Thirteen in the Medina Read online

  He paused. Then leaned towards me, looked me straight in the eye and asked if anything odd had happened recently. Any little thing?

  I thought about it. ‘Gordon’s made a grab for my bag a time or two,’ I said slowly. I almost added that I had caught Bob holding it once until I remembered the note he had tucked inside. ‘And last night someone broke into my room.’ I put a hand out to still Keith who had started to protest. ‘I know you think it was part of my imagination but someone had been in my room. Things had been moved.’

  Graham nodded. He told us that the suspects were trying to find out who I was. They were sure I was not one of them but because of my interest in fossils they were curious about me.

  ‘It was almost as if you were claiming to be one of them and trying to make contact,’ he explained. ‘When they realised you weren’t one of them, they took you to be me, an investigator sent to track them down. Which did make me consider Bob for a while, as I noticed he was rather attentive towards you at times -’ I squirmed a little in embarrassment ‘- and I considered the fact that he might have been trying to gain your confidence so that he could check out your true identity. But then I decided he was just a lonely, single traveller taking a chance that so were you.’ At this description of Bob I refused to feel guilty that perhaps I had been a little offhand in trying to deflect his attentions.

  Graham then described how they had arranged for a colleague to come to the hotel and try and gain access to my room. He had been going to bribe a chambermaid or room service waiter but when the suspect overheard me saying to Keith that I had problems with my door last night they contacted their operative and he managed to bribe the maintenance man to switch places. Whilst changing the batteries he had secretly charged up another card in order to gain entry to my room later during the evening whilst we were out at the square.

  Graham explained that the smugglers now thought that I was from the authorities and were looking for my passport or papers to prove who I was, as they had been unable to take them from my bag on other occasions, such as when it had been left unattended by the pool.

  ‘Anyway,’ concluded Graham, ‘my wanting to talk to you tonight is for two reasons. Firstly, now I know that you are not the bad guys I would like to call on you two for help.’ I looked across at Keith. We both nodded a little tentatively in agreement. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I know something is going to happen but I don’t know exactly what and I don’t know exactly when, but when it does I can rely on you two to help me. And secondly,’ he paused and was staring at me intently again and I knew this was it and I wasn’t going to like it. ‘To warn you Carrie, that if they still think you are me, you could be in danger and should be on your guard. They have tried once before – that attempt to shove you in the path of the sentries. It might have been a slightly clumsy effort but they took whatever opportunity arose; everyone else was distracted looking at the horses.’

  I spent the rest of the evening pre-occupied with my thoughts whilst the other members of the group were making merry, celebrating our final night in Morocco. On the one hand I was pleased to see Graham fit and well, on the other hand I was disturbed to think that not only did he consider that I might possibly have been a villain but that the actual villain suspected me!

  Whilst it was reassuring to think that Graham and his pals were on my side, it was a sobering thought, as I gazed across the bar, that my first line of defence was Keith. We had not so far had time to discuss our meeting with Graham, as it did not seem appropriate to do so over the dining table with everyone present, but watching Keith chatting gaily with Hugh and Phil, he did not seem at all concerned that thugs could be out to get me. He had ridiculed my fears that someone had been in my room last night and yet Graham had confirmed that I had been right. I resolved to ensure that I locked the door that night – and barricade the doorway if necessary with the dressing table chair.

  When we had left Graham he had asked us not to mention our meeting to anyone, including Karen, but said he would catch up with the group sometime the following day. I felt that it was going to be a long night.

  The late night air was still warm as we walked back to our rooms. Keith slung his arm around my shoulders and I thought it highly likely that he was a little tipsy. Our faltering steps gradually wound to a halt and we stood there in the midst of the shrubbery bordering the pool. Strangely enough the guard was nowhere to be seen.

  Keith wavered, a little unsteadily on his feet, and I put my hands one either side of his waist to steady him. He dipped forward so that our foreheads were touching. I could feel his breath on my cheek. From somewhere behind us I could hear Diane’s strident tones as she berated Larry for some misdemeanour. I pulled Keith a little closer.

  Diane had tried her best to flirt with him all evening for the final time and despite his cheery mood and ebullient behaviour he had not responded, remaining firmly beyond her reach, drinking with the other men.

  Footsteps sounded behind us on the path.

  ‘Come on you two, get a room!’ Phil joked as he staggered past us. It was just as well we had a blank day ahead of us, a morning lazing by the pool before our afternoon flight home. There were going to be some sore heads tomorrow.

  ‘You know, I’ve been thinking,’ Keith began, picking his words slowly. ‘About what Graham said. And I think…’ he hesitated. I fidgeted slightly in his grasp, desperate to mock the fact that he had been thinking, but curious about the result all the same. ‘I think… if Graham thinks…’

  I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stand outside. Like just about everyone else I had had more to drink than on previous evenings and my bladder was now distracting me by making its presence felt.

  Keith rubbed his beard against the side of my face. It felt rough and prickly and surprisingly re-assuring. He paused while Diane and Larry walked passed, Larry slouching a little, his hands in his pockets, Diane clattering on her heels (I ask you – who packs high heels in a suitcase?) She glared in our general direction and I am sure that the air temperature dropped a couple of degrees.

