Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti) (28 page)

As he climbed the winding alleys of the Medina, the hawkers recognised him, steering their approaches elsewhere. ‘
Uzbek
,’ one of them said. ‘
Ma ka’in mushkil
.’

There was a charge in the air, the streets even busier than usual, shopkeepers swabbing foamy terraces, trailer mopeds making deliveries. Spike took out his phone; Galliano picked up at once. ‘Spike!
Cacarruca
. Where have you –’

‘Out of reception.’

‘Are you home?’

‘Almost.’

‘All OK?’

Ahead, a man with a lank ponytail was queuing at a butcher’s shop. His flaccid double chin quivered as he haggled over price . . . Spike wheeled into a back alley.

‘Spike?’

‘Did Nadeer Ziyad call the office?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Didn’t leave a message?’

‘Not that I know of. Listen, Spike, I’ve been looking into Dunetech. I even winkled some info out of Napier. It’s not millions we’re talking about. It’s billions.’

‘Dirhams?’

‘Euros.’

‘How many?’

‘A brace, and that’s just the first round of investment.’

Threads of silk wound down the alleyway, taut against the tiled walls; Spike followed them until they disappeared through the doorway of a fabric shop.

‘How’s the fund structured?’

‘From what I could tell this is Nadeer’s chance to persuade Daddy he can run the show on his own. I went down to Companies House, and you’re right, the holding vehicle is registered in Gib. Forty-nine per cent held by third-party outside investors. Thirty per cent by the Ziyad Family Settlement – that’s Nadeer and his old man. Ten per cent by Ángel Castillo. Six in a charitable trust called the Ziyad Foundation. And the remaining five has been siphoned into a separate vehicle called “Interzone Holdings”.’

‘Who’s behind Interzone Holdings?’

‘Couldn’t penetrate it. Senior management, perhaps.’

‘Or the governor of Tangiers. Any mention of Toby Riddell?’

‘Checked Google, Lexis. Nothing.’

Spike jumped at a whip-crack: a woman emptying a bucket.

‘Spike?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think you should come home.’

‘You’re in good company. Did you check on my dad?’

‘Alive and well. Bit bolshie.’

‘Taking his medication?’

‘So he says. Look, Spike, you’ve done what you set out to do. There’s talk of getting Solomon bail.’

‘I’ll give you a call when my boat gets in.’

Chapter 70

From the terrace of the Café Central, Spike watched as a chef took receipt of a lamb and led it bleating by a string through the kitchen back door. The
Petit Socco
hummed and bustled, shoeshine boys doing a brisk trade, elderly fish seller completing a sale. Spike turned up his iPod.

The last caprice, No. 24 in A minor. Spike listened to the crazed pizzicato, thinking about how Paganini’s sun had started to set from this point on. His life as a travelling virtuoso had taken him to Paris, where he’d poured his earnings into setting up the Casino Paganini. The venture had been such a disaster that he’d had to auction off his musical instruments to pay the debts. With failing health he’d returned south, refusing the last rites of a priest and dying alone aged fifty-seven, spindly arms draped over his last remaining violin, before being buried – toothless and emaciated – in unconsecrated ground.

Spike checked the time, wondering what aphorism the receptionist might have for this career arc. The boat for Gibraltar left in an hour. He didn’t even have Zahra’s phone number. Another girl cut adrift.

He switched off the music; the bustle of the Petit Socco refilled his ears. After paying up, he set off towards the Kasbah.

Chapter 71

The maid jabbed upwards with her broom as Spike climbed the spiral staircase. When he reached the door, he slid the small brass key out of the lock. The sun dazzled his eyes as he stepped out onto the terrace. Closing the door, he locked it and slipped the key into his pocket.

The hot tub burbled, murkier than before, a decomposing lump bobbing in the surface scum. Ángel Castillo was slumped in the same wooden chair.

‘
Profesor Castillo?
’ Spike called out.

Ángel’s polo shirt was streaked with sweat and whisky. His beard had grown thicker and his deeply tanned cheeks drooped beneath the rose-coloured blotches under his eyes. At his feet lay a half-empty bottle of J&B and a round cardboard box of Moroccan sweets and pastries.

Spike touched his shoulder and he gave a groan. He shook him and there was a sudden intake of breath, followed by a hacking clearance of the throat. Then he smacked his lips and lowered his head again.

Spike slapped him hard across the chops; this time his head shot upright, bloodshot eyes blinking as they took in Spike’s backlit presence.

‘Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?’ Spike said.

A smile spread across his cracked lips. For a moment Spike saw he must once have been very handsome. ‘It got to you too,’ he said.

‘What did?’

‘This city. It got to you in the end.’

Spike moistened his blistered tongue. ‘I suppose it did.’

Ángel began to laugh; Spike picked up his glass and sloshed it full of whisky. The smile died. ‘I told you not to come back,
Heebralta
.’

‘Today’s different. I’ve got the tape.’

Ángel squinted upwards.

‘The tape from Zagora Zween.’

His sunburnt knuckles whitened as he clenched his glass.

‘So I’ll ask you one last time: who killed your stepdaughter?’

