by Parker Bilal
‘Ah, Sergeant, let me just . . .’ He started off towards the couple. Hamama waved him down.
‘Leave them in peace. I’m not here for that.’
Luqman blinked at them both as he was expecting bad news. He had a bright, alert look about him, which somehow didn’t belong in this place.
‘How can I help?’ he asked, ducking under the counter to get into the shack. Tacked to the wall behind him was a reproduction of an old painting that showed a man in a turban playing a flute to a collection of tortoises gathered at his feet.
‘This is Makana,’ Sergeant Hamama indicated. ‘He’s . . . uh, helping us.’
‘Yes, I heard, from Cairo.’ Luqman allowed himself a moment to examine Makana before turning away and pouring two cups of tea. Makana wondered if there was anyone in this town who had not heard of his arrival. ‘I already spoke to Sadig and the thin one, I don’t remember his name. I told them everything I know.’
Hamama reached into a pocket for a tin and extracted a pinch of snuff that he tucked inside his lower lip. ‘We just need to go over it once more,’ he said.
‘How deep is the water off here?’ Makana asked.
‘It’s not too deep,’ replied Luqman. ‘We used to have a boat for people to go out on.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder where a small rowing boat lay overturned on the ground. ‘But it needs fixing.’ The wooden hull was a patchwork of repairs. It would have taken a miracle for it to float, and another one to get a sane person to climb inside. The sound of high-pitched laughter drifted back from the couple out by the water. Perhaps in a certain state of mind safety was not of primary concern. Hamama muttered something and ejected a long brown stream of tobacco and spit into the dirt at his feet.
‘Like I said, I told them everything I know,’ said Luqman.
‘Yes, yes. Look, we need to establish his exact movements prior to . . . being killed. You have nothing to worry about, this is standard procedure.’
‘I thought he was found over there.’ Luqman pointed.
‘The body had been immersed in water for many hours,’ said Makana. Luqman studied him while he produced a packet of Marlboro from under the counter and lit one.
‘The Qadi was a respectable man, hard to know why anyone would want to kill him.’
‘Did you see him that afternoon?’ the sergeant asked.
‘No.’ Luqman smiled at the sergeant. ‘You’re doing real good with this detective stuff.’
‘Just answer the question,’ Sergeant Hamama snapped.
‘Sorry.’
‘Yoo hoo!’
All three of them turned to look at the two tourists sitting out on the water’s edge. The woman was smiling and waving her hand in the air. Luqman excused himself.
‘It must make him feel like he’s better than the rest of us somehow, the fact that he’s always dealing with rich Americans or wherever they’re from.’
‘They’re French,’ said Makana.
Hamama frowned. ‘Now how would you know a thing like that?’
‘I recognise the language.’
‘French,’ muttered Sergeant Hamama regarding Makana from beneath sunken eyelids. ‘Of course they are.’
Luqman returned, ducked under the counter and then ducked out again with two cans of beer and a couple of plastic cups in his hand.
‘I’ll bet he makes a good living out here,’ said Sergeant Hamama. ‘And I wouldn’t be surprised if there are a few perks in dealing with all those foreign women,’ he added, spitting more tobacco and hitching up his trousers. ‘Haram. A young man can easily be led astray.’
‘I don’t imagine the Qadi approved of all of this,’ Makana indicated the tourists sunning themselves. ‘Drinking, smoking, associating with the opposite sex.’
‘No,’ mused Hamama. ‘I don’t suppose he would. Listen, Luqman,’ he said as the other man rejoined them, ‘did he come by here two nights ago?’
‘The Qadi?’ Luqman laughed. ‘Never. You would have to tie him up and drag him.’
‘And no wonder,’ muttered Hamama, as the sound of giggling came from the couple out by the water. Smoke circled over their heads. ‘Astaghfirullah.’
‘What time did you leave that night?’ Makana asked.
Luqman studied the tip of his cigarette. ‘It was quiet,’ he said. ‘I think I must have left around eight. Maybe eight fifteen.’
‘After the isha prayer?’ asked Hamama.
