by Parker Bilal
‘Doctor Medina?’ The day seemed to be full of surprises.
‘The very one.’ Mutawali nodded. ‘I know for a fact that the Qadi was planning to expose him as a charlatan. It seems our friend has no more right to practise medicine than you or I. He was involved in some sordid business, practising abortions, which is an abomination not only in the eyes of the law but in the eyes of the Almighty.’ His eyes seemed to glow with delight. ‘Isn’t that reason enough to take another man’s life?’
‘You’d have to take that up with the Almighty. Let’s stick to the matter in hand. Now, the Qadi stood to gain a good commission if the deal went through, is that right?’
Mutawali shrugged. ‘He was simply the middleman. He would gain a commission, but the main benefactors were a large investment company in Cairo.’
‘How do I find them?’
‘I’m sure I have it somewhere.’ Mutawali rummaged through the heaps of paper. ‘The lawyer was . . . ah, here it is.’ He held up a business card with a name printed on it. ‘Nadir Diyab.’
‘May I keep this?’
‘If it’s of use to you, although I really can’t see why.’
Makana pocketed the card. ‘If the Qadi had an important meeting out there on the lake with investors, surely he would have driven there in one of his fancy cars?’
Mutawali gave a gesture of exasperation. ‘How could I possibly know?’
‘Well, let’s say the Qadi didn’t want to be seen. Those cars of his are pretty distinctive, aren’t they?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Mutawali gloomily.
‘So how could he have got out to the lake then, without his car?’
‘I don’t know. How should I know?’
‘Just take a guess.’
‘Well, I suppose he could have taken a karetta.’
‘Very good, now, one last thing. Luqman went to Captain Mustafa shortly before he was killed and complained about what was going on. He was trying to raise a case against the Qadi, wasn’t he?’
Mutawali’s eyes roamed around the map as if searching for an object of great significance.
‘I’m afraid you would have to ask Luqman about that.’
The sun was a soft, floundering ship, burning up on the distant horizon. At the telephone exchange the dull white strip lighting buzzed angrily, regardless of the hour. Magdy Ragab was surprised Makana was still in Siwa.
‘I’m beginning to wonder at the wisdom of your being there. Do you really feel it is necessary? I don’t wish to sound unappreciative, but it seems to me that you have played out this particular hand. There is no need to let it drag on if there is no progress to be made.’
It sounded as if he was beginning to get cold feet. His commitment to the pursuit of justice appeared to be waning. Another reason for Makana to finish this case as soon as possible. Promising to keep him informed Makana hung up and dialled Sami’s number but got no reply. He then tried Zahra and got a disconnected tone. All in all not a particularly successful session. He went back to Sami’s number again and let it ring. As he waited, Makana lit another cigarette and slipped the photograph Madame Fawzia had given him from his pocket. Used to large classes, Makana had assumed he was looking at a single year of students. Now he realised that in a school that small what he was looking at was probably several forms in one picture. There had to be almost a hundred girls all arranged on the steps in front of the main entrance with the school’s name on the sign overhead. They were lined up in rows with the eldest at the top and the youngest at the bottom. On one side of the group stood a tall, grey-haired man wearing tortoiseshell spectacles and a suit that was too big for him. This, Makana assumed, had to be one of Madame Fawzia’s predecessors, back in the days when you needed a man as headmaster, even in a girls’ school. On the other side were two teachers standing close together. The photograph had not been marked and there was no note or anything on the back or inside the envelope to tell him what to look for. With the receiver clamped between ear and shoulder he studied the faces of the girls one by one. Nagat was in the top right- hand corner of the picture. Her face ringed by a circle in ink. Now he wondered if her sister Safira might also be in the picture. He studied each face carefully, beginning in the lower left-hand side. It wasn’t until his third sweep that he saw her.
‘Hello?’
‘Sami?’ Makana set the picture down on the shelf in front of him.
‘Ah, is that our emissary to the distant corners of the empire?’
‘Have you any news?’
‘The country is in a state of turmoil. The anti-Israeli protests are putting the government in an awkward position. They don’t want to antagonise the Americans, but they are beginning to realise there is a limit to how much their own people will take. There is a lot of support for the Palestinians and this thing in Jenin is horrific. Whole families are being bulldozed in their homes. How about you, don’t you miss Cairo?’
