10

'This,' Talabani said in English, 'is Hafez Aziz, and he's the man who saw the accident. He only speaks Tamazight, so I'll have to translate for you.'

Bronson was in another interview room at the Rabat police station. On the other side of the table was a short, slim Moroccan wearing faded blue jeans and a white shirt.

For the next few minutes, Jalal Talabani translated what Aziz said, sentence by sentence, and at the end of it Bronson knew no more than he had before. Aziz patiently repeated exactly the same story that Talabani had told him earlier, and what he said sounded to Bronson like a statement made by an honest man.

He said he'd seen the Renault approaching the bend, travelling very quickly. He'd watched the car start to make the turn, but then swing wide and hit the rocks at the side of the road. He'd seen it fly into the air, tumble sideways over the edge and vanish from sight. He'd stopped his car at the scene and called the police, then scrambled down into the wadi to try to help the occupants, but it was already too late.

There was only one question Bronson really wanted to ask, but he kept his mouth shut and just thanked Aziz for coming to the police station.

When the Moroccan had left the interview room, Bronson turned to Talabani.

'I'm very grateful for all your help,' he said, 'and for arranging that interview. I think I've seen almost all that I needed to. The last thing is the suitcases and stuff you recovered from the car. And I think you said you'd already prepared an inventory?'

Talabani nodded and stood up. 'Stay here and I'll have the cases brought in,' he said, and left the interview room.

Twenty minutes later, Bronson acknowledged that the Moroccan had been right. There was nothing at all in the O'Connors' luggage that was in any way unusual, not that he had expected that there would be. It was just one last check he'd needed to make. In fact, the only unusual thing about the inventory was not what was on the list, but what wasn't. One item he was certain he would see – the O'Connors' camera – simply wasn't there.

'One last thing, Jalal,' he said. 'There wasn't any sign of an old clay tablet in the car when you recovered it, was there?'

The Moroccan looked puzzled. 'A clay tablet?' he asked. 'No, not that I remember. Why?'

'Just something I heard. No matter. Thanks for everything. I'll be in touch if I need anything more.'

Bronson's last appointment was to see the O'Connors' daughter and her husband at their hotel the following morning. He folded up the printed inventory, slipped it into his pocket, and glanced at his watch. He should, he hoped, be able to catch a flight out of Casablanca the following day and be back home by late afternoon.

When Jalal Talabani left the police station in Rabat that evening, he didn't follow his usual routine and walk to the car park to collect his car and drive to his home on the northern outskirts of the city. Instead, he visited a local café for a drink and a light meal. Then he followed a circuitous route around the nearby streets, varying his pace and stopping frequently to check behind him. Only when he was quite certain that he was unobserved did he walk to a public telephone and dial a number from memory.

'I have some information you might find useful.'

'Go ahead.'

'There's a British policeman named Bronson here in Rabat looking into the deaths of the O'Connors. He's also interested in finding an old clay tablet. Do you know anything about that?'

'I might,' the man replied. 'Where's he staying?'

Talabani told him the name of Bronson's hotel.

'Thank you, I'll take care of him,' said the man, and ended the call.