Eighty-one

Before hitting the open road, Blaine zigzagged his way through the ferocious Casablanca traffic to Ghita’s apartment.

He parked the Silver Ghost on the corner and took a table outside Baba Cool. There was just enough time for a quick café noir while Ghita threw a few essentials into the Louis Vuitton portmanteau. She may have been separated from her fortune, but the way she acted no one would have known it.

The sun was filtered through palm fronds, the air scented with shisha water pipes. Even before Blaine could order, the waiter slid a couple of ashtrays and a glass of the house special, coffee as thick as crude oil.

‘It’s an old one,’ said a wizened figure beside him. ‘I remember when all the cars were like that.’

Blaine raised his coffee and drank to the old days, and he found himself thinking of Monsieur Raffi, a champion of all things past. Once Ghita had appeared, he drove the short distance to the antique shop, and parked outside.

‘This will just take a minute,’ he said. ‘There’s someone here who would appreciate the sight of this car very much.’

Blaine jumped out and ran round to the front door. To his surprise the antique shop was shuttered up.

As he stood there, the butcher next door stepped out into the light, a bloodied meat cleaver in his hand.

‘He’s closed up... gone away.’

Blaine held out his hands.

‘Why?’

‘He was attacked... beaten up. His shop was vandalized.’

‘Who by?’

‘I don’t know. But it’s not safe... not like it used to be.’

‘I can’t believe it. Poor Monsieur Raffi.’

The butcher wagged the cleaver towards the car.

‘There are thieves everywhere,’ he said. ‘Watch out!’