‘Oh yes, I said my prayers and when I came back my last guest had gone. Most of them don’t like to be out here much after dark.’
‘You didn’t see anyone else?’ Hamama asked.
‘No. I locked up, switched off the lights and cycled back to town.’
‘How long have you had this place?’ Makana asked.
Luqman’s gaze rolled wearily over his surroundings. ‘This place? It must be about ten years now. Before that we used to work the land.’ He shrugged and dropped his cigarette into the earth. ‘But there’s no future in that nowadays. More money in tourism.’
His tone suggested a mixture of regret and self-pity. There was also the matter of pride. Tourism brought with it a level of subservience that Makana had witnessed elsewhere.
‘He seems harmless enough, don’t you think?’ Hamama said on the drive back.
‘He runs the place on his own?’
‘He’s a bit of a loner. He never married and keeps to himself mostly. His uncle helps him out sometimes.’
‘And the tourists?’
‘What about them?’ Hamama spat out of the window, carelessly splattering a good amount of brown liquid on the side of the door.
‘Have you questioned any of them?’
‘Well, I sent Sadig round the hotels but he doesn’t seem to have turned up anything yet. Unlike you, he doesn’t have a facility with foreign languages.’
‘You sent Sadig because he has a fondness for breaking into people’s rooms?’
Sergeant Hamama pulled a face. ‘You’re taking it personally. I told you that was a misunderstanding. He’s a good man. He just gets carried away.’
At the Qadi’s office they were met by Mutawali, the Qadi’s deputy, a small, neat man with a trim beard. He was dressed in grey and held his hands folded across his chest as though, for the entirety of the meeting, he was about to begin praying.
‘It is a terrible, terrible business,’ he fretted. His whiskers and prominent front teeth made him resemble a large rodent. ‘The Qadi was a pillar of this society. Allah yerhamu. We are all lost without his guidance.’
‘Yes, quite,’ nodded Hamama, impatient to get on.
‘I don’t need to remind you, Sergeant, that we are relying on you to see his killer is brought to justice. At no time before have we been in such urgent need of leadership.’
Reminded of the responsibilities that went with his office, the sergeant scratched his ear. The deputy went on: ‘This is a difficult time for all of us, but in an investigation like this it’s important to move quickly.’
‘Of course,’ nodded Hamama. ‘That’s actually why we’re here. We think it might help to take a look at the Qadi’s case files.’
‘Quite out of the question,’ said Mutawali. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, but I really don’t see the relevance of this line of investigation.’ The room they were in was bare. Makana had been expecting a library of books. Works of religious exegesis, jurisprudence, Islamic history, poetry, as well as the Hadith, accounts of the life of the prophet Muhammed. Here there was nothing. Bare walls. Spartan, uncomfortable furniture. It spelled humility. A man who had no use for worldly goods. ‘The Qadi was a good man, beloved by everyone in the community.’
‘Not quite everyone,’ said Makana quietly. The assistant turned his gaze to him.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not clear what your role in this is.’
Sergeant Hamama cleared his throat. ‘Mr Makana is something of a specialist. He has come from Cairo to lend his expertise to our enquiries.’
A look of unease came
over the deputy, as if he suspected there was something else going on here. He tried to rally himself.
‘I commend you on your initiative, Sergeant. This is unexpected. But I still insist; our records contain confidential information. I cannot simply throw open our files to yourself and your assistants. I would be failing in my duties.’
‘Nobody is asking you to do anything wrong. This is a murder investigation,’ Makana reminded him. ‘Whoever did this is capable of great violence. Until we know who they are and why they did it, other people might be in danger.’
‘I understand, really, I do. And believe me, no one is more wounded by this terrible crime. But I have my duties and our dear, departed Qadi would not be happy to know that the moment he was gone from this world I began flaunting all the regulations he taught me to respect.’ Mutawali shook his head solemnly.
‘Even if it is to find his own killer?’ Sergeant Hamama raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
‘The Qadi did not believe in favouritism, in making exceptions for personal reasons. I do not believe he would find it appropriate now.’
