by Parker Bilal
A crowd of men had gathered outside the police station. Their anger rumbled over them. At the top of the steps stood a nervous-looking Sadig. His eyes followed Makana as he drifted along the edge of the crowd and turned the corner onto the square. There a group of boys was kicking around a decapitated head. On closer inspection it turned out to be an old football. An old leather ball, now shredded by constant use. It no longer contained air, but had instead been stuffed with old rags and flapped around. One of the boys broke away and ran over to fall in beside Makana. It was Bulbul, still wearing the worn plastic slippers held together with bent nails.
‘Is it true there is a crazy man killing people who are not good Muslims?’ he asked.
‘Where did you hear that?’ asked Makana.
‘People say all kinds of things,’ shrugged the boy.
‘Tell me about that house over there. The one on the corner.’
‘The old house?’ Bulbul spat on the ground. ‘It’s haunted by jinns.’
‘Nobody lives there?’
‘Not any more. There used to be an old Turkish lady, but she died. People say she was actually a jinn.’ The boy stared morosely at the old house on the other side of the square. ‘They say that she’s still in there. At night sometimes you can hear her moving around.’
‘That’s why you throw stones at the gate when you go by?’
‘It’s just a habit,’ the boy shrugged again. ‘It stops the jinns from coming out. So how about it, you want to see the Mountain of the Dead? What about the Temple of the Oracle, have you been there yet? I’ll give you a special price.’
‘Some other time,’ said Makana reaching for a cigarette. The boy held out his hand for one which Makana ignored. ‘Who was she?’ he nodded at the old house.
‘I don’t know. Some crazy old Turk,’ said the boy, losing interest. No business to be done and no free cigarettes made for dull conversation. The ball rolled ahead of them and he bounced off to retrieve it, cutting a surprisingly unathletic figure for such a young person.
Doctor Medina was in his clinic poring over Ayman’s remains. The white coat he wore had, unbelievably, acquired more stains, which didn’t seem possible. There was also blood on the surgical gloves he wore. Ayman’s naked corpse was laid out on plastic sheeting that was stretched over the examination table. For once the doctor appeared to be enjoying himself. He also, surprisingly, appeared to be sober.
Makana stayed close to the open doorway where the heady stench of rotting flesh and formaldehyde was less overpowering. He lit a Cleopatra to cover the smell.
‘Thank god, another smoker,’ said the doctor, who was puffing energetically at the cigarette which hung from the corner of his mouth.
‘You seem to be enjoying yourself.’
‘I haven’t had this much fun since medical school,’ the flabby features tightened to accommodate the grin, revealing a trace of a much younger man. ‘You’re earlier than I expected. The sergeant hasn’t arrived yet.’ The deep-set eyes widened. ‘Or perhaps that was intentional?’
‘What have you got so far?’
‘As I suspected, he was killed by a blow to the rear of the cranium. A blunt instrument. I’ve managed to extract wood splinters and some paint.’
‘What colour paint?’
‘Hard to tell at the moment. Everything is red.’ Doctor Medina flashed a broad grin at his own witticism. Makana leaned his head out of the doorway to exhale. It wasn’t so much to prevent the contamination of the examination room as to breathe something that wasn’t chemical. The doctor was carrying something on a spatula towards the spotlight over the big stainless-steel sink in the work surface that ran along the wall. He placed the matter into a small sieve and poked a gloved finger through the contents. ‘Possibly green.’
‘A green wooden post.’
‘Something like that,’ nodded the doctor absently. ‘As for the rest, well, maybe you should take a look at this yourself.’ He came back over to the body and pointed out the terrible wound between the man’s legs. Makana stepped closer. He had attended autopsies before. In his previous life, as he liked to think of it nowadays, when he had been a police inspector in Khartoum, it had been a regular occurrence. And while he had never particularly enjoyed them, the discomfort they provoked was often softened by the wonder he experienced at witnessing the delight doctors took in disassembling a human being.
