“There’s a footbridge over the sluice down there,” Tanya had helpfully pointed out.
An old man turned around to ask everyone if they would like a group photograph, only to be met with a range of stares. The woman from the sluice was standing with her arms outstretched, being given plenty of personal space.
Mike Kingdom’s wig was itching on her sweaty, bald head. Give me an office any day, rather than this, she thought to herself as she cursed Leonard under her breath.
“Ealing Broadway, Slough, Reading, Swindon next stop …” the unfortunate woman had announced in her best station-announcer’s voice, trying to relieve the embarrassment as she had climbed back on to the coach.
Swindon? Mike thought, That’s one of the places where I nearly died, as she tried to push Leonard de Vries from her mind.
“Let’s walk over here, and mind the sluices,” Mike had said to Josie as they walked towards the port office, passing the men and women who were gutting the fish while others distributed their catches in handcarts or loaded plastic trays into small refrigerated trucks.
They found some shade under a white covered walkway with grubby hand marks on the walls and peeling plaster. The recessed doors were bright blue. Not betraying her interest, Mike spotted the sign on the wall that matched the address on the note she had torn out in Marrakech. She worked out where she might stand tomorrow to get a good view of Randy as he turned up for his meeting with Aksil Zadi.
They walked on back to the sea wall, just two female backpackers taking selfies against the backdrop of the raft of blue wooden fishing boats.
In Buckinghamshire, the police operation now changed from the freeing of hostages to the collecting of evidence. Detective Sergeant Harry Wardrop had just been congratulated by his superiors when four additional scene-of-crime officers turned up in a grey van, together with Commander Ben Cox, who was being driven in a dark-green Range Rover.
After they all got out of their respective vehicles, some introductions were made, and the commander walked over to the two body bags in the back of an unmarked police van. He was checking the faces of the two dead kidnappers with a man not in uniform who took some photographs.
“Are these the only two?” Ben asked Harry.
“Yes, there was no one else. We had drone coverage of the whole action. No one escaped.”
“And there’s no one hidden in the loft, the basement, or any other nook or cranny?”
“We haven’t been in the loft yet, and I shouldn’t think there’s a basement.” Harry had only had access to the cottage for thirty minutes.
“OK, we won’t interfere with your crime scene, but my team need to check the place over.”
With that, the commander went over and liaised with his colleagues.
Twenty minutes later, Ben Cox was sitting in his car, speaking on his phone. “Brendan Dowell isn’t one of the two dead kidnappers, and he isn’t hiding anywhere on the premises. Therefore, he must have left much earlier if he was ever here. We haven’t found anything yet to indicate that this is a safe house, but the team is working on it systematically. I’m coming back to London.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
They clinked their bottles of ice-cold Casablanca beer together, each took a swig and put them back down on the red-and-white plastic tablecloth. Mike and Josie were sitting in the shade outside a café with views over to the harbour in Essaouira. The blue sky was filled with gulls that had followed the boats back from their fishing grounds. The barman brought out some olives and cleared away the empty glasses and plates from the next table. Josie was sitting there in a sleeveless, red dress that showed off her leathery skin.
“How do you keep so fit?” Mike was looking at Josie’s sinewy arms, which were resting on her head.
“I run … that keeps me fit.” Josie had a gentle Australian accent.
“Run where? Not out here?”
Josie took another swig of beer. “Yes, I’ve run everywhere … and I mean everywhere.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
It was Mike’s turn to take mouthful of beer. “I meant that there are other ways to keep fit.”
“Some shit happened when I was younger. I started running … and I haven’t stopped. When I run, I feel good.”
Mike was evaluating the earlier answer. “Where’s everywhere?”
“I’ve run marathons on every continent including Antarctica.”
“No way.”
“Antarctica was easier than running out here.”
Mike had a quizzical look. “You really mean that you run out here?”
“In March, I did the Marathon des Sables here in Morocco.”
Mike was trying to keep up.
“It’s in the desert; 250 kilometres in seven days … through the sand,” Josie continued.
Mike was too hot to try to work out the maths, let alone contemplate serious exercise. “Is that a marathon every day?”
“No, and if you want it in miles, it’s only 150 over the week.”
Mike almost choked. “How old are you?”
“Forty-three. There were competitors in their seventies, before you ask.”