‘Don’t worry, I have a feeling I shan’t be here much longer.’ Makana tried to keep his voice down, as he recounted events, not wanting to share everything with the others in the place, but Sami appeared to be in a car and kept asking him to speak up.
‘Where are you?’
‘We’re stuck in a taxi downtown. Rania is with me. She says hello. I’ll bet you don’t miss the traffic.’
In an odd way he did. The delights of this peaceful idyll were beginning to wear thin.
‘Maybe it’s time to call it a day. There are other cases, you know?’ Sami sounded concerned.
‘They’ve arrested the wrong person and have no intention of admitting it. The killer is still out there and unless I do something it’s going to stay that way.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out. Was there something specific you wanted?’
‘No,’ said Makana. ‘I just wanted to remind myself that there are people who know me not to be insane.’
‘Well, don’t count on me as your only witness,’ Sami joked.
‘There is one thing you could do for me. A lawyer named Nadir Diyab.’ Makana read the telephone number off the business card Mutawali had given him.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Anything and everything. He’s connected to some kind of gas deal that’s happening here.’
‘I’ll do what I can. Listen to me, Makana. You need to finish your business out there and get back to civilisation as soon as possible.’
‘I’m not sure how easy that’s going to be.’
The receiver dropped from his shoulder into his hand. He hung up and stared at the photograph again for a long time before tucking it away carefully. He paid the bearded man and had just stepped into the street when Bulbul went racing by, standing up in his karetta.
‘Luqman’s escaped and they’ve got him cornered. They say they are going to kill him.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
The mob had Luqman trapped inside Hamza’s coffee shop. Even as Makana ran up he could see him climbing out onto the wall that ran around the veranda on the first floor. He looked weak and his clothes were dirty and torn. He was trying to edge around a corner pillar, clutching the brickwork with one arm while trying to fend off the hands that were reaching for him with the other. A small audience had gathered below waiting to see the outcome. Bulbul was stirring them up like a seasoned ringmaster.
‘Come on! Come and see him jump!’ He would have been selling tickets if he could have thought of a way of doing it. He worked the crowd into a frenzy. ‘Yallah, yallah, jump jump jump!’ he chanted, hopping from one foot to the other, clapping his hands to a lively beat.
Makana pushed through the crowd until he reached Sergeant Hamama who was looking upwards.
‘How could you let this happen?’
The sergeant turned slowly to look at Makana. He said nothing, but spat on the ground.
‘You need to listen more carefully when people give you advice.’
‘I told you I wasn’t ready to leave.’
‘It was for your own g
ood. I was trying to help you.’
The barred gate that closed off the staircase leading up to the coffee shop appeared to have been ripped off its hinges. Nearby lay a chain that had been attached to a pickup. Luqman must have managed to lock himself in briefly.
‘How did he get out?’
‘A momentary lapse of security,’ Sergeant Hamama shrugged. ‘These things happen. You never know how desperate people can be.’
Upstairs, Luqman was pleading for his life. Makana saw a stick slam viciously into one of his hands. He let out a howl of pain and almost lost his grip.
‘They’re going to kill him. Aren’t you going to intervene?’
Hamama pushed back his hat and scratched the top of his head. ‘I can’t risk the safety of my officers until I assess the situation. It would be irresponsible.’
Makana pushed past him and headed for the stairs. Nobody tried to stop him. Everyone assumed he just wanted to get in on the action. The staircase was crammed with men and boys who seemed undecided. To go up and join in the kill or to hang back and not get involved. Makana managed to get past them to find himself on the veranda. Two men had climbed up onto the balustrade and were closing in on Luqman from either side. Makana’s way was blocked by a lean, bony face.
‘You have to stop them.’
‘Why?’ laughed Wad Nubawi. ‘What difference does it make?’
‘It’s wrong. He hasn’t done anything.’
‘How do you know that?’ Wad Nubawi’s smile faded, to be replaced by the blank look Makana had become familiar with.
‘Killing him won’t solve anything. This is something from a long time ago.’ Makana thought he detected a flicker of response. He gestured. ‘Luqman has nothing to do with it.’
