Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti) (20 page)

When the lights came back on, Spike found himself in front of the steps that led up to the mezzanine. He glanced back at Zahra, then put a finger to his lips.

Chapter 45

Light drifted dingily up onto floorboards of stripped pine. Spike made out a single bed in front, a window with the curtains closed, a set of wooden railings protecting from the drop to the main room.

‘What’s going on?’ Zahra called from below.

‘Stay where you are.’ To his right, Spike saw the silhouette of a floor lamp; feeling forward with a foot, he pressed down. Brightness flooded the mezzanine. As his eyes grew accustomed, he saw that the metal-framed bed was strewn with magazines. Slowly his gaze turned to the floor.

The man lay naked on his back in the space between the bed and the railings. The skin of his soles was cracked. A stubby yellow penis rested on the heaped, distended mound of his belly.

‘Don’t come up here, Zahra,’ Spike called down. He crept forward until he could see past the paunch to the face lying on the wood. The eyes were closed and the lank grey hair oiled back. Stubble pierced wan, sagging cheeks. The neck was visible – skin lacquered bright red – with the hands out in front, clasped together on a hairy pigeon chest as though in prayer. A knife protruded from the right fist, its small curved blade encrusted with blood.

Spike heard a creak. ‘I told you not to –’

Zahra put a hand to her mouth. Something twitched on the man’s body: a shiny brown cockroach bobbing and weaving over his mountainous belly, clipping the head of his penis before beetling off through the dark red oval that had seeped across the floorboards on either side of his neck.

Zahra spoke between her fingers. ‘I recognise him from my village,’ she whispered. ‘From Zagora Zween.’

At the sound of her voice, the man’s lashes flickered. Zahra took a step forward and his eyes flew open, lids stretching wildly.

‘Ambulance,’ Spike said. ‘What number?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Fifteen, fifteen!’

Abdallah’s eyes bulged as though he were drowning. Pink froth bubbled from the gash in his neck, followed by a high-pitched whistle, like gas escaping. Spike connected to the operator, as Zahra crouched down to Abdallah, who was blinking up at her now, desperate, trapped.

‘Don’t touch him,’ Spike said, cupping the handset.

The whistling deepened to a rasp. Zahra tilted her head towards Abdallah’s mouth. His eyeballs looked poised to spray from their sockets.

As Spike hung up, the tip of Abdallah’s grey tongue emerged to dab at the canal of Zahra’s ear. She recoiled in panic, losing her balance, palms slipping in the ooze that blotted the floor.

Spike helped her up. Her eye was caught by a smear on the front of her white dress. She started rubbing at the blood; Spike grabbed her wrist, loosening his grip when he saw the pallor beneath her natural tan.

‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Take deep breaths.’

When Zahra’s colour began to return, Spike released her. ‘What did he say?’

‘He was asking for his mother.’

He caught her arm again as she backed away. ‘You can’t leave a crime scene.’

She wrested herself free. ‘You can in Tangiers.’

Lowering a trainer onto the ladder, she turned. ‘Last night,’ she said. ‘At the café. I was buying a train ticket home. Tanger Ville Station, 11.30 p.m.’

Spike looked back to Abdallah. His eyes were closing, froth popping on the bristles of his stubble as his breaths grew more shallow. Below, Zahra was creeping through the flotsam. Spike moved to the railings and the lights went out. When they flickered back on, she’d reached the door. The stain on her dress bloomed like a rose. ‘Tanger Ville Station,’ she repeated. ‘Eleven thirty.’

Chapter 46

‘So what you are telling me,’ Inspector Hakim Eldrassi said as he drew deeply on his cigarette, ‘is that you entered this apartment illegally.’ He and Spike sat on the arms of opposing sofas. Upstairs, the floorboards creaked with activity. In front of them, a bearded man in shirtsleeves was perching on a stepladder, tightening light bulbs.

‘Esperanza had an appointment to see Abdallah al-Manajah on the day she died,’ Spike said. ‘It was imperative I talk to him in the interests of my client. When I got here, the door was unlocked. I entered and found Mr al-Manajah upstairs.’

The lights grew steady and the bearded man descended. He picked up a camera from the kitchenette and began snapping photos of the mezzanine ceiling, calling out a question to Hakim, who answered in Arabic, casting about half-heartedly for an ashtray before finally tapping his ash on the floor.

‘First,’ Hakim resumed, ‘you lead me to a barman who you claim was in possession of Esperanza’s handbag. Now you bring me here, where a man who supposedly met Esperanza just before she died is killed with a knife on the
Jour Sacré
, the very day when guilty souls may enter Heaven.’ Hakim’s sallow eyes managed a twinkle. ‘So I ask myself: How far will a lawyer go for his client? Will he seek to incriminate others? Cast seeds of doubt?’ He turned, surveying the flat with what looked like sadness. ‘Of course, you cannot leave the country now. Not until the coroner has his verdict.’

‘I have commitments in Gibraltar.’

‘I presume you know the law, Mr Sanguinetti.’

‘How long?’

‘We bury the dead fast in Tangiers. Two days for the coroner. Another for your statement.’

Spike took out the penultimate business card from his wallet. ‘You dropped by my hotel yesterday. Who told you where I was?’

