The Heat of Betrayal (14 page)

I felt myself welling up, but I held down the sob and managed to say:

‘He's somewhere out there, injured, in desperate need of help. So can we please get out of here and over to Chez Fouad?'

The inspector studied his fingernails for several moments, then said:

‘We will leave for Chez Fouad when we have photographed everything in the room and when we have searched the hotel and are satisfied that your husband's body hasn't been secreted here. And no, you may not go to Fouad's alone. I may not as yet be able to take your passport away from you, but I can have you escorted and followed everywhere in Essaouira. Which is exactly what I am planning to do.'

IT TOOK THEM
over two hours to search the hotel. Every room was opened – and several guests disturbed – as the police, all led by Inspector Moufad, looked under every bed and in every bathtub and insisted on opening every wardrobe. All storage closets were inspected on each of the four floors. The meat locker and the big freezer in the kitchen. The extra-large garbage bins in the rear alley. The staff bedrooms in the basement.

On and on the inspection went, despite my entreaties to let me go to Fouad's accompanied by an officer. The inspector was letting me know that, from this point on, we'd be playing by his rules. He insisted on sending for ‘the official police photographer' to take detailed pictures of the two telltale notes, the two journals, the shredded drawings, the broken chest of drawers, the crimson splatter on the stonework. At one juncture the young cleaner, Mira, came in with a tray of mint tea for the policemen (but Ahmed, accompanying her, insisted on pouring it himself). I could tell immediately that Mira was finding the sight of the destroyed room more than a little unnerving. She was also looking at me with silent trepidation, as if she wanted to tell me something but couldn't with all the officialdom around. I caught her eye and motioned that we could talk in the corridor but she shook her head and hurried off. When the inspector came back into the room I said:

‘We could have spent all this time searching for my husband. Instead we—'

‘Are you telling me how to run this investigation,
madame
?'

‘I just want to find Paul. I'm scared,
monsieur
. Scared for him.'

‘You will be pleased to hear that I've had two of my men scouring the beach. They had our four-by-four, so they were able to drive around ten kilometres down the sands. No sign of your husband . . . unless, of course, he decided to go into the water. Or was pushed.'

I could see the inspector again studying me, trying to fathom how I was dealing with that less-than-veiled accusation, or the thought that perhaps Paul threw himself into the Atlantic with his head haemorrhaging blood. Again I felt the anguish welling up. But I managed to push it away as I met his accusing stare straight on and said:

‘
Vous êtes un homme très sympathique. Très classe
.'

I could see him flinch. Just as I could also see him quickly recover and shoot back:

‘
Vous allez regretter cette parole
.'
You will regret that word.

A moment later the same uniformed officer who'd arrived with the inspector showed up to inform him that the hotel search was complete and nothing had been found.

‘Can we now go to Fouad's?' I demanded.

‘We first need to make an inventory of all the goods you are taking with you.'

This process took another half-hour. Every object I was moving into the new room that Picard found for me down the corridor had to be registered in a police log. After the journals, the papers and notes, the laptop computers, our respective clothes and toiletries had been documented, I was allowed to put the crucial items in a backpack. Picard called Mira back and told her that she should pack up all our clothes and move them with our suitcases to Room 212, and also deal with anything left in the bathroom or elsewhere. Again I sensed that she wanted to make contact with me. Again the presence of others thwarted her.

‘All right, we will now go to Chez Fouad,' Moufad announced.

I hoisted the backpack onto my shoulders.

‘Surely you should leave that behind in your new room,' Picard said.

‘And discover it all not here, but with the police when I return?'

‘I appreciate your confidence,
madame
.'

As we were leaving, Picard asked to speak to me for a moment.

‘I will have to charge you for the new room in which I am putting you until the police allow me to redecorate the one that you and your husband have destroyed.'

