19

Half of the ability to blend into a particular situation is having the right appearance, and the other half is confidence. When the dark-haired, brown-skinned man walked in through the doors of the Rabat hotel, wearing a Western-style suit and carrying a large briefcase, he looked pretty much like any other guest, and the receptionist didn't give him a second glance as he strode across the lobby and walked up the main staircase.

He reached the first floor, stopped and called an elevator. When it arrived, he pressed the button for the fourth floor. As the doors opened, he stepped out, glanced at the sign on the wall indicating the location of the rooms, and turned right. Outside number 403 he stopped, put down his briefcase, pulled on a pair of thin rubber gloves, took a hard rubber cosh from his pocket and rapped sharply on the door with his other hand. He'd spotted the woman sitting with a drink in the bar just off the lobby as he'd walked through, but he hadn't seen her husband in the building. Hopefully he'd be out somewhere, in which case the man would use the lock-picking tools in the slim leather case in his jacket pocket; if her husband was up there in the room, that was his hard luck.

He heard movement from the other side of the door, took a firmer grip on his cosh and lifted a large white handkerchief up to his face, as if he was blowing his nose.

David Philips opened the door wide and peered out. 'Yes?' he said.

Philips registered the presence of a dark-haired man directly in front of him, his face largely obscured by a white cloth, and then fell backwards as a dark object whistled through the air and crashed into his forehead. For an instant he saw stars, bright flashes of white and red light that seemed to explode inside his skull, and then his consciousness fled.

His attacker glanced quickly up and down the corridor, but there was no one in sight. He picked up his briefcase again, stepped into the room, dragged the body of the unconscious man inside and then closed the door behind him.

It wasn't a big room, and his search took him under five minutes. When he left the room, his briefcase was significantly heavier than when he'd arrived and, just as when he'd walked in, nobody took the slightest notice of him as he left the hotel.

'I'm sorry to bother you with this as well,' Bronson said, sitting down opposite Kirsty Philips.

Dickie Byrd had called him a few minutes earlier and told him there had been a burglary at the Philips' house – something that Bronson hadn't liked the sound of at all. The theft of their computer just had to be connected to what had happened in Morocco. The trouble was that Byrd wasn't convinced.

'What happened?' Kirsty asked, a mixture of irritation and concern clouding her voice. 'I mean, didn't any of our neighbours see anything?'

'Actually,' Bronson said, an apologetic smile on his face, 'several of your neighbours saw exactly what was happening. They all thought you were back from Morocco and were having a fridge or something delivered. Two men arrived in a white van and carried a big cardboard box into your house. They were inside for about ten minutes, and then walked out with your desktop computer, presumably in the same box.'

'And was that all they took?'

'Yes, according to your neighbour, a Mrs Turnbull. She's looked round the house, and thinks that only the computer was taken. The good news is that although the place was ransacked – it looked as if every drawer had been emptied – nothing seems to have been damaged apart from the lock on the back door. Mrs Turnbull has already arranged to have that replaced for you, and she's told us she'll tidy up the place before you get back.'

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.'