“Meanwhile,” said Hassan, “I have transported your colleague from the airport. Your colleague Mr Vincent Sharp.”
Hassan shouted some Arabic, and one of the black suited policemen drew a pistol. Hassan bellowed very loudly using one or two very rude Anglo-Saxon words. The young man put away the gun with a shamefaced expression and went downstairs to get Vince out of the dusty black Mercedes.
“Your friend is a specialist for the lady investigator?” he said, tapping his nose with the silver tip of the cane once again.
“Yes,” I said.
“I think I am recognising his face, your friend.” Vince came through the door wearing his Australian bush hat, a billowing bush shirt, as big as a tent covering his seventeen stone hulk, and trousers with dirt and dust all over them.
“Then I shall leave you in peace,” said Hassan.
“Allah goes with you,” I said.
“See you around,” said Hassan; he tucked a smile under his sad moustache.
The Mercedes hooted its way up the narrow street.
Chapter 39
As Hassan had said, it was a country full of wonders. That evening we went to the Medina, searching out cafés to drink sweet tea and sample some of the local food. We sat outside wrapping skewered meat, sizzling hot from the spit, into rich coarse bread and discussed the various options open to us.
Vince went through a plan that he thought could be simply put into action the following day and roughly sketched the layout of Flackyard’s house here in Marrakech. The crowds had thickened, and the lines of food stall vendors and cooks advertised their skills like chanting auctioneers to those seeking sustenance.
Vince explained at length that his plan would require precise timing, and a head for heights. Storytellers and musicians had arrived, while fortune-tellers revealed the secrets of one’s destiny for the price of a cooked meal.
Acrobats, contortionists and clowns entertained the crowds. Snake charmers, dancers and boxers performed for gathering knots of passers-by. But amidst the cacophony of noise and the rising tide of odours, sweet and foul, to assail the nostrils of the medieval town square, our beds and the need for sleep beckoned.
The next day Fiona and I visited Robert Flackyard. He wasn’t a cheerful criminal like Harry Caplin, or a sad fanatic like George Ferdinand. Here was a man who had a special kind of manipulative and devious brain. An intellect that had no bounds, and a conscience that did not exist.
Flackyard’s residence was a traditional Riad, in the old Arab quarter of Marrakech. The narrow lane that led to it was barely five feet wide between the other ancient dwellings that pressed in on both sides. We entered through a mysterious door set in the age-worn and blank white wall. Once inside the hidden courtyard, high wrought iron gates made shadow pictures on the hot tiles. A small red and yellow songbird high on the wall sang a short cadenza about how it wanted to escape from its tiny bare wooden cage.
Inside was cool and calm. Flackyard sat crosslegged on a fine antique carpet reading a copy of the Times newspaper. Other carpets lined the walls and behind them bright-coloured tile work shone with complex Arabic calligraphy. Here and there were large leather Berber cushions and through the dark doorway, just visible at the end of the corridor, a cool green patio; the slim leaves turning to silver swords as the breeze moved them under the hot sun.
Flackyard’s features were different, thinner, but he wasn’t thinner; he wasn’t even different, when I had seen him before he was the part of a wealthy English playboy. But here, in this place he no longer had to portray himself to the world.
“Mr Dillon, Miss Price,” he said, continuing to study his newspaper. “Your letter, Miss Price said, ‘investigating’”
His voice was booming in the sparsely furnished room.
“Investigating what, exactly?”
“Class A drug manufacturing and distribution in Sandbanks, Mr Flackyard,” Fiona told him.
He laughed a course spiteful laugh that was rich with gold.
“Ah, so that’s it,” he said. His eyes stayed completely calm and still.
“Miss Price works for the Government, Flackyard. She’s assisting Scotland Yard which is involved with an ongoing European investigation in conjunction with Interpol,” I said, with the hint of a sneer, “into serious criminals, just like you and Caplin. The arrests so far have been impressive to say the least.”
“So what, Mr Dillon — you wouldn’t dare try…”
It was my turn to laugh.
“They sound like famous last words,” Fiona said.
He shrugged. “What a ridiculous notion, it will be quite impossible to connect me to any illegal activities in any way, Miss Price.”
Over Flackyard’s shoulder I could see through the window across the patio.
The red and yellow bird was singing. Over the edge of the flat roof came a foot, slowly, waving from side to side looking for a foothold.
“Tell me, Miss Price, who is behind this outrage?” His voice had become hard with a razor sharp edge. “Perhaps it’s the Partners of Ferran & Cardini.”
“Have they forgotten about the arrangement I have with them regarding a certain currency transaction. After all I’m the only person who can make that possible.”
“At Hawkworth’s suggestion?” I asked.
Flackyard shrugged. “The fool has it all wrong. He just wouldn’t leave it to me to sort out. He always has to interfere.”
“I know exactly what he’s like,” I said.
Fiona, seeing the dangling foot, said. “Please forgive me, Mr Flackyard, but I’ve not had anything to drink since breakfast, is there any chance of some coffee? I just love the way in which they make their coffee here.”
Flackyard clapped his hands twice, the door that we had been shown in through opened, and a servant entered immediately. “Please arrange refreshments for our guests. Of course, I have friends both here, and in England who are very powerful, you know,” he added. “By here you mean Hassan?” I said.
The servant brought a big brass bowl and an ornamental kettle. He set the bowl at Fiona’s feet and poured water over her hands slowly and efficiently, then he repeated the process with me. It is still the Muslim custom before food is eaten. I hoped the servant wouldn’t turn to Flackyard too quickly. I washed my hands slowly and efficiently. The figure that I had seen on the roof was now suspended from the parapet by both hands.
“Actually, Hassan came to see us yesterday shortly after we arrived,” I said casually, trying not to look out of the window. The feet came a few inches lower.
“But, as I told him, I’m here purely as an observer, it’s Miss Price who comes here on behalf of the British Authorities. There are few governments that will hinder her, either.” The feet sought and found the grille of the first floor window.
“Really,” said Flackyard. “How fascinating.”
“Absolutely,” I said. Flackyard smiled. I finished my hand washing as DC Jason Stewart disappeared through the window above. The servant took the brass hand washing bowl over to Flackyard.
“You are an intelligent man,” I said to Flackyard. “You must have known what Caplin and Ferdinand were up to at the house in Sandbanks.”
Flackyard nodded.
I said, “So tell me, what were your impressions of Harry Caplin — and of George Ferdinand?”
Flackyard removed his simple but expensive gold wire spectacles, rubbing the bridge of his nose with forefinger and thumb. “Harry Caplin, well let me see, he’s witty, physically a little over-aware of himself. Naturally charming in a brash and brutishly unsophisticated way.”
“His business?”
“Managed with great care.” Flackyard answered immediately, and then paused. “He obeyed what I imagine are the basic rules of the drug trade.”