'I know,' Kirsty Philips sounded resigned, 'but I haven't been able to change David's mind. Oh, and there's probably going to be some more press coverage. David's contact on the Canterbury paper told a Daily Mail reporter about the story, and he phoned us here yesterday afternoon to talk about it. I think he's doing a story on it in today's edition.'
At that moment a tall, well-built young man with brown curly hair appeared in the lounge and strode straight across to them.
Kirsty stood up to make the introductions. 'David, this is Detective Sergeant Bronson.'
Bronson stood up and shook hands. There was a kind of tension in the man in front of him, a sense of suppressed energy, of forces barely contained.
'Let me guess, Sergeant,' Philips said, as he sat down on the sofa, his voice low and angry. 'A road accident, right? Just one of those things? A British driver in a foreign country and he just makes a Horlicks of steering his car round a gentle bend? Or maybe he was driving on the wrong side of the road? Something like that?'
'David, please don't do this.' Kirsty looked close to tears again.
'It wasn't a gentle bend, actually,' Bronson pointed out.
'It was quite sharp, and on a road your father-in-law probably wasn't familiar with.'
'You've been there, right? You've seen the place where the accident happened?' Philips demanded.
Bronson nodded.
'Well, so have I. Do you think you could have steered a car around that bend without driving into the ravine?'
'Yes, of course.'
'Then why do you suppose my father-in-law, who had an unblemished driving record, who was a member of the Institute of Advanced Motorists, and who I think was one of the safest and most competent drivers I've ever known, couldn't manage to do the same?'
Bronson felt torn. He agreed with David – the circumstances of the accident didn't make sense. But he also knew he had to toe the official line.
'The thing is,' he said, 'we have an eyewitness who observed the whole thing. He says he saw the car swerve off the road, hit some rocks and then crash into the ravine, and his testimony has been accepted by the Moroccan police. I sympathize with your misgivings, but there's really no evidence to suggest that what he described didn't happen.'
'Well, I don't believe a single word any of them are saying. Look, I know you're only doing your job, but there just has to be more to it. I know my parents-in-law didn't die in a simple road accident. And nothing you say will convince me otherwise.'
13
When Bronson left the Philips' hotel, he stopped a few hundred yards down the road at a pavement café and ordered a coffee while he tried to decide what he should do. If he called DCI Byrd and told him he was satisfied the O'Connors had been killed in a freak accident, he knew he could just walk away. But if he voiced his suspicions – and that was really all they were – he guessed he'd be stuck in Rabat for far longer than he wanted.
Not that the city was unpleasant – far from it, in fact. Bronson lifted the cup to his lips and glanced round. The café's tables and chairs were spread across a wide pavement on one side of a spacious boulevard, lined with palm trees. Most of the tables were occupied, and Bronson could hear the slightly guttural sounds of conversation in Arabic alternating with the softer and more melodic accents of French speakers. No, the beautiful weather, café society and relaxed lifestyle of Rabat were undeniably attractive – or would have been if Bronson had been there with Angela. And that thought made the decision for him.
'Sod it,' he muttered to himself. 'I'll just wrap it up.'
He drained the last of his coffee, stood up and walked away from the table, then realized he'd forgotten to pick up his briefcase and turned back. And found himself looking straight at two men wearing traditional jellabas who had just stood up from their table on the far side of the café and were themselves staring directly at him.
Bronson was used to being stared at in Morocco – he was a stranger in a foreign land and more or less expected it – but he had the uncomfortable sensation that these men weren't just looking at him with idle curiosity. Something about their gaze bothered him. But he gave no sign of even noticing them. He simply picked up his briefcase and walked away.
Fifty yards from the café, he stopped at the kerb, waiting to cross the road, and looked in both directions. He wasn't entirely surprised to see the two men walking slowly towards him, and less surprised when they, too, crossed to the far side of the street. Within two hundred yards, he knew without any doubt that they were following him, and one was talking animatedly into a mobile phone. What Bronson didn't know was what he should do about it.
But that decision was taken out of his hands less than half a minute later. As well as the two men behind him, steadily getting closer, Bronson suddenly saw another three men closing on him from the front.
They might just have been three innocent men taking an afternoon stroll, but he doubted it, and he wasn't going to hang around and find out. Bronson took the next side-street, and started running, dodging through the scattering of pedestrians on the pavements. Behind him he heard shouts and the sound of running feet, and knew his instincts had been right.
He took the next turning on the left, then swung right, getting into a rhythm as he picked up the pace. He risked a quick glance behind him. The two men from the café were running hard to keep up with him, perhaps fifty yards back. Behind them, another running figure was visible.
Bronson dived round another corner and saw two men approaching from his left, trying to intercept him. It looked as if they'd guessed which streets he'd take and were trying to cut him off.
He accelerated, but headed directly towards them. He could see them hesitate and slow down, and then he was on them. One of them fumbled in his jellaba, perhaps looking for a weapon, but Bronson gave him no chance.
He slammed his briefcase into the Moroccan's chest, knocking him violently to the ground, then turned to face his companion, just as the man swung a punch at him. Bronson ducked under the blow and rammed his fist into his attacker's stomach.
He didn't wait to see the man tumble to the ground; already he could hear the yells from behind as the other men closed up on him. Two down – at least for a short while – three to go.
Without a backward glance, Bronson took to his heels again, his breath rasping in his throat. He knew he had to finish this, and quickly. He was used to running, but the heat and humidity were getting to him, and he knew he couldn't go much further.
He ducked left, then right, but all the time his pursuers were slowly eroding his lead, catching him up. As Bronson reached a main road, he slowed slightly, scanning the traffic, looking for one particular kind of vehicle. Then he took off again, and ran into the road, weaving between slow-moving cars and trucks.
Perhaps a hundred yards in front of him, a taxi had stopped to let out two passengers, and the instant before the driver pulled away, Bronson wrenched open the back door and leapt inside. He met the man's startled gaze in the interior mirror.
'Airport,' he gasped. 'Quickly.' For good measure he repeated the request in French.
The driver pulled out and accelerated, and Bronson slumped in the seat, sucking in great gulps of air, then looked back through the rear window. About forty yards behind, two figures were running along the pavement, but slowing down as the taxi gathered speed.
Then they started speeding up. Bronson looked through the windscreen to see half a dozen stationary vehicles blocking the road in front. If the taxi stopped, he knew the men would catch him.