‘I had nothing to do with—'

‘I must inform you that, in addition to the five hundred dirhams per night for the new room, I estimate that, to replace the chest of drawers, repaint and repair everything in your old suite . . . it will be around eight thousand dirhams.'

8,000 dirhams was $900. Absurd. Especially as just two of the drawers were smashed, and the hand-painted chest itself remained undamaged. There were only three long blotches of blood on the wall, most of which would come off with soap and hot water. But I was too stressed to argue with this oily little man. So I said:

‘I will pay for the extra room tonight. We have paid the entire month for the suite in advance. Your lawyer can speak to my lawyer about the cost of the alleged damages.'

‘That is not satisfactory,
madame
.'

‘Nor is your attempt to gouge me for money at a time like this.'

I walked off down the stairs to the foyer, the hefty backpack strapped across my shoulders.

When I reached the front desk part of me wanted to make a break for it; to dash out into the dark alleys and byways of Essaouira and run to Fouad's and find my husband sitting there, his head bandaged, nursing a glass of red wine, sketching mournfully, a sad smile crossing his face; me rushing into his arms, so relieved to find him alive, willing for the next few days to push aside the terrible things that had caused all this madness, and simply be happy that he was out of danger. Even though the other part of me seriously doubted I could stay in this marriage. And that gut feeling was overshadowed by the guilt I felt about springing the trap on him, which I'd known would send him into a downward spiral. That was the worst part of all this. Had I simply confronted him, face to face, with the urologist's bill, at least we could have yelled at each other and worked out some sort of resolution, even if it meant the end of us as a couple. But instead I took the cruel option. Leaving those documents out, accompanied by my note suggesting he should die . . . that was vindictive. Like most attempts at revenge the blowback had now badly singed me.

A tap on the shoulder. The inspector was by my side.

‘OK, we can go now,' he said.

‘If it turns out he isn't there . . .'

‘Then he isn't there.'

I checked my watch: nearly half-past nine. Hours since he fled the room, unseen by anyone. As we began to walk down the back lanes towards the souk my gaze was fixed on everyone who came towards us, who lurked in a doorway or was slumped against a wall. This must be how the parents of a missing child feel: the desperate horror of knowing that the centre of their lives has disappeared, and hoping against hope that he or she will suddenly stumble out in front of them, ending the nightmare from which there is no other release.

It took less than ten minutes to reach Chez Fouad. The six tables on the little veranda out front were all packed. Fouad was taking an order when he caught sight of me. From the way he tensed – and then tried quickly to mask his distress – I sensed that he must know something about Paul's whereabouts. But when the inspector approached him – flashing his badge, giving him the suspicious once-over – Fouad played dumb.

‘Of course I know Monsieur Paul,' he said. ‘One of my best customers. Always sits at the corner table over there. We have a collection of his drawings behind the bar.'

‘And the last time you saw him here?' Moufad asked.

‘When he left at four o'clock.'

‘You're certain he didn't return?' I asked.

‘
Madame
, it's me who poses the questions,' Moufad said.

‘And it's my husband who's missing. I also know Fouad, so . . .'

‘When Monsieur Paul said goodbye to me at four that was the last time I saw him today.'

‘Surely someone has seen him since then,' I said.

‘I've been on duty here since three. Had Monsieur Paul shown up again I would have seen him.'

‘Could you ask any of the other waiters?'

‘I am the waiter, as you well know,
madame
. Had he been here I would tell you.'

As he said this I glanced down and saw him rubbing his right thumb manically against his forefinger. The inspector was glancing elsewhere. When he informed Fouad that he wanted to ‘look around the kitchen and any storage room', Fouad said he had carte blanche to search wherever he wanted. As soon as Moufad had gone inside the café I turned to Fouad and said:

‘I know you know where Paul is. You need to tell me – is he all right?'

‘Can you come back later?'

‘Not easily. They have a cop positioned at the door of the hotel, under orders to follow me everywhere. They think I hurt Paul.'

‘Find a way of getting back here before midnight.'