‘What am I looking at?’ Makana stared into the dead man’s eyes. The lids were half shut which gave the impression that Ayman was observing them, waiting for his moment to jump up and take his revenge.
‘Here,’ the doctor indicated. ‘He was castrated, obviously, the testicles removed and the penis sliced away. Somebody clearly didn’t like our friend.’
‘Or they didn’t like him the way he was.’
‘It looks pretty brutal, doesn’t it?’ Doctor Medina was either grimacing or smiling, Makana couldn’t tell. ‘There’s no bruising, so at least he was dead when this was done.’
The man’s skin was covered by a waxy, grey sheen. It was hard to tell what colour he had once been, or even that this had been a man at all. In either case it made for uncomfortable viewing.
‘Was he sedated? Like the Qadi?’
‘Yes, I still haven’t identified the drug yet.’
‘Same killer.’ Makana regarded the corpse. This at least was something, a common thread tying the two victims together. ‘Do you know how it was administered?’
The doctor held up a finger and drew Makana’s attention to a small puncture mark on Ayman’s neck. A whiff of something indescribable rose from the body and Makana instinctively took a step back. He lit another cigarette unable to decide if the nausea he felt was from an excess of tobacco or from the body lying in front of him.
‘This tells us that whoever did this knows what they are doing,’ said Doctor Medina.
‘How much training would they need?’
‘Not much actually. It could be a trained nurse, or an ambulance orderly. Anyone with a basic knowledge of medicine. Or a doctor, of course.’ He held up his hands. ‘There’s always that.’
‘Could you make a list of qualified people in town?’
‘I could, but it wouldn’t in any way be complete. We have no idea of people who come and go. A doctor or orderly, say, who is no longer in the profession.’
‘It would be a start,’ said Makana.
‘What would be a start?’ demanded Sergeant Hamama as he lumbered into the room. ‘I thought I told you not to begin this without me?’
He seemed more stressed than he had been when Makana had seen him in his office. Now he resembled a drowning man, floundering against the rising tide. He threw a glance at Makana. ‘Things seem to be taking their own pace and I’m beginning to wonder at the wisdom of including you in this investigation,’ he snapped before turning to the doctor. ‘So, what have you got?’
‘I was explaining to Makana that the sedative used might indicate someone with medical training.’
‘You mean, like a doctor?’ Sergeant Hamama’s beleaguered gaze flitted back and forth between the other two. He saw conspiracy everywhere he looked.
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Just as well for you,’ said Hamama, ‘because there aren’t many of your profession around these parts.’
‘It doesn’t have to be a doctor,’ Makana pointed out. ‘A nurse, a medical orderly . . .’
‘Not many of those around either.’ Hamama rubbed his chin. ‘Can you draw up a list?’
‘Makana just asked me for exactly that.’
‘Oh, he did, did he?’ Hamama studiously ignored Makana.
‘And as I was telling him, such a list could never be anything but approximate.’
‘Approximate is good enough to start with. I need something to go on, and be sure to put yourself at the top of it,’ grunted Hamama. ‘Now what can you tell me about this poor idiot?’
‘The mutilation took place after he was killed.’
‘Is
that good or bad?’
‘Perhaps it means the killer has some compassion after all,’ said Makana.
‘What else have you got?’
‘The victim was hit with a heavy wooden object. No sharp edges, probably rounded.’
‘That’s not bad. So they hit him first and then what?’
‘The signs are that a sedative was administered to make sure he didn’t wake up in the middle of the operation,’ sighed Doctor Medina. ‘Then he bled to death.’
‘Could the blow have been delivered by a woman?’ Makana asked. Both men turned to stare at him.
‘A woman?’ scoffed Sergeant Hamama. ‘Why should a woman do something like this?’
‘Oh, you mean, considering the size of the victim, a small person might have been intimidated. The use of a sedative . . .’ Doctor Medina was cut off by the sergeant.
‘I still don’t see why you think it might be a woman?’ said Sergeant Hamama.