A high-pitched scream announced that it was too late. There was a dull thud as Luqman hit the road below. There was a moment’s silence, then a rush of men trying to get down the stairs and get away. A cheer went up from a couple of the men on the balustrade. An answering chorus rose up from the dusty street. As they pushed by a few glances flickered in Makana’s direction. One or two of them stopped, forming a clot in the free flow of men past him. He had seen them before. They were young and hard looking and they clearly knew who he was.
‘Why are you here?’
‘What do you want with us?’
They pressed him back, clamouring in from all sides. It occurred to Makana that perhaps coming up here wasn’t the wisest course of action. Wad Nubawi appeared to have retreated, melting away into the crowd like a bad rumour. The men pushed Makana back, bristling with tension. All talking at once.
‘You killed him,’ Makana said.
‘We didn’t touch him.’
‘He fell. Just like that, he fell.’ The speaker smiled the smile of the innocent.
Another leaned in. ‘Just try and prove otherwise.’
‘Leave him alone, boys,’ called Wad Nubawi reappearing like a magician. They shoved Makana aside as they made their escape. He caught Wad Nubawi’s eyes.
‘Take yourself away from here while you can still walk.’
Makana remained there with his back to the wall listening as the clamour slowly diminished. He moved over and looked down at Luqman’s broken, lifeless body lying in the street. Blood pooled from his head, already turning black in the sun. A donkey was braying hysterically in the distance. The crowd was breaking up as people went on their way. The mob moved away with Wad Nubawi at their centre. There was an air of celebration about them. They had done what they came here to do. Sergeant Hamama ignored them, concentrating instead on directing his men to clear the area and let the ambulance through. The whole town was in the hands of a group of thugs. Men who made a living driving out into the desert and ferrying contraband across the frontier. They had nothing to fear. They had the protection of the law, after all.
The sun was gently losing itself in the crowns of the palm trees on the western edge of the town as Makana turned into the narrow side street behind the hotel and stopped.
Coming towards him was a driverless karetta. Makana recognised the knock-kneed stagger and the flayed haunches. As it drew level he saw Bulbul stretched out in the back, his lumpy feet resting on the raised seat. With a click of his tongue the donkey drew to a halt and stood there twitching.
‘Cigarette?’
Makana tossed him the packet. Delighted, the boy sat up and waited for a light.
‘You look disappointed.’
Bulbul shrugged. ‘I thought he would last longer.’ He puffed away meditatively. ‘What can you expect from someone like that?’ He shrugged.
‘I suppose this means you lose some business, if his place is closed.’
The boy’s face scrunched up in pain. ‘The girls . . . I’m going to miss the girls. They used to smell so nice.’ He closed his eyes at the memory.
‘Still, I suppose other people like to take trips out into the lake for romantic rides.’
The prospect didn’t seem to cheer the boy. He gave another shrug.
‘Like the Qadi, for example.’
This produced a sneer. ‘You’re still asking questions? It’s all over. The Qadi and the man who killed him are dead.’ He handed back the cigarettes.
‘Keep them,’ said Makana. ‘You once asked me if I wanted to go to Abu Sharaf.’
‘I didn’t mean the place.’ Bulbul rolled his eyes. ‘It’s a way of referring to certain girls who are willing to sweeten your time for a little money.’
‘The Qadi used to know these girls.’ Makana saw the frown on Bulbul’s face. ‘He’s dead, remember? You told me yourself, the man who killed him is dead. I’m just curious.’
‘I don’t know what to make of you.’ Bulbul shook his head. ‘I’m just a little fish. I get by because of what the big fish leave for me, but that doesn’t mean they don’t respect me. Ask anyone. They all know Bulbul. Even the Qadi. I used to fix things for him.’
‘You drove him when he didn’t want to draw attention to himself with his big car.’
‘Exactly. Everyone needs Bulbul sometime.’
‘So you drove him out to the lake that evening, with a woman.’
‘I didn’t know the woman. He must have found her himself, don’t ask me how.’
‘So you drove them out there in the open?’
‘Sometimes out in the open is safer.’ Bulbul shrugged. ‘There are quiet places in the dunes beyond the lake.’
