Things took a turn for the worse. Ruqiya’s eyes once again flooded with tears and Ibrahim buried his head in his arms.
“Oh God, how I struggled to raise her well,” Ruqiya said, through her tears. “I wanted her to finish her education and live a respectable life . . . become a mother. But death shows no mercy. Her father was taken unexpectedly. He had an incurable condition and we spent every little bit we had on treatment. He was an honorable and decent man. In spite of our tough situation he provided the kids with everything they needed. I worked cleaning houses to help out. But after his death I developed kidney problems, and when things get bad it feels like nails are being hammered into my sides. And this poor boy had to leave university to take over his father’s stall in the market, but they denied him his rightful place. Sirs, we struggle and barely get by and try to live an honorable life. My daughter was a good girl. Maybe she came under someone’s bad influence.”
“Are you talking about this woman Salwa?” Hamid asked, looking at his notes.
“I don’t want to misjudge anyone, but she did go to that salon all the time to get her hair done.”
The interrogation shifted to questions about Salwa. They wanted her full name, her address, and details about her relationship with Nezha.
Hanash stood up, sighed deeply, and put his hands in his pockets as he took up a pensive pose at the window, watching the traffic. This interrogation had soured his mood. It made him think about his daughter Manar, who ran a salon frequented by all sorts of young women. He completely rejected the notion that his daughter would be involved in the kinds of things that brought this profession a bad reputation. That said, he would have never given in to her desire to run a salon if she hadn’t threatened him with moving abroad.
He turned around and looked at the miserable woman in her tattered abaya, who was still crying. He glanced at Ibrahim, and ordered them both to wait outside.
“Take them to your office for further interrogation,” he said to Hamid. “I want a clear picture of the victim, her upbringing, and all the details of what she did the night in question. Call the mortuary and ask them when these two can see her body.”
Hanash was sunk deep into his chair. He needed Qazdabo to bring him updates about what the team was up to, and what was going on behind the scenes. He straightened up when he heard a knock on the door. Bu’u had arrived with the first valuable lead. He saluted enthusiastically as he introduced the woman he’d brought in.
“This is Salwa, the hairdresser, friend of the victim.”
Hanash recoiled at the word hairdresser, his daughter Manar’s profession.
Salwa stood in front of Hanash in her black abaya with puffy eyes and her brow furrowed. She began to cry. Locks of bleached blonde hair slipped out from under the scarf covering her head.
“Do you have any priors?” Hanash asked, looking her up and down maliciously.
She blew her nose into a tissue without looking him in the eye and shook her head, still crying.
Inspector Hamid came in and unleashed on her. “Shut up! Enough with the tears. Stand up straight when you’re in front of the detective,” he scolded.
She started trembling. “I do have priors . . . but it wasn’t my fault,” she said, pressing her hands together as if praying that they be kind to her.
Hanash and Hamid smiled at one another. Just then, the phone rang. As the detective listened, he kept glancing back at Salwa.
“So. You were imprisoned for being a pimp,” he said as soon as he got off the line.
“Oh God, sir, I was wrongly accused,” she said, in a manner that infuriated the two men.
Hamid scolded her sharply and grabbed her arm violently, shutting her up. “You won’t be leaving here in one piece!” he yelled, whacking her on top of the head. “When did you see Nezha?”
“I haven’t seen her for days. We had a fight.” She crumpled to the floor. She knew that Detective Hanash wasn’t playing games.
“Take her to Officer Kinko in the basement,” Hanash said, returning to his desk. “Tell him to hang her up until the morning.” He looked at his watch. “It’s time for us to go home.”
Salwa shifted onto her knees, imagining a grimy basement with a floor saturated with piss, blood, and vomit, and she started talking.
“I did her hair yesterday,” she said, still aching from the blow. “She told me that she had spent a terrible night at Hotel Scheherazade. She was with a customer who never paid her. She asked me to borrow some money, and I gave her fifty dirhams.”
Salwa stopped speaking and tried to catch her breath as she adjusted the scarf to hide her hair.
Hanash froze for a second. This was the first time Hotel Scheherazade had been mentioned over the course of the investigation. He didn’t want anyone to dig any deeper in this direction so he quickly changed the subject.
“What was Nezha’s relationship with Said, the guy who was murdered with her?”
“God only knows. I’ve never heard her talk about this guy,” she said firmly, hoping to sound convincing.