‘I wasn’t the only person up there last night,’ said Makana. ‘I was following a woman, or someone dressed as a woman.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ demanded Sergeant Hamama. ‘So is it a man or a woman we are looking for?’
‘Either, I suppose. The German girl I spoke to also saw a woman out by the lake the evening the Qadi was murdered.’
‘Is that possible?’ Hamama turned to the doctor who shrugged and straightened his glasses.
‘Well, in theory, yes, I suppose. If the angle was right. Ayman was quite tall, as you can see. The fatal blow was delivered from behind.’
‘So a very tall woman,’ said Hamama, giving Makana a wary look.
‘The attack happened on a hillside. The killer could have been higher up than the victim, at an angle.’
‘Or standing on some ruins,’ offered Doctor Medina. ‘And the Qadi was fairly short.’
‘It makes no sense. None of it,’ Hamama shook his head at both of them. ‘A man dressed as a woman, maybe.’ He snapped his fingers at Makana. ‘Don’t you have a cigarette for me?’ Makana held out the packet and his lighter. Sergeant Hamama bent his head over the flame until smoke was coming out of his nostrils. ‘After you left I had a phone call. It seems that news of this case has filtered upwards. The newspapers in Cairo are writing about it. They are threatening to send a team out to clear it up, not that that is going to happen right away, but you know what it means, a whole load of bright, clean policemen sticking their noses into our business. Time is running out.’
‘Did you find anything in the files on Ayman?’
‘I told you, I don’t need to look at the files. He had no file. He was just a poor fool who liked looking at girls. That doesn’t mean he deserves to be chopped up like a piece of liver.’ Hamama peered at the corpse. ‘Why are his eyes like that? Looks like he’s staring at me.’
‘It’s just the body settling. After death the body tends to lose liquid and so it shrinks.’
‘I skipped lunch today. I couldn’t face it. At this rate I’ll be a mere shadow of myself.’
‘Perhaps it’s time to talk to the Qadi’s widow,’ said Makana quietly.
Sergeant Hamama winced and hung his head. ‘You don’t understand. The Qadi was a powerful man with powerful friends. It’s no coincidence I’m getting these phone calls from government people, from high-ranking officers. State Security. All those people are now her friends. We can’t afford to go stepping on her toes.’
‘Perhaps you should stop worrying about your promotion and start thinking about solving this case.’
‘He’s right,’ said Doctor Medina.
‘And if I need your advice I’ll ask for it.’ Sergeant Hamama raised a finger. ‘I’m warning you to go carefully. I’ll drive. You can follow me on that infernal machine.’
‘It’s a classic,’ offered Doctor Medina. ‘One of the all-time greats.’
‘Now, I wonder why that makes not the slightest difference to me?’ Sergeant Hamama grunted.
The Qadi’s house was a fine new villa on the southernmost outskirts of the town. Bright magenta bougainvillea leaves climbed over the high walls. The gate gave onto a sumptuous garden with more flowers and a pergola covered in vines that fluttered briskly in the desert breeze. The driveway was grand. It needed to be to accommodate the Qadi’s two cars, both of them Mercedes. One of them, blue, had official number plates, for trips to the office or around town, while the second one was a sleek, ivory-coloured vehicle with private plates. It seemed almost too new for this dusty climate. Makana and Sergeant Hamama were met by a young maid in a smart outfit who ushered them into a reception room. Stepping inside the interior felt as if they were entering another dimension. Somewhere far away from the dusty village which lay on the other side of those walls. The floors were covered with grey marble that shone with a well-polished lustre. Persian rugs were laid out, along with plush sofas and chairs, all in elaborate Louis XIV style with carved arms and striped upholstery. The maid reappeared bearing a brass tray of cold drinks followed by tea, along with a plate of delicate biscuits which Sergeant Hamama tucked into with gusto, apparently oblivious to the amount of time that was being wasted. Makana was on his third cigarette before the double doors opposite them opened and a handsome woman entered. Dressed elegantly in a black abaya that swept to the floor, Makana noted that she also wore make-up and lipstick on her uncovered face. A sign of modernity in the late Qadi’s favour. Sergeant Hamama, cap in hand, somehow looking more of a mess than usual in these surroundings, whispered his way through a lengthy series of condolences on the part of the department and himself personally, before going on to include the entire town. To listen to him you might be forgiven for believing that the country was in mourning.
