Kirsty nodded. 'She's always been good to us. A very competent woman.'
'She sounds it. Where's your husband, by the way?'
'He nipped up to our room just before you arrived. He should be down any minute.'
As she said this, Kirsty glanced towards the lobby, and gave a sudden start. 'David,' she called out, and jumped to her feet.
David Philips was staggering across the lobby, a trickle of blood running unheeded down his cheek as he weaved from side to side.
Bronson and Kirsty reached him at almost the same moment. They grabbed his arms and led him across to a chair in the bar.
'What the hell happened? Did you fall or something?' Kirsty demanded, her fingers probing at the wound on his forehead.
'Ouch! That hurts, Kirsty,' Philips muttered, pulling her hand away. 'And no, I didn't fall. I was quite definitely pushed.'
'I don't think you'll need stitches, but that's a very nasty bruise,' Bronson said, looking closely at the wound.
The barman appeared beside them, clutching a handful of tissues. Bronson took them, and asked the man to bring a glass of water.
'I'd prefer something stronger,' Philips muttered.
'It's not for you to drink,' Bronson said.
'And a brandy,' Kirsty called out to the man's retreating back.
When the barman returned, Philips sipped the brandy while Angela dampened the tissues in the water and gently cleaned away the blood from his face and the wound itself.
'The skin's broken, obviously,' she said, looking at the injury, 'but the cut's not big enough for stitches. That should help stop the bleeding,' she said, folding another few tissues and placing the wad over the wound. 'Just hold it in place. Now tell us what happened.'
'I was in our room,' Philips said, 'and there was a knock on the door. I opened it and some guy hit me over the head, hard. He didn't say a word, just knocked me cold. When I came round, he'd gone and so had your laptop.'
Kirsty looked at Bronson, clearly terrified. 'They're after our computers, aren't they?' she demanded.
Bronson ignored her question. 'I've just heard there's been a burglary at your home,' he told David. 'The thieves took your desktop machine.'
'Oh, bloody hell.'
'How old were your PCs?' Bronson asked.
'We bought them about three years ago,' David Philips said. 'Why?'
'That makes them antique,' Bronson said flatly, turning back to face Kirsty. 'A three-year-old computer's only worth a couple of hundred pounds at best. And that means whoever carried out these two burglaries wasn't after the computers, but what was on their hard disks – the emails your mother sent and the pictures she took.'
'So do you still think the car crash was just a simple traffic accident?' David Philips asked.
Bronson shook his head. 'Definitely not. It looks to me like you've been targeted, and that can only be because of the pictures your mother-in-law took out here in Rabat. Nothing else makes sense. Have you sorted out the repatriation?'
David Philips nodded.
'Right,' Bronson said. 'I think you should go back home as soon as possible. And watch your backs while you're out here. Right now you've only got a headache. Next time, you might not be so lucky.'
Bronson got up to leave, then looked back at the two of them. 'I've got one other question. If I'm right and the thieves were after your data – the photographs and other stuff – did you have copies on the other machine?'
David Philips nodded. 'Yes. The emails were only on Kirsty's laptop, but I copied the photographs my motherin- law took on to the desktop. It's a belt-and-braces form of back-up, really – we've always done that, regularly duplicated the data on both machines. So whoever stole the computers will now have pictures of the fight they witnessed in the souk and photographs of the clay tablet that Margaret picked up. And now the computers have been stolen, all our evidence has gone.'
20
Angela stepped inside her apartment and closed the door behind her. She was carrying two bags of shopping, which she took into the kitchen, then walked through into her bedroom to get changed. She pulled on a pair of jeans and jumper, returned to the kitchen and put away her shopping, then made a coffee. She was on her way into the lounge when she heard a faint knock from outside the apartment.
Angela stopped and for a couple of seconds just stared at the door. It hadn't sounded like someone knocking, more like something knocking against it. She put down her drink on the hall table, walked across to the door and peered through the spy-hole.
Her view was distorted, but the bulky shapes of two men outside her door were clear enough. One of them was in the act of raising a jemmy or crowbar to insert between the door and the jamb. And the other man was holding what looked like a pistol.
'Dear God,' Angela muttered, and stepped back, feeling her pulse starting to race.
With fingers made clumsy by nerves, she slipped the security chain into place, though she knew that wouldn't hold up the burglars for very long. If they'd brought a crowbar, they would probably have a bolt-cutter as well.
Her drink and almost everything else forgotten, she ran down the hall and into her bedroom, scooping up her handbag en route. She grabbed a warm jacket from her wardrobe, slipped her feet into a pair of trainers, picked up her laptop bag, checked that she had her passport, mobile and purse in her handbag, stuffed the phone charger in as well, and unlocked the back door of her flat, which gave access to the fire escape that ran down the back of the building.
She glanced down, checking that nobody was waiting at the bottom of the steel staircase, and pulled the door closed behind her. As she did so, she heard a cracking sound from inside her apartment, then a sharp snap that she guessed was the security chain being cut.
She didn't hesitate, just started running down the fire escape as fast as she could, glancing back up towards her apartment door every few steps. She was barely halfway to the street when two figures emerged. She saw them look straight at her, and then one of them started pounding down the fire escape, the impacts of his shoes making the metal staircase ring and shudder.
'Dear God,' Angela murmured again, and moved even faster, jumping the last few steps to each of the steel platforms as she neared the ground. But she could almost feel that her pursuer was gaining on her.
She hit the ground running, dived around the side of the building and headed for the street, where she hoped desperately she'd find crowds of people.
As she reached the corner of her apartment block, a man stepped out from the front of the building, his arms stretched wide as he grabbed for her.
For one heart-stopping moment she felt his hand grasping at her jacket, then she span round, swinging her laptop bag with all her strength. The heavy bag smashed into the side of his face and the man grunted with pain and staggered backwards, almost losing his footing on the damp grass. Angela sprinted past him, through the open pedestrian gate and out on to the pavement.
A handful of people were walking down the street, and she immediately saw a single black cab cruising down the road, its light illuminated. Angela whistled and waved her arm frantically at the driver, then looked behind her. The two men were still running after her, now only about twenty yards back.
The cab pulled into the kerb and stopped. Angela sprinted the last few yards, wrenched open the door and climbed in the back.
The driver had been watching through his window, and the instant the back door closed he powered the vehicle out into the traffic, directly in front of an approaching car whose driver had to hit the brakes hard to avoid a collision, and sounded a long indignant blast on his horn.