The Moses Stone

A sudden feeling of relief flooded through her. She'd known he'd be there, because he'd told her so, and her exhusband was nothing if not reliable, but there'd still been a slight nagging doubt at the back of her mind. Her biggest fear was that something might have happened to him, something that would leave her stranded in Casablanca by herself, and that was a prospect she'd been dreading.

She smiled broadly and started threading her way through the crowds towards him. Bronson spotted her approaching and gave a wave. Then he was right in front of her, his strong arms pulling her unresisting body towards him. For a few moments they hugged, then she stepped back.

'Good flight?' he asked, taking her suitcase and laptop bag.

'Pretty average,' Angela replied, swallowing her pleasure at seeing him again. 'Not enough leg-room, as usual, and the in-flight meal was rubbish. I'm starving.'

'That we can rectify. The car's outside.'

Twenty minutes later they were sitting in a restaurant on the southern outskirts of Casablanca, watching the waiter place a large dish of lamb tajine on the table in front of them.

The restaurant was under half full, but Bronson had been adamant that he didn't want one of the tables by the windows, or close to the door. Instead, he had chosen one right at the back, with a solid wall behind it. And although Angela preferred to sit where she could see the other diners – she'd always enjoyed people-watching – Bronson had insisted on taking the seat that offered a clear view of the door so he could see anyone coming in.

'You're worried about this, aren't you?' she asked.

'Damn right I am. I don't like what's been happening here in Morocco or in London,' Bronson said. 'Something's going on, and the people involved seem to be completely ruthless, so I'm watching our backs. I don't think anyone could have followed us here, but I'm not taking any chances. Now, tell me what happened at your apartment.'

'Just a second.' Angela's mobile had begun ringing inside her handbag, and she quickly fished it out and answered it.

'Thanks,' she said, after a few moments. 'I knew about it. Did the police turn up? I called them when I left the flat.'

There was another pause as the caller explained something to her.

'Good. Thanks again, May. Listen, I'm out of the country for a few days, so could you get in a locksmith, please? I'll settle up with you when I get back.'

Angela closed her mobile and looked at Bronson. 'That was my neighbour in Ealing,' she said. 'No surprises, except that the police did turn up – I wasn't sure they'd bother. My apartment's been thoroughly trashed. Oddly enough, it doesn't look like much, or maybe anything, was taken. May said the TV and stereo are still there, but every drawer and cupboard has been emptied.'

'That sounds familiar,' Bronson said. 'So you scrambled down the fire escape?'

Angela swallowed, and when she spoke again her voice was slightly unsteady. 'Yes, that's right. All I had time to do was grab my handbag and laptop, and then I just ran for it. One of the men . . .' She paused and took a sip of water. 'One of them chased me down it. The other one must have run down the stairs inside the building, because he was waiting for me when I got round to the front.'

'God, Angela. I hadn't realized.' Bronson reached over and took her hands, squeezing them gently. 'How did you get away?'

'I hit him with my laptop bag. It caught the side of his head, and that gave me enough time to get out on to the road. There was a black cab passing, and I ran across and jumped in. The driver saw what was happening and just drove off before the two men could grab me.'

'Thank God for London cabbies.'

She nodded enthusiastically. 'If he hadn't been there, they'd have caught me. There were people about, Chris, lots of pedestrians, but these guys just didn't care. I was terrified.'

'Well, you're safe out here – I hope,' he said.

Angela nodded and sat back in her seat. Explaining what had happened had been almost cathartic, and she felt herself regaining her normal composure.

'The good news is that my laptop seems to have survived the impact. And then I enjoyed a bit of retail therapy at Heathrow, hence the new suitcase and stuff.'

'I hadn't noticed,' Bronson admitted.

'I'm not surprised,' Angela said. 'You're only a man, after all.'

Bronson grinned at her. 'I'll ignore that. I'm really glad you're here, you know.'

'Now, before we start,' Angela said, her face suddenly serious, 'we need to establish the ground rules. You and me, I mean. You're out here because you're trying to find out what happened to the O'Connors, and I'm here because I was frightened about what had happened in London.'

'So what are you saying?'

'We've been getting along better these last few months, but I'm still not ready for the next step. I really don't want to get hurt all over again. So separate rooms – OK?'

Bronson nodded, although Angela could almost taste his disappointment.

'Whatever you want,' he muttered. 'I did book you a separate room at the hotel.'

Angela leant forward and reached for his hand. 'Thank you,' she said. 'I want it to be right for us both.'

Bronson nodded, but still looked concerned. 'One thing you need to understand, Angela. Morocco might not be any safer for us than London,' he said and explained what had happened at the Philips' hotel. 'I told you about that gang of thugs who chased me. I've moved to a different hotel, just in case they'd managed to find out where I was staying, but we'll have to keep a low profile.'

Angela smiled at him. 'I expected that,' she said. 'How's David Philips?'

'He's OK – he didn't even need stitches. He's got a nasty bruise on his forehead, and I guess he's nursing a weaponsgrade headache. Whoever attacked him used something like a cosh.'

'And you don't think it was just a typical hotel theft?'

'No. I checked their room afterwards, and it had obviously been thoroughly searched. The laptop was the only thing missing, and the thief ignored their passports, which were on the desk in the room, and didn't touch their money or the credit cards that David Philips had in his pocket. The theft was almost exactly the same, in fact, as the robbery at their home in Kent. In both cases, it looks as if the thieves were after their computers, nothing else.'

'And that means?'

'Well, neither computer had much intrinsic value, so the thieves must have been after the data on the hard disks, and that means the pictures of the tablet. Can you trust your guy at the British Museum? Because no matter what he thinks about that lump of fired clay, somebody – apparently with international connections – obviously thinks it's important enough to mount almost simultaneous burglaries in two countries, and knock David Philips out cold when he got in their way.'

Angela didn't look entirely convinced. 'I asked Tony Baverstock to take a look at the pictures, and he's one of our most senior ancient-language specialists. You're not seriously suggesting that he's involved, are you?'

'Who else knew about the pictures of the clay tablet? At the museum, I mean?'

'I see what you're getting at. Nobody.'

'So suspect number one has to be Baverstock. Which means he could even have been involved in your burglary as well. More to the point, it also means everything he told you about the tablet might be deliberate misdirection. What did he say, by the way?'

Angela shrugged. 'He thinks the tablet was most likely used in a teaching environment, something like a basic textbook, and he was adamant that it's not valuable.'

Bronson shook his head. 'But it must have some value, because I still think it's likely the O'Connors were killed to recover it.'