‘Please, please, let me know if my husband is OK.'

But the inspector emerged from inside, asking Fouad to come with him.

‘Be back before midnight,' Fouad whispered, then disappeared. I was momentarily free of my police escort, but knew if I vanished now it would just raise more suspicion. But how would I be able to get out of the hotel later and find my way here?

There was a moment when I thought I could dash off into the night now, hide somewhere for an hour, then creep back and learn the truth from Fouad. But as soon as I took a few steps away from the café, a uniformed police officer emerged from the shadows. Saluting me he said:

‘
Madame
, I have been instructed to ensure that you don't leave this immediate area. So please return to your table and await the inspector.'

I had no choice but to do as ordered. When Moufad returned a few minutes later with Fouad he told me that he had searched the entire inside of the café, and there was no sign whatsoever of my husband's presence.

‘I will now have you escorted back to the hotel. I will be sending my men to the bus station and the taxi rank to see if he tried to leave town. We have our contacts there, so if he did board a bus or arrange a car to take him elsewhere we will know.'

‘And if I want to go out again?'

‘Then one of my men will accompany you.'

The officer who'd stopped me from leaving the café took me back to Les Deux Chameaux. When I walked past the front desk Ahmed informed me that Mira had moved all our clothes and personal effects to the new room, and that Monsieur Picard was demanding 500 dirhams now before I would be allowed to go upstairs. I handed over the cash, telling Ahmed:

‘Please inform Monsieur Picard that I consider him to be nothing less than
un connard
.'

I could see that Ahmed was both shocked by my choice of insult and struggling not to grin in agreement. He insisted on carrying the heavy backpack upstairs and I followed him to Room 212. It was tiny – a small cell with a narrow single bed, a sink, a view of the wall in a nearby alleyway, an elderly bathroom with peeling paint.

‘Couldn't you find me something else?'

‘Monsieur Picard told me that you have to sleep here tonight. When the boss returns tomorrow—'

‘I will call him “
un connard
” to his face. Could you please ask Mira to bring me some mint tea.'

‘
Très bien,
madame
.'

As soon as he closed the door, I sat down on the bed, threw open the backpack and dumped out its contents. I reached immediately for Paul's journal. Its rear pocket revealed a shock: my husband's passport. On one level this was a relief, as it indicated that he wasn't planning to leave town or country. But like me, Paul went nowhere in Essaouira without this important piece of documentation. Why had he dashed off without it? Unless, in the anguish of discovering that I had learned his nasty little secret, he simply ran out, not knowing what to do next. Which increased my sense of guilt tenfold.

Then another discovery in the same pocket hit me like a donkey kick. A small three-by-five photograph of a young woman, no more than early twenties. Moroccan, yet with certain features that hinted she might be of mixed parentage. A rather beautiful young woman with a cascade of jet-black curls. Slim, perfect skin, lightly rouged lips, stylish: a tight black T-shirt and jeans that managed to highlight her long-leggedness. Moroccan-French I decided – and one who could easily be labelled a heartbreaker.

I stared at the photo in quiet shock for several moments. This deepened further when I turned it over and saw the following inscription:

From your Samira

Absence always makes the heart grow fonder.

With all my love

S xxx

She now had a name. Samira. A young woman – almost four decades his junior – who had sent a photograph of herself to my husband, expressing her love for him.

‘
L'absence rend le coeur plus affectueux
.'

Not just her love for Paul, but a statement that being apart from him was causing her to yearn.

Samira.
La belle Samira
. Whose handwriting was highly calligraphic – as if she'd used a special italics pen to write this declaration, signing it with a little heart next to her name. I tossed the photograph onto the bed, away from me, my head reeling.

I grabbed his journal. Page after page of his tortured penmanship. With Mira arriving any moment bringing tea I didn't have time to decipher it. Instead I whisked through the entire journal, looking for some sort of indicator of where this Samira might be found.