Moroccan Traffic
Moroccan Traffic
First published in 1991
© Estate of Dorothy Dunnett; House of Stratus 1991-2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Dorothy Dunnett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
ISBN: 075513155X EAN 9780755131556
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This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
The Dorothy Dunnett Society can be contacted via
http://dorothydunnett.org
Dorothy, Lady Dunnett, was born in Dunfermline, Scotland in 1923, the only daughter of an engineer, Alexander Halliday, and his wife Dorothy. Whilst gifted academically and musically, she was not encouraged to further her talents by attending university, and instead joined the civil service in Scotland as an assistant press officer. In 1946, she married Alastair Dunnett, who was at the time the chief press officer to the Secretary of State for Scotland. He went on to become editor of
The Scotsman
newspaper, whilst she later worked on a statistics handbook for the Board of Trade.
After a brief spell in Glasgow, the couple settled in Edinburgh where their home became a centre for hospitality and entertaining, mostly in support of Scottish art and culture. Dunnett had also taken evening classes at the Edinburgh College of Art and the Glasgow School of Art, and from 1950 onwards she established a prominent career as a portrait painter, being exhibited at both the Royal Scottish Academy and the Royal Academy. She was also an accomplished sculptress.
Her interest in writing developed during the 1950’s. Her own tastes took her to historical novels and it was her husband who eventually suggested she write one of her own, after she had complained of running out of reading material. The result was
The Game of Kings
, an account of political and military turmoil in sixteenth-century Scotland. Whilst turned down for publication in the UK, it was eventually published in the USA where it became an instant best seller. Other titles, such as the
Lymond Chronicles
and
House of Niccolo
series followed and which established her international reputation.
She also successfully turned her hand to crime, with the
Johnson Johnson
series. He is an eccentric artist, famous for bifocals, and of course amateur detective. All of the titles in the series somehow also feature the yacht ‘Dolly’, despite ranging widely in location from Scotland, to Ibiza, Rome, Marrakesh, Canada, Yugoslavia, Madeira and The Bahamas. There is plenty of sailing lore for the enthusiast, but not so much it detracts from the stories genre; crime. Each of them is told by a woman whose profession explains her role in the mystery and we learn very little about
Johnson
himself, save for the fact he is somewhat dishevelled in appearance.
Dorothy Dunnett somehow fitted in her many careers and voluntary work, along with supporting her husband’s endeavours, yet still found the time to correspond widely with her readers from all over the world, and was often delighted to meet with them personally. She held the rare distinction of having a Dorothy Dunnett Readers’ Association formed during her lifetime and collaborated with it as much as possible. A writer who has been described as one of great wit, charm, and humanity, yet whose work displayed toughness, precision, and humour, she was appointed to an OBE in 1992 for services to literature and became Lady Dunnett in 1995 when her husband was knighted. She died in 2001, being survived by her two sons; Ninian and Mungo.
This is the seventh novel about the international adventures of Johnson Johnson (his first name is the same as his second), the portrait painter, yachtsman and unpaid official investigator.
Son of an English career diplomat, Johnson joined the Royal Navy after university and art college. From Naval Intelligence he was recruited to the department he now serves, whose head is a friend of his family. His flat in London is also his studio.
His present way of life dates back to the death of Judith, his wife, in a mysterious crash from which he himself escaped with serious injuries. (The events immediately after the accident are told in the novel
Tropical Issue,
previously entitled
Dolly and the Bird of Paradise
.) Since then, as a trouble shooter and government watchdog, he has drifted about the world on his yacht
Dolly,
painting the portraits of the famous, and welcome everywhere as an amiable if dishevelled guest. Despite his self-imposed detachment, he has a ruthless knack of altering the lives of the young women who narrate each adventure, very few of whom understand him at all. What other purpose he may have is at present unclear. The order of publication of the Johnson novels is not the strict chronological order of the stories so far, which begins with
Tropical Issue
. The four adventures that follow, which can be read in any order, are
Rum Affair
,
Ibiza Surprise
,
Operation Nassau
and
Roman Nights
. The events in
Split Code
(previously called
Dolly and the Nanny Bird
), which is next, take place a few months before the action of
Moroccan Traffic
, the present novel.
‘Bifocal spectacles!’ shouted my mother, coughing heavily over her daisywheel printer. ‘Now my daughter wastes her time on some self-employed painter with no index-linked company pension?’
The dog in the next house began barking.
I took off and hung up my coat. This is my welcome, arriving bombed out from my office. I yelled, ‘He paid for my lunch. He fed me better than you do.’ I have strong, healthy lungs. I don’t know where I could have got them from.
She is a devil, my mother. She went on shrieking from inside the sitting-room. ‘And so this painter goes blind? What happens to you and the children?’ The printer volleyed out some professor’s closely spaced argument (she types for a living) while I shut the door and looked about for my supper.
I have no children; and after the events of that day, I shouldn’t have counted on Johnson to father them. Whoever fathered my children would receive my mother as mother-in-law within a few skid-marked weeks of the pregnancy test. My widowed parent, with her business training cassettes and her annotated back numbers of the
Woman Executive Quarterly.
My mother, who has taken, for the sake of my career, seminars on everything from The Team Management Wheel to (providentially) a teach-in on Plans for Disaster. My mother is fat and fifty and nosy. I hate her.
I knew of Johnson Johnson, of course, before he came to the office that morning. I’d drafted the letter that commissioned him to paint the Chairman in oils. I’d drawn up the company cheque with four zeros on it. After that, I’d gone on vacation (Treasures of France: singles and retired people welcome), and forgotten all about Mr. J. Johnson. Until I returned, fit and fresh to serve my company.
It is a well-paid position, that of Executive Secretary to the Chairman of Kingsley Conglomerates. Their central office in London is a four-storey building in tasteful caramel glass. On the third floor are the Chairman’s suite and the Boardroom, fitted with leather, mahogany and romantic photographs of electrical domestic machinery. Beyond that is an outer office occupied by me, by Sir Robert’s Personal Assistant and by Trish, our personal typist. When I am not there, Trish looks after the Chairman.
I enjoy healthy holidays away from my absorbing and interesting work. If I were to dislike holidays (which I don’t), it would be because of what I might be missing. When I got back to the office that morning, I saw at once that the Special Board Minutes had gone, and the Acquisition Subcommittee Minutes were absent, and so were a few other files my mother suggested I look at. Even the Boardroom was locked. Then I noticed that the morning mail had also vanished, which meant that Sir Robert’s PA had got into town even faster than I had.
If he knew I was after his job, Val Dresden didn’t show it that morning. Emerging from Sir Robert’s room with the post, he came across in his usual manner. ‘Who do I see? Wendy back in the Wendy house!
Divinely
tanned, and a new lacy ruffle. Were the beach boys too luscious?’ He bent at the hips and gave me a deep, humming kiss on the cheek. He had changed his colour rinse and his aftershave. Trish, who had only just sauntered in, sat down and began to fix her hair, surveying us both through her mirror. She was wearing a designer top and real pearls. RWT, Dresden calls her when chatting her up. It stands for Rich White Trish, and she likes it.
I said, ‘The beach boys are always lovely in Paris. So what’s been happening? Sir Robert is early?’
Val flipped some mail on my desk, covered with ticks and scribbled instructions. ‘Slept in the office last night. Don’t go rushing in, sweetie: he’s shaving. Wants to be fresh and pretty, does Bobs.’ Sir Robert thinks the world of Val Dresden.
The diary smelt of chocolate and described Sir Robert’s engagements in Trish’s large childish writing. I flipped through the two weeks I’d sacrificed.