  After a few more seconds Keith cleared his throat and began again. ‘If Graham thinks that you are in danger, I think I should come to your room tonight.’

  ‘You come to my room most nights.’ I replied, not really thinking.

  He made a sound of impatience and squeezed me a little. ‘No, that’s not what I meant,’ he said, swaying a little. ‘I should stay with you tonight, to keep an eye on things.’

  I did not say anything. I thought of lots though. Mainly how typical that something that I might have wanted (might have?) to happen all holiday was happening now on the last evening; and the only reason it was happening now was because Graham thought I was in danger. Besides, I wasn’t sure I liked the way he phrased that –‘keep an eye on things’ why didn’t he want to keep an eye on me?

  Keith shuffled his feet on the path and relaxed his hold on me, taking my silence for disagreement.

  I waited while another couple wandered passed, arms around each other, chatting and laughing and obviously very much in love. They paused a little further along the path and kissed. Why couldn’t we be happy like that? I asked myself. Because we are good friends, and nothing more, I silently replied.

  In the end my bladder decided my next move for me. I wrapped my arm around Keith’s waist, more in support than proposition and suggested we go inside for a drink of water to clear our heads.

  However, we agreed that Keith should stay, more by tacit agreement than lengthy discussion. It was late and more convenient than him tripping across the corridor to his own room. In a way it was no different from previous evenings when he had clambered into bed bedside me; he just slipped out of his baggy shorts and drew his Tee shirt over his head and lay down.

  I had a few more clothes to get rid of but managed it as discretely as possible, wondering why I had been so nervous of this moment for so long. There was nothing to it.

  Then Keith put his arm around me, with his b
eard tickling my shoulder he cuddled me close and whispered in my ear, ‘So, come on then, tell me about Enzo.’

  Try as I might I could not settle. It was not the fact that there was also another person in the bed – Keith had previously climbed in beside me, if only briefly – but there was this nagging sensation that I was missing something that kept me awake.

  Earlier in the summer when someone had broken into my garage my friend and work colleague Pat had jokingly included Keith in the list of likely suspects (not that it was a long list). Her reasoning being that in TV films the bad guy is not the obvious creepy one with the spotty skin and halitosis but the charming, courteous, helpful, handsome young man who keeps close to the heroine, not to keep her safe but to keep an eye on what she is doing; the same reasoning as in the theory that the murderer is the person who found the body – often due to nervousness or keenness he or she returns to the scene of the crime.

  Pat had joked about Keith being the culprit as he ticked all these boxes, being helpful – he fixed the damage – and I for one find him attractive. But what, she had pointed out, did I really know about him? His family? His background other than the fact that he worked in a nearby store to where our office is situated? I had even contemplated the fact that he might actually be Colin’s father and not his uncle as he claimed, as he seemed to be constantly babysitting.

  I still know very little about Keith, but have recently discovered he seems to have a penchant for older women, despite his claims to be merely conducting innocent conversations.

  But that was not the thought that was keeping me awake, not tonight, whilst he slept beside me.

  Nor was it the thought that whoever had broken into my room last night still had a key that they could try and use again tonight; I would not be the first tourist to be murdered in her bed. But what did I really know about Graham?

  He claimed to be some sort of fossil expert working for an Art and Antiquities Department – but for which one? Where? He alleged to have checked me out with Enzo, a man whom I knew to be a genuine good guy. But what if the bad people, whoever they are, had somehow managed to get hold of Enzo, interrogate him (he is Sicilian after all so I was thinking Mafia bad guys here) and he had mentioned me, or an English girl and these crooks had somehow managed to link him to me. Just because Graham seems to know an awful lot about fossils does not necessarily make him a good guy – the smuggler must know a thing or two about them as well.

  He may have pointed out that various people had disappeared at odd times during the tour, including our tour leader Abdul, when they could have been meeting contacts and he also pointed the finger at Hugh explaining that this time the agent might be male -

  But Graham had gone missing for a couple of days under the guise of suffering from severe D&V. He says it was to report to his bosses but he was rather vague on that point – just who are his bosses?

  And the night when I opened my window in the hotel, after the smell from the next room had invaded mine via the air conditioning, and I had sort of overheard a conversation outside. At the time I had been fixated on the possible thought that Keith was having a moonlight tryst with Diane but one of the men was wearing a large hat similar in style to the one which Graham sports; it had been difficult to define in the shadows.

  Both Carole and Graham had fought over the scrap of paper that fell out of the jacket pocket I had modelled at the leather shop, and I was sure that he had lied about it being “just padding;” I remembered seeing numbers written on it.

  He stated that one of the felons has medical knowledge and posed as a retired nurse, pointing the finger at both Nancy and Diane whose husbands are professional medics, as well as Carole.

  But his wife, Karen, has medical knowledge, working as a theatre nurse.

  He had known about the phony maintenance man breaking into my room.