‘And you came back to fetch him?’
Bulbul nodded. ‘One hour, he said. But when I got back and saw what I saw, I didn’t hang around.’
‘You didn’t tell anyone either,’ said Makana.
‘That’s how Bulbul is. He doesn’t like to get involved in other people’s business.’
As the karetta trotted away, Makana turned and slipped along the street, deep in thought. He climbed the hill into the old city. The fronds toiled like dark waves in motion. Crows, black against the deep red, twisted in the air like tightly knotted thoughts. Looking down over the back of the hill he could see that the Lada he had noticed the other day was gone now. He settled himself in the corner of a ruin that was reasonably comfortable and well concealed. With only half a pack of Cleopatras for company he decided to treat himself to one, which he cupped in his hand to shield the glow, and settled down to wait for dark. The edges of the buildings stretched themselves out as shadows flooded in beneath them, pushing the daylight before them. It was soon dark and Makana decided to give it another hour or so. His hand throbbed with pain. He fumbled for the bottle of painkillers the doctor had given him the night before. It reminded him that he had unfinished business with Doctor Medina.
Luqman’s death would mean that officially the case could be sealed up. The question of what had been done with Rashida’s body still bothered Makana but he knew that it was bound up with everything else that was happening here. Whoever killed her had set the wire across the road to decapitate him. They wanted him out of the way. And since Rashida’s death was quite d
ifferent in style than the other two, there was a strong possibility that it was done by somebody else.
Shadows rose up about him as he stirred. The walls were dark echoes of the homes they had once been. Down below he could see the back of the hotel and the watery green glow of the light at the end of the street. The entrance to the old abandoned mosque was guarded by two grey cats playing in the shadows. They observed him curiously as he moved past them into the interior. Makana drifted through the rooms with the aid of his flashlight. There was a chamber to one side of the entrance which contained a narrow bathroom. Taps stuck out of the wall. Broken tiles were scattered around the floor in little heaps, like shells on a beach. The main area of the mosque had become a storeroom at some stage. A stack of old chairs that nobody had any use for leaned against one wall. The floor was bare, as were the walls. The mihrab was cracked and chipped. The wooden pulpit or minbar rising from the floor resembled the prow of an abandoned ship. There was no sign of anyone having been in here for months.
Disappointed, Makana followed the corridor round past the bathroom. He was forced to climb over another pile of broken furniture to reach a staircase that wound its way up into the minaret. Pigeons scattered wildly as he stepped into narrow space, barely high enough to stand up in. A tiny window looked down onto the street behind the hotel.
The shadow moving down the street was little more than a line that traced itself along the far wall. With great care not to make any noise, Makana moved closer to the window to get a better look. Light entered the narrow street only through a couple of gaps along its course. At the far end was a street lamp that washed the darkness with a pale-green glow. With some difficulty, Makana followed the progress of this curious shape as it slid along the walls. He could just barely make it out. The long garment swayed, and it was this movement more than anything which allowed him to see her. Luqman and the German girl had spoken of a woman out by the lake that fateful evening. He himself had spied a lone figure from his hotel room window. Could this be the person he was looking for? As the figure passed by beneath him Makana moved, without using the flashlight, feeling his way with his feet until he reached the stairs. He edged his way down, making slow progress. He was just beginning to think he was doing well, congratulating himself on not having broken any bones, when one of his feet caught on the leg of a chair at the bottom of the stairwell. It triggered an avalanche, with chairs tumbling over one another. By the time he reached the entrance to the mosque, whoever had been out there would have fled to the distant hills. He stood for a moment. A minute went by, then another, then a third. Five full minutes by his rough estimation went by before he saw it. A faint change in the nature of the darkness at the far end of the street. He moved out and began to follow, staying close to the wall, keeping one eye on the darkness ahead of him and one eye on the uneven ground. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the gloom and he could make out a faint darkening against a white wall in the distance. As the figure disappeared around the corner up ahead, he allowed himself to move more quickly, breaking into a jog. When he reached the corner he thought for a minute that he had lost her. Then he spotted her again, as she crossed another street. Light from the main square sketched her outline as clearly as a cut-out against a screen. Makana moved again, keeping close to the wall.