‘The Sûreté is capable of a certain degree of efficiency.’ Hakim stubbed out his cigarette on the spinning globe. ‘So he was alive when you found him?’

‘He opened his eyes. We thought it best not to move him.’

‘We?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You said you were alone.’

‘The royal “we”, Inspector Eldrassi. An English idiom. We did this. We did that.’

Hakim’s moustache twitched. ‘Not an idiom with which I am familiar.’

‘You should spend more time in Gibraltar.’

A creak came from behind as a pair of uniformed legs appeared on the stairs, followed by one end of a black ziplock bag on a stretcher.

‘I have circulated your details to the port authorities,’ Hakim said, eyeing Spike’s suitcase, ‘in case you felt the same . . . call for home as your client.’

A policeman passed Hakim a sealed exhibit bag. Inside it was a phone, Esperanza’s mobile number displayed on the screen as a recently missed call. Hakim nodded and the policeman began to clear a passageway through the junk for the cortège.

‘What makes a man live like this?’ Hakim said, shaking his head. ‘Burying himself alive.’

Spike picked up his bag. ‘May I go?’

‘Your prints,’ Hakim said, sliding what looked like a cigarette case from his inside pocket. On one side was a spongy black pad, thick white card opposite. Spike pressed five fingers onto one then the other.

‘I shall be in touch, Mr Sanguinetti,’ Hakim said as he snapped the case closed. ‘Until then, I advise you to be careful. The barman from that nightclub had an alibi. We had to release him. He is not your friend.’

On the pavement outside, Spike saw the old lady in black being interviewed by a policeman. She turned to look at him as he walked towards the rue de Belgique. A phrase his father had used echoed in his head:
City of Perfidy
. . .
City of Perfidy
. He rubbed the ink from his fingertips and hailed a
petit taxi
.

‘
Vous allez où, monsieur?
’

Spike checked the time. Through the taxi windscreen, the lights of Europe looked that little bit further away.

‘
Monsieur?
’

Part Three

Zagora Zween

Chapter 47

Spike woke on his side, vibrations jolting through his body. He had slept on his left arm, which felt numb through lack of blood. He tried to roll over but a wooden board blocked his way. Opening his eyes, he made out a shape beneath the blanket on the opposite bunk: Zahra, her hair thick and loose. He felt a small pang as he saw the dark strands dampened to her forehead as on a sleeping child.

The window of the couchette was covered by a blind marked ‘
Office National des Chemins de Fer
’. Sunlight lanced through it into Spike’s eyes. He rolled out his legs and saw he was still wearing last night’s clothes. After feeling beneath the bunk for the reassuring bulk of his bag, he forced the carriage doors apart and stepped out into the corridor.

Rather than coast or scrubland, he saw lush green fields. The train was moving along a ridge, with orchards of pears or apples extending down the slope. He pressed his face to the glass, seeing shaggy sheep driven by a herdsman in a wide-brimmed hat. The herdsman stopped and raised a hand; Spike waved absently back, before realising the man had only been screening his eyes against the glare from the train. Verdant hills rose beyond, mountains in the distance, purple-peaked. In the railway siding, the green fingers of what looked like wild cannabis plants spread from the shingle.

Spike’s phone claimed 6.40 a.m. Gibraltar was two hours ahead.

‘Dad?’

‘Mm?’

‘It’s Spike.’

‘Oh.’ He heard a deep sigh. ‘Oh.’

‘Are you having breakfast?’

‘Still in bed.’

‘How come?’

‘It’s . . .’ He sighed again. ‘Got that thing again. With my chest.’

‘Palpitations?’

‘Somewhat.’

‘That’s what the beta blockers are for, Dad. Have you been taking them?’

‘They give me diarrhoea.’

‘It’s better than the palpitations. They’re on the list, two a day.’

Rufus’s voice sounded distant and small. ‘You’re coming home soon, aren’t you, son?’

‘Got to stay in Tangiers for a few more days.’

‘Not got ensnared, have you?’

‘Just a couple of things to sort out.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re off the wagon?’

‘Go to the doctor, Dad. If you go late morning, there’s no queue.’

Rufus swallowed at the other end of the line. ‘Might just lie here a bit longer. I had a call from Mrs Hassan yesterday. Says you deserve a medal. Got her boy out of trouble.’

‘He stands trial in Gibraltar not Morocco. That’s it.’

‘No better place to be. The levanter’s finally shifted. We’ve a nice dry southerly. I can hear the gulls outside.’

‘You’ll get up soon, won’t you, Dad?’

There was a sudden shriek as the train switched tracks. Spike put a hand out smartly to the carriage wall.

‘Where are you, son? Sounds like a tramp steamer.’

‘Better go, Dad. Bye.’

The sun changed angle, exposing Spike’s reflection like a ghost in the window. He called a different number.

‘All hail the conquering hero,’ Galliano said. ‘What time did you get in?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Delayed?’

‘There’s been a complication.’

Spike told Galliano how he had discovered Abdallah’s body. ‘I can’t leave the country now until they’ve established cause of death.’

‘
Ten cuidado
, Spike.’

‘I’m just going to lie low for a few days.’ Spike heard a door open at the end of the corridor. A man appeared; he wore a prayer cap and a full beard with a clean-shaven upper lip. He withdrew abruptly, giving Spike a glimpse of red rucksack as the door slammed behind him.