  I was unhappy that he had cast suspicion on people like Nancy and Ann who had been kind to me. Was the little charade this evening a ruse to pull the wool over my eyes, a double bluff to divert suspicion from himself? After all, don’t the police often use the ruse of allowing people, often family members or close friends, to appear in television appeals for help following a murder or violent crime in the hope that they say or do something to incriminate themselves?

  Someone on this tour is a crook, a likely fossil smuggler, who possibly thinks I am an investigator on their trail, but who?

  And who can I turn to for help and support, other than sleeping beauty snoring softly beside me, a man who for all his faults came through for me earlier this summer – could I count on his support again?

  Therefore, before I had climbed into bed I not only locked the door but also dragged across the chair from the desk and wedged that in place to prevent anyone entering. Just as a precautionary measure, I told myself.

  Chapter Seventeen – Sunday - Going back home

  I eventually slept surprisingly well, considering all my concerns. (Were there really bad guys out to get me? Would I snore or talk in my sleep revealing embarrassing secrets?). When I awoke I lay quietly for a while afraid to move or breathe too deeply in case I disturbed Keith. He was sleeping on his back but had obviously recently turned over; his beard on the left side of his face was flat where he had been laying on it.

  Inevitably, I needed the bathroom. I slipped out of bed and, collecting my clean clothes for the day, headed for the shower. After a quick wash I emerged clean and fresh, and into an empty room. The indent on the pillow and the faint suggestion of his cologne lingering in the air were the only evidence that Keith had actually been there.

  And that was another thing that set me thinking – when had Keith started wearing cologne? Men with beards don’t need aftershave.

  I looked round the room gathering together my toiletries preparatory to packing my suitcase for the final time (and not in a vain effort to see if he has hiding behind the curtains).

  When I arrived in the breakfast room Keith was already there, sitting with Hugh and Nancy. He waved me over to join them.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked as if he had absolutely no idea that I had spent the whole of the previous night in his company.

  I placed my cardi across the back of the chair and laid my room key down as I admitted that I had, and then went to get some juice and cereal.

  With most of the day vacant of planned activities, bar lazing by the pool reading, once the packing had been completed, before our transport arrived in the late afternoon to take us to the airport, breakfast turned into a long and leisurely affair. Added to which this was the last included meal of our trip until we ate on the plane (and who knew what that meal would be) so by tacit consent our little group seemed intent on stocking up on sustenance that would last us as long as possible.

  Therefore, after cereal I had eggs, bacon and mushrooms, then pancakes and with my third cup of tea I contemplated the pastries. In the end I managed five cups of tea before the urn ran out of water.

  My case packed, I surveyed the room to ensure that I had collected everything. I still felt a little violated considering the prowler who had been in two nights previously looking through my belongings. I sighed and checked once more that my clothes for wearing on the plane were safely tucked away in my rucksack, ready to change into at the last minute, and prepared to take my case to the secure holding room. I squeezed my book and bottle of water into my rucksack as well, and went in search of a sun lounger by the pool.

  At first I found it hard to concentrate on my book; thoughts of Enzo kept creeping unbidden into my head. I had been wandering around Catania with a little old lady named Millie when he had approached, riding up to us on his bicycle. Millie had been instantly smitten by his dark brown eyes, greying curly hair and easy Mediterranean charm. He had offered to show us some sites and Millie had declared that that was not a euphemism and instantly agreed.

  We had then spent a pleasant hour in his company strolling through the fish market (Millie had her photo taken standing n
ext to a dangling sword fish, reminiscent of Keith and the camel’s head – funny that I had not remembered Enzo then) ending at the Piazza Duomo with its lava sculpture of an elephant, which had been the meeting point for the rest of the group. After that we had met up again and it soon became clear that our encounters had not been by chance but skilfully engineered by Enzo who eventually admitted his reasons, which were not, as Millie had avowed that he had fallen instantly in love with me, but professional because he was tracking someone in our group whom he suspected of being an antiquity smuggler.

  It was also a little odd that whilst walking through the enclosed spaces of the various medinas I had not recalled how he had come to my rescue after I got hopelessly lost in the concrete maze in Donnafugata; I must have blanked that ordeal from my memory. I was pleased that he remembered me.

  My recollections were rudely interrupted by another easy going young man with dark brown eyes, as with a long drawn out screech, Keith dragged a sun lounger next to mine. Reluctantly I left the warm sun of Sicily in the past and returned to the present, gazing across just in time to see him flop, seemingly exhausted after his momentary efforts, full length onto the chair. He raised a bronzed arm and wiped his sweaty brow. Beads of perspiration twinkled in his beard.

  I instantly forgave him as he smiled at me and announced, ‘Phew, our last day in the sun! Where are we going for our next holiday?’

  My pleasure was short lived, however and I never had the chance to reply as Diane, clad in her pristine white swimsuit, appeared in the same manner as Mr Benn’s shopkeeper and cooingly beseeched if Keith could also fetch her a lounger. We both watched Keith as he obliged, uttering little grunts as he manoeuvred the chair into position. I mentally measured the distance he parked it from his own chair, to ensure that it was at least, if not greater than, the distance he had placed that chair from mine.