‘Well, then our business here is concluded. Thank you. You have been a great help,’ Sergeant Hamama got to his feet and turned towards the door.
Makana remained seated. He cleared his throat. ‘You told the sergeant that the Qadi was out at the lake for a business meeting with potential investors. Was it normal for him to go out alone?’
‘I think there is some confusion here. It is true I believed that the Qadi had gone to meet with investors, but I have since checked his calendar and can find no such appointment.’
‘Then he went out there for personal reasons?’
Mutawali spread his hands wide. ‘The Qadi sacrificed his personal life for the community. He worked tirelessly for the benefit of all of us.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Makana. ‘But basically you have no idea what he was doing out there.’
‘If you put it like that, no. Did you come here specifically for this case?’ The Qadi’s deputy seemed suspicious of Makana’s motives.
‘I came for a different case actually. A young woman was killed in Cairo. Her parents came from here. It’s possible she was murdered, burnt alive and made to appear as a suicide.’
‘Alas, such cases are not uncommon.’
‘You mean young women taking their own lives, or honour killings?’
‘Honour killings are an expression of utter desperation. Imagine the agony of a father who decides to sacrifice his daughter for the sake of the family name? It is the ultimate sacrifice.’
‘I thought Islam had brought an end to the sacrifice of girl children?’ said Makana.
‘Without traditions we are nothing. We have no place in this world without the rules laid down by our forefathers.’
‘Even if that entails murder?’
Mutawali gave Makana a withering look. ‘You are a city person. People abandon who they are when they move to the city. They are lost in a trance of bright lights and noise. Here we remember where we come from.’
It was difficult to argue with the description of Cairo.
‘He’s a strange one,’ said Hamama as he dropped Makana off in the town square. ‘If I have to go through official channels to see those records it could take months.’
‘If the Qadi was out there for personal reasons then the explanation might be closer to home.’
‘Sure, but let’s get one thing straight. I’m still in charge here. Next time you get a bright idea, it would be better if it came from me. I don’t want you making me look foolish again, you understand?’
With that he stamped his foot down and the car surged forward before the passenger door was closed. Makana stood on the corner and watched the pickup pulling away, a jet of tobacco-coloured spit flying out of the side window as it flew away trailing a cloud of dust.
Chapter Fifteen
It was quite a walk to Doctor Medina’s house and Makana concluded that a bicycle might be a useful asset and perhaps a safer bet than an ancient motorcycle.
By day, the house resembled something from a fairy tale. The kind of place that could have been built by mischievous jinns. A path paved with grey stones curved to the front of the two-storey villa. By the door was a faded metal sign that announced it as a clinic. Makana tried the door and found it locked. Moving around the side of the house he looked up the outside staircase. At the top of this was another door, this time standing open.
Makana climbed the stairs and stepped inside to find himself in a large open living area. A fan turned gently overhead. The blades gently stroking the sheets of paper that lay on the desk by the window. A set of shelves took up the far wall. To the left of this, opposite the front door, a corridor led to the interior of the flat which appeared to extend the length of the building and ended in another staircase which must have led down to the clinic. Left of the front door was a dining area with a long table discoloured by water stains. Vertical ornamental bars provided a barrier between this and the living room. A modern touch. The building was from the 1960s, Makana guessed. A big rear window offered a view of a sea of bobbing palm-tree crowns. A large rounded Westinghouse refrigerator hummed like a tractor at the far end of the dining room. Beside it was a door leading into a kitchen.
The flat had the familiar, lived-in feel of a single man’s home. Two identically battered sofas faced one another across the middle of the living room. Simple constructions of wooden spars and cushions that looked at least forty years old. The books and papers scattered about the room seemed to have been abandoned in mid-thought months ago. Makana felt sand grating against his fingertips as he brushed a hand over the papers on the desk.
‘Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.’
Doctor Medina stood in the entrance to the corridor. His shirt and trousers looked as though he had slept in them for a week. In one hand he held a glass tumbler decorated with yellow and red flowers. The white coat had been replaced by a dressing gown. His flies were undone and his hair was all over the place.
