Fifty-eight

For more than three hours Blaine walked the streets, replaying the sight of Mortimer Wu with his throat slashed.

Time and again, he set off back to Hotel Marrakech, each time stopping just short. On the last abortive return, he saw a cluster of uniformed officers standing outside, and the stoned-out clerk being interrogated on the pavement, a fluffy white cat pulled tight to his chest.

Blaine’s gut told him to bide his time, because whoever killed the backpacker might still be there, waiting for him. He thought of going to the American consulate and explaining it all. But, again, instinct warned against it. He needed somewhere quiet; somewhere he could lie low and think.

He thought of Ghita and her apartment. It may have been wretched, but at least it was silent – the last place he would be disturbed. As for Ghita, she may have been a pain in the backside, but she spoke fluent English.

Making sure no one was following him, and dressed in the fedora and raincoat, Blaine hurried to the apartment building opposite Baba Cool. He slipped into the entranceway, and ran up the stairs, groping his way up the curved wall as he went.

There was no light under Ghita’s door, but he knocked anyway.

Silence.

Blaine sucked air through his teeth, squatted down on his satchel, his forehead streaming with sweat.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said aloud. ‘What do I do now?’