13

When Bronson left the Philips' hotel, he stopped a few hundred yards down the road at a pavement café and ordered a coffee while he tried to decide what he should do. If he called DCI Byrd and told him he was satisfied the O'Connors had been killed in a freak accident, he knew he could just walk away. But if he voiced his suspicions – and that was really all they were – he guessed he'd be stuck in Rabat for far longer than he wanted.

Not that the city was unpleasant – far from it, in fact. Bronson lifted the cup to his lips and glanced round. The café's tables and chairs were spread across a wide pavement on one side of a spacious boulevard, lined with palm trees. Most of the tables were occupied, and Bronson could hear the slightly guttural sounds of conversation in Arabic alternating with the softer and more melodic accents of French speakers. No, the beautiful weather, café society and relaxed lifestyle of Rabat were undeniably attractive – or would have been if Bronson had been there with Angela. And that thought made the decision for him.

'Sod it,' he muttered to himself. 'I'll just wrap it up.'

He drained the last of his coffee, stood up and walked away from the table, then realized he'd forgotten to pick up his briefcase and turned back. And found himself looking straight at two men wearing traditional jellabas who had just stood up from their table on the far side of the café and were themselves staring directly at him.

Bronson was used to being stared at in Morocco – he was a stranger in a foreign land and more or less expected it – but he had the uncomfortable sensation that these men weren't just looking at him with idle curiosity. Something about their gaze bothered him. But he gave no sign of even noticing them. He simply picked up his briefcase and walked away.

Fifty yards from the café, he stopped at the kerb, waiting to cross the road, and looked in both directions. He wasn't entirely surprised to see the two men walking slowly towards him, and less surprised when they, too, crossed to the far side of the street. Within two hundred yards, he knew without any doubt that they were following him, and one was talking animatedly into a mobile phone. What Bronson didn't know was what he should do about it.

But that decision was taken out of his hands less than half a minute later. As well as the two men behind him, steadily getting closer, Bronson suddenly saw another three men closing on him from the front.

They might just have been three innocent men taking an afternoon stroll, but he doubted it, and he wasn't going to hang around and find out. Bronson took the next side-street, and started running, dodging through the scattering of pedestrians on the pavements. Behind him he heard shouts and the sound of running feet, and knew his instincts had been right.

He took the next turning on the left, then swung right, getting into a rhythm as he picked up the pace. He risked a quick glance behind him. The two men from the café were running hard to keep up with him, perhaps fifty yards back. Behind them, another running figure was visible.

Bronson dived round another corner and saw two men approaching from his left, trying to intercept him. It looked as if they'd guessed which streets he'd take and were trying to cut him off.

He accelerated, but headed directly towards them. He could see them hesitate and slow down, and then he was on them. One of them fumbled in his jellaba, perhaps looking for a weapon, but Bronson gave him no chance.

He slammed his briefcase into the Moroccan's chest, knocking him violently to the ground, then turned to face his companion, just as the man swung a punch at him. Bronson ducked under the blow and rammed his fist into his attacker's stomach.

He didn't wait to see the man tumble to the ground; already he could hear the yells from behind as the other men closed up on him. Two down – at least for a short while – three to go.

Without a backward glance, Bronson took to his heels again, his breath rasping in his throat. He knew he had to finish this, and quickly. He was used to running, but the heat and humidity were getting to him, and he knew he couldn't go much further.

He ducked left, then right, but all the time his pursuers were slowly eroding his lead, catching him up. As Bronson reached a main road, he slowed slightly, scanning the traffic, looking for one particular kind of vehicle. Then he took off again, and ran into the road, weaving between slow-moving cars and trucks.

Perhaps a hundred yards in front of him, a taxi had stopped to let out two passengers, and the instant before the driver pulled away, Bronson wrenched open the back door and leapt inside. He met the man's startled gaze in the interior mirror.

'Airport,' he gasped. 'Quickly.' For good measure he repeated the request in French.

The driver pulled out and accelerated, and Bronson slumped in the seat, sucking in great gulps of air, then looked back through the rear window. About forty yards behind, two figures were running along the pavement, but slowing down as the taxi gathered speed.

Then they started speeding up. Bronson looked through the windscreen to see half a dozen stationary vehicles blocking the road in front. If the taxi stopped, he knew the men would catch him.

'Take the next turning,' Bronson said, pointing.

The driver glanced back at him. 'That's not the way to the airport,' he said, his English good but heavily accented.

'I've changed my mind.'

The driver swung the wheel. The side-street was mercifully almost empty of other traffic, and as the taxi sped down it, Bronson saw his pursuers stop at the end of the road to stare at the retreating vehicle.

Ten minutes later, the taxi pulled to a halt in a street close to his hotel, and Bronson paid the fare, adding a generous tip.

About ninety minutes later, in the security of his room in another Rabat hotel – he'd decided to move just in case his pursuers had followed him from his original lodging – he picked up his mobile and rang Maidstone police station.

'What have you found, Chris?' Byrd asked, once Bronson was connected.

'I've just been chased through the streets of Rabat by a gang of thugs who definitely didn't just want my autograph.'

'What? Why?'

'I didn't stop to ask. But I don't believe that the O'Connors' accident was quite as accidental as we thought it was.'

'Oh, shit,' Byrd said. 'That's all we need.'

Quickly, Bronson outlined his concerns about the accident and the damage to the Renault Mégane, and then explained Margaret O'Connor's habit of snapping anything that moved.

'Kirsty Philips gave me copies of all the photographs her mother took here, and I spent an hour or so going through them. What really bothers me is that one of the men she photographed in the souk turned up as the only eyewitness to the accident on the road outside Rabat, and according to Kirsty another man in the same picture was found dead just outside the medina with a stab-wound in his chest. I think she photographed an argument in the souk that led to murder, which means the killer was almost certainly one of the people in the pictures she took.

'And that,' Bronson finished, 'is a pretty good motive for knocking off the two eyewitnesses and stealing the camera.'