‘The door was open,’ Makana explained.
‘You’re an investigator.’ Doctor Medina straightened his glasses. ‘You’re doing what you do, investigating.’
‘You asked me to drop by, remember? This morning in town?’
‘Did I? Yes, yes, of course I did.’ The doctor began fussing about the room as if attempting to restore some sense of order. Scooping up an armful of newspapers from one sofa he looked around for somewhere to put them before finally dumping them over the far side between the sofa and the wall, where there was already a pile mounting like a shifting dune of sand.
‘How long have you been here, Doctor?’
‘Oh, twenty-five years. No, it must be more.’ He paused, frowned, gulped from his glass. ‘Could it be thirty?’
‘I suppose there is a lot to keep you busy.’ Makana drifted around the room aimlessly.
‘Busy? Oh yes, I suppose there is.’ The deep-set eyes had a mocking air to them, as if the world was beyond taking seriously. ‘But enough about me, how about you? Have you made any progress?’
‘Not that you would notice.’
Doctor Medina nodded as if he understood. With his dishevelled hair and rumpled appearance he resembled a disgraced academic. The room seemed to match that confusion. Medical books lay open on sideboards, pharmaceutical reports were piled on chairs. A human hand, the delicate bones curled as if in beckoning, rested on a stand. The doctor walked backwards, waving his glass in the air. ‘Can I tempt you?’ A stack of papers collapsed, spilling across the floor like an avalanche.
‘No, thank you.’ Makana was drawn to a photograph that was at least thirty years old. A younger version of the doctor dressed in a shiny tuxedo with a bow tie and longer hair. Beside him a woman wearing a wedding gown. The room seemed to be swamped with stories. Case studies, medical reports, scientific discoveries, and buried somewhere within all that was the doctor’s own life. A collection of stories that had all had their day. They had
been told and discarded, or lost in the oblivion of time and, of course, drink.
‘You disappoint me. I was hoping you would turn out to be an ally. Willing accomplices are so hard to find in these pious days.’ The doctor carried on talking until his back hit the side of the Westinghouse. Wrenching open the refrigerator he reached inside for a large demijohn of clear liquid. Ice cubes rattled into the glass. ‘I make it myself, with locally produced dates of course, under the most stringently controlled scientific conditions, naturally. I add a touch of lime for flavour.’ Grinning, he took a sip from his fresh drink as to confirm this fact. ‘If there was a way of assessing these things,’ he said, holding the glass up to the light, ‘this would be up there with the best of them, Courvoisier, Chivas Regal . . .’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Makana. He was fairly certain the invitation was mere formality. A seasoned alcoholic, while eager to give the impression of sociability, was not really interested in sharing his supply of illicit booze with others. ‘Have you made any progress on the Qadi?’
‘Ah, yes, our glorious house guest.’ The doctor’s hand rose in a toast and then stopped himself. ‘Perhaps you would like to see him?’
They trooped downstairs by the inside staircase. Doctor Medina led the way through the clinic to the storage room that had once been a garage. It smelled of damp. In the middle of the room stood a long low display cabinet for frozen goods. It was somewhat battered. The top was covered by styrofoam panels. The upper sides were made of glass. The contents were illuminated by a row of strip lighting that ran along the inside and gave the interior a blue glow. The Qadi lay in state like Lenin, or some modern-day Tutankhamun in a space-age chariot. He did not look much improved by time. His bloodless features were now encrusted with ice. He was wrapped in a white sheet over which a long transparent plastic bag had been drawn. The bag was emblazoned with a red logo and letters in English that read – AGI LandTech. Not the most glorious epitaph one could have hoped for. Neon lights overhead stuttered into life as the doctor began to remove the styrofoam. It wasn’t a particularly dignified casket. In the overhead light the lower half of the drop freezer appeared to be decorated with a series of stickers, logos and advertising posters including a ripped one that revealed half of a smiling woman’s face as she sank a row of perfect white teeth into an ice-cream cone.
