She looked at her watch. She had to leave for the airport. With a final swig of beer, she telephoned her friendly police contact and told him she was sending a list of properties, of which Holly Cottage with the white van might be worth a look.
Mike also told Nigel, her Special Branch friend, that she was sure Brendan Dowell wasn’t just the ringleader with regard to Johnny Musselwhite’s murder but that he was also coordinating the kidnap and issuing the threats to Charles Yelland. Nigel knew her reputation well enough to take her thoughts seriously.
She didn’t have time to ring Leonard. Instead, she sent him a simple text explaining her thoughts on Brendan.
That done, she divided her computer gizmos between her check-in and cabin luggage, changed her wig to the black one, and clattered down the marble stairs.
Wazz was near the door. “Need a lift?”
“That would be great. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve checked out his room.”
“Want to tell me where you’re staying in case I have to come and find you? Or is that top secret?”
“Riad des Tailleurs in Marrakech.”
“If I asked you to be careful, would it make the slightest bit of difference?”
“No.”
“Let me know when you’ve checked out his room.”
“Yes, Mum.” She smiled at him in an impish way that didn’t look quite so cute under her black wig. “And you let me know what happens here.”
A couple of minutes later, they were leaving the villa gates under the monoscopic gaze of Diego, whose right hand never left the gun tucked into the back of his waistband.
In Colmar, Patrick Redwood had also been updated by Commander Ben Cox. He now understood the situation and was one of only a handful of people who knew that Walter was still alive. They agreed it was crucial to let Brendan, or whatever his name was, continue to believe he had killed Walter.
“Patrick, as soon as Walter gains consciousness, we need to find out what he knows about Brendan. I have a feeling that he suspected something,” Ben explained.
“I’m almost at the hospital now. In a minute or two, I’ll ask for an update and I’ll probably hang around. There’s not much else for me to do out here.”
“I hear that Stewart McBride is arranging for his secure transport back home – assuming he comes out of his coma.”
“I’ll send you a message once I’ve spoken to the doctors. Oh” – he suddenly remembered something that had been on his mind – “one other thing, have Porton Down tested the poison?”
“Yes, while the French have been backtracking, Porton Down think this is serious stuff from the big boys, probably from the Russians or Americans, but not exclusively so. Of course, they may have given it to a third party.”
With that, the call ended, and Patrick, in his pale linen suit and white shirt, walked towards the hospital entrance. At the door, he met Madame Bettancourt, who was on her way out.
“Mr Redwood. I have just been speaking to the doctor. He tells me that Mr Flushing has not gained consciousness yet, but he is stable, which is good news.”
“Oh, that is good news, I think … Thanks,” he replied. There was something deeply attractive about her beyond her constantly smiling eyes, but the policeman inside him was always suspicious. Why had she driven to the hospital rather than ringing the doctor?
“Have you had lunch?”
“What? No, I haven’t,” he said.
“I am on my way to a favourite place just around the corner. Would you like to join me?”
“Pourquoi pas,” he answered, not able to think of a reason not to. Whether this was because he might learn something about the case or because he found the idea of lunch with an attractive French lawyer too tempting, it didn’t delay him unduly.
While Patrick was listening to Madame Bettancourt’s lunch recommendations, an easyJet flight had taken off from Basel-Mulhouse-Freiburg airport forty miles to the south. In seats 1A and 1B, two large men had taken advantage of Speedy Boarding and were staring, without actually engaging eye contact, at the flight attendants sitting wearing their harness seatbelts opposite the men.
In the overhead locker was their minimal hand luggage. One had a transparent plastic bag with a selection of liquid toiletries. The roll-on deodorant was unlikely to interest any customs officer, but if it did, it would be last thing that they ever examined.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The cabin crew were also still in their seats on the Vueling flight to Marrakech. It was three minutes after take-off, and Mike Kingdom was staring out of the window at Gibraltar and the incredibly small eight-mile gap between Europe and Africa. The plane banked to the left and flew down the western coast of Morocco. She looked out at the enormous expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. After an hour, the plane turned sharp left and flew east across the centre of Morocco towards the Atlas Mountains. As it approached the brown foothills, the captain turned on the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign. She looked down at the suburbs of Marrakech and wondered where Randy was holed up. Probably not in what looked like a collection of royal palaces with their manicured grounds. She prepared herself for the landing.
The airport was modern and made from a lattice of white concrete. Once she’d disembarked and reached the echoing hall, she joined a large queue, which snaked to a series of booths. She handed over her American passport to the officer.
“G20?” he asked. Mike failed to understand him, and he repeated, “Are you in Marrakech for the G20?”
“No, no. I’m on holiday for a few days.” She was trying to look non-descript in her black wig, brown gilet and dark-brown trousers.
“Where are you staying?”
“Riad des Tailleurs.”
“Enjoy your stay.” He stamped her passport and returned it.
Fifteen minutes later, she was pulling her battered suitcase from the carousel and, soon after that, getting into a people carrier. This seemed excessive for one person, but it was the same price as a small saloon. Of prime importance to her was that the air conditioning worked. Looking at Marrakech seen through the various van windows was like watching a bank of TVs in the window of a Currys shop. There were goats being carried on mopeds, a stack of mattresses being pushed on a handcart and so many men in leather jackets on old motorbikes weaving through the lines of traffic. Marrakech was a blend of pink and brown. Whether this was the original colour or a covering of dust was not evident.
After driving alongside some very high, windowless city walls for what seemed like hours, the scene changed to a maze of small streets in which the traffic and pedestrians mixed in a lawless chaos that should have brought the city to a standstill but instead proved to be an efficient system – if you accepted that there were no rules.