‘When will the body be released?’ she pleaded as she crossed the room. She wore, Makana noted, open shoes through which painted toenails were visible with every step.
‘Soon, madame, very soon.’
‘It has been a week now. You cannot imagine the suffering it causes me not to be able to give him a proper burial.’
‘This is an unusual case and requires certain scientific procedures to be completed.’ Sergeant Hamama did his best to dig himself out of the hole he found himself in.
‘What scientific procedures?’ Her eyes widened.
‘I can assure you, it is all standard procedure.’
‘But who is performing this? And where is he being kept?’
‘Doctor Medina’s services have been engaged and—’
She didn’t allow him to finish. ‘But that man is a scandal! He’s a drunk. My husband would never have approved.’
‘Unfortunately, Doctor Medina is our best consultant on this matter until further resources are allocated.’
‘You must press them. Insist. Tell them how urgent this matter is to the people here.’
‘I can assure you, madame, I am doing my utmost.’ Hamama bowed his head. ‘Nothing I say can convey the sorrow that has fallen over our town.’
The Qadi’s wife didn’t blink. ‘I was hoping you had come to tell me that you had found the man who murdered my husband,’ she said in a cold voice.
Sergeant Hamama glanced over at Makana, suddenly at a loss, a dusting of powdered sugar clinging to his chin.
‘No effort is being spared. We have brought all our resources to bear on the case, including the service of experts from outside.’ He gestured at Makana who found himself under the penetrating gaze.
‘An expert in murder?’ She sounded sceptical as she looked Makana up and down before turning back to the sergeant.
‘Oh yes, he has many years of experience and a strong record of helping the police in Cairo with some of their most difficult cases.’
‘We are honoured indeed,’ said the Qadi’s wife with only the slightest dip of her powdered and stiffly wrapped chin. Her expression said she was not convinced. ‘Of course, I shall do whatever I can to help you in your endeavours.’
‘We hate to trouble you at this time, madame,’ Hamama was wr
inging his cap as if he was strangling a cat, crushing it into a shapeless mass with his big hands. Makana felt a compulsion to put an end to the man’s suffering. He cleared his throat.
‘To understand the killer’s motives we need to get a picture of your husband’s activities.’
The widow turned her eyes on him. ‘Naturally, but this is easy. My husband, may Allah show him mercy, was a public figure. Everyone knew him.’ She bowed her head and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to press to her nose. There was a moment’s respectful silence during which Makana ignored the hard stare he was getting from Sergeant Hamama. They hadn’t come here to be gentle to the good widow, but to solve a murder. When she had recovered herself the Qadi’s wife continued. ‘He served this country for nearly thirty years. The Minister of Justice called me personally. They were friends you know.’
‘I’m sure he was most respected in the highest offices of this country,’ said Hamama.
‘I appreciate this is a very difficult time for you,’ Makana continued, ‘but we need to act quickly if the killer is to be apprehended.’
‘Yes, yes of course.’
‘Let me assure you, madame, the vile creature who did this will pay for his deeds,’ Sergeant Hamama shook his fist for emphasis.
Makana waited a moment before going on. ‘Your husband, the departed, would undoubtedly have upset a few people in the course of despatching his duties as an official of the law.’
‘He had great faith in the people of this community. He used to say that the rotten fruits were few and far between. He always prayed to Allah to guide him and make him a better judge.’
‘May Allah have mercy on him,’ murmured Sergeant Hamama, and the wife echoed this sentiment. Makana was beginning to grow weary of this charade.
‘Might I ask, and I apologise if this seems indelicate,’ Makana said. ‘But how did your husband pay for all this on the salary of a lowly government functionary?’ He gestured at their surroundings. ‘Did he have private investments of some kind?’
