Australian – take your pick. What’s the British Consulate got to do with it?’

  ‘Simply this: the nearest American consular office is in Casablanca. The nearest Australian consular office is in Paris. We occasionally help out.’ He fixed me with a stern gaze. ‘And let’s not forget that you are British.’

  ‘Anglo-Canadian actually.’

  ‘Your passport is British.’

  My phoney passport was British, at any rate.

  For no reason I could put my finger on, I had a premonition he was leading up to something. Conditioning me, in his jovial way, for disagreeable news. I made no comment. It wasn’t my place to smooth his path.

  ‘So, as I was saying, your familiarity with guns is not an issue. You might have trained as a sniper in the British Army, for all I know or care.’ He was making excuses for me, justifying my reticence for his own ends. ‘Your attempt to save Mrs Power places you fair and square on the side of the angels and as far as I’m concerned makes you “respectable”, if you’ll forgive the anachronism. Respectability is an absolute prerequisite, old boy.’