‘You,’ Ángel sighed, whisky dripping down his stubble. ‘Me. Everyone.’

Spike took out his mobile phone. ‘Just one call,’ he said, holding it up. ‘One call and the tape goes to the police in Gibraltar.’

‘What
tape
?’

‘Abdallah al-Manajah’s tape.’

Ángel clumsily put down his glass, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

‘Tell me the truth,’ Spike said, ‘and you get the tape. Lie, and I make the call.’ He stepped forward. ‘You raped her, didn’t you? You raped your own stepdaughter, then murdered her.’

Ángel made a sideways chop with one hand, sweeping the tumbler off the table where it skidded unbroken into the hot tub. He made a grab for the whisky bottle but Spike got to him in time, digging a forearm beneath his throat and pressing a knee into his thigh. He spoke quietly: ‘When I send that tape to the police everything you’ve worked for will end. Your Dunetech legacy will die. No more Sun King, just a common criminal.’ The hot tub came back on. ‘Nod if you understand.’

Ángel’s throat made a rattling like Abdallah al-Manajah’s.

‘Nod . . .’

Ángel nodded and Spike withdrew, hearing him gulp in air then cough it back out. He held up a hand as though asking for time; Spike walked back to the bar, returning with a fresh tumbler which he filled to the brim.

Like a priest giving communion, Spike held the whisky to Ángel’s mouth. He gulped it down as easily as apple juice, then shivered his head, spitting twice onto the decking. ‘
Vale
,’ he said. ‘We went to meet the Bedouin ourselves.’ He coughed. ‘At Zagora Zween.’

Spike held up his mobile phone as if to remind Ángel of the threat. Feeling for the recording function on the side, he slid the button forward with a thumb. ‘Who’s we?’

‘Me and Nadeer. And the site manager, Abdallah. We assumed he wanted more money. Drove him down to the land, told him we would only widen the road, a road that was already there. But that stupid peasant
cabrón
wouldn’t listen.’

‘Then?’

‘We took him to the site. I showed him a heliopod, explained how much larger the power field could become if only we had the proper access. But still he refused. We had the cash ready, thousands in US dollars. When I opened the briefcase, he shoved it back in my face. Cut my lip. Banknotes everywhere, blowing in the wind. He slipped, hit his head on the base of one of the units. At first we thought he’d just knocked himself out, but then I saw the blood.’ Ángel’s hands were steady enough now for him to feed himself.

‘Go on,’ Spike said.

‘We panicked. This was Ibrahim al-Mahmoud, the Bedouin elder. The leader of his people. Abdallah told us he knew where the concrete was still wet. We threw the body into the foundations of the hangar, waited until it sank. Abdallah gathered up most of the cash. We told him he could have it if he kept quiet. Then we drove back to Tangiers.’

‘But he didn’t keep quiet.’

‘There was a video – CCTV from the storage tower. Abdallah said he wanted a monthly stipend or he would take the tape to the villagers. He didn’t ask for much. We paid up and that was the end of it.’

‘Until now.’

Ángel grinned. ‘Abdallah heard about our expansion plans. He got greedy. Came to my office; came here, we argued. Then he saw Esperanza.’

Spike paused. ‘So Abdallah killed Esperanza because you wouldn’t pay him more money?’

‘No,’ Ángel said forcefully. ‘I think Abdallah told the Bedouins in the village. The relatives of Ibrahim. He told them what we had done, and they killed my stepdaughter to avenge the death of their leader. And to punish me.’ Ángel poured himself another glass, eyes starting to glaze. ‘So you are right,
Heebralta
. Maybe I did kill her.’ He gazed through the trellising. ‘They will come for me next. They are down there, waiting. I have always known it.
Los beduinos
.’ The hot tub stopped bubbling, exposing a clatter from the doorway. Ángel finished his drink and lowered his head.

Spike was still on his feet, phone held out. ‘I’ve just come back from Zagora Zween. The Bedouins couldn’t give a fuck about Ibrahim’s disappearance. They only want to keep their jobs. Abdallah didn’t avenge himself by telling
them
what you did to Ibrahim. It was Esperanza he told. After that, Esperanza threatened to go to the police, so you cut her throat before she could.’

Ángel’s neck began to sag.

‘You killed your own stepdaughter, then had Abdallah killed as well.’

‘
No
,’ Ángel murmured. ‘
La quería
.’
I loved her
.

The terrace door shook. Spike switched off the record button and returned to the bar, placing the last two bottles of J&B beside Ángel’s chair leg. As he unlocked the door, he found the maid huddled behind it. He passed her the key then went downstairs, Ángel still repeating in the background, ‘
La quería . . . la quería . . .
’

Chapter 72

Spike strode up the rue de Belgique. He’d listened to the recording twice but all that was audible were his own questions and the steady burble of the hot tub. Too much ambient noise. He swore under his breath as he inputted a number.

‘I was about to call you,’ Hakim said. ‘We need you to come back to the station. There’s been a problem with your statement.’

‘Forget my statement,’ Spike said. ‘I’ve got a body for you.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘In Zagora Zween. Sunk into the concrete beneath a hangar at the Dunetech site.’

‘I don’t understand.’