She cowered, putting her hands in front of her face, and shuffled farther back.
“Don’t worry,” Hanash said in a calm voice. “No one’s going to hit you again. This would have been a whole lot easier if you’d talked to us from the start. Your friend was murdered, along with another man. Don’t you want to know who killed them? Just tell us what you know and you’ll be on your way.”
Her face went pale and she felt a strange shiver shoot up her spine.
“Did she tell you where she was going before leaving the salon?” Hamid asked with a peculiar smile.
Salwa thought about everything she and Nezha had talked about yesterday, and she decided not to mention Nezha’s problems with her brother.
“If you want to know everything about Nezha then go to La Falaise,” she said. “Before leaving she told me about some problems she had with a bouncer named Farqash, who was demanding some sort of kickback from her. She was scared he was going to do something.”
Baba was sitting in the passenger’s seat of the police van as the team headed to La Falaise.
“This is the worst thing about this job,” he said in frustration. “Who is going to compensate us for all this overtime?”
“You should call the minister of the interior,” Bu’u chided him. “You want his number?”
Despite their weariness, they both smiled.
“I wish I was going to La Falaise to have a drink with a girl, instead of to arrest the damn bouncer,” Bu’u said.
The van parked a couple of blocks away so as not to raise any suspicion. Bu’u, Baba, and two others headed straight to the front door of La Falaise.
It was around seven o’clock, which was when things got going at the bar. They weren’t expecting resistance from Farqash, since he was well known and had an excellent relationship with the police. The owner of La Falaise was also in good standing with all the right people, and always paid his kickbacks on time. The bar, therefore, enjoyed special protection and the police overlooked all sorts of minor transgressions that took place inside. This was exactly what frightened the girls who worked there. They quickly came to understand that any dispute would not end well for them, given this special protection. And this was why Farqash remained calm, smoking a cigarette at the bar and flirting with Warda when the four men approached him. They encircled him in case he tried to make a move. The customers sensed the tension and everyone froze. Suddenly, one of the scantily clad girls—cigarette in one hand, beer in the other—stumbled out of a corner toward the middle of the bar.
Looking right at Baba, she almost fell as she said, “Hey, you there, Romeo.”
She had no idea that he was a policeman. A slap landed on her face and echoed through the entire place as she fell to the ground, the beer and cigarette flying into the air.
“Police!” shouted Baba. “No one move!”
Bu’u took out his handcuffs and waved them in front of Farqash. “Slowly, Farqash
. Give me your hands.”
Farqash stepped back until he ran up against the bar, and shot a quick look at Warda. “What do you all want from me? What did I do?” he growled.
In the blink of an eye Bu’u grabbed one hand and cuffed it, and the other men closed in on him until he succumbed. The customers saw that this was their chance to make a run for it, and rushed outside. This scramble made it clear how packed the place was, since it was hard to make out just how many eyes were following the action from the bar’s dark recesses. The girls fled screaming, many of them barefoot and in skimpy outfits.
“Who’s going to pay for all this?” said Warda, as she looked out at the overturned tables and the broken bottles on the floor.
“Just send us the bill,” Bu’u said, laughing at her.
Back at the station, Hanash and Hamid grabbed Farqash from the two officers, keeping him handcuffed. Farqash’s reputation preceded him, due to his long list of priors and belligerent nature. One time he even got off on a murder charge despite the huge amount of incriminating evidence corroborating his guilt. The rumor was that the owner of La Falaise paid close to ten million dirhams to get him off, since a guilty verdict would have meant the end of his bar.
Before either man managed to ask him a question, Farqash started talking.
“I know who sent you guys for me.”
“Oh yeah, who?” ask Hanash, humoring him.
“The owner of Lafayette. He’s always accusing me of stealing customers from his bar.”
Hanash threw Farqash onto a chair, then leaned over and grabbed him by the handcuffs.
“This time you’re going to be charged with two murders. Nezha al-Gharbi, who didn’t pay up, and the guy she was with.”
“Nezha was murdered?” he said, shocked.
Hamid paced around him. “Don’t mess with us. Speak only when you’re asked a question!”
Farqash gave his creepy smile, but a look of confusion spread over his face. “If it’s that serious, then I’m all yours. Ask whatever you want. I’m ready to answer.”
Hanash gestured to Hamid to start in.
“When did you see Nezha last?” Hamid asked.
“Last night.”
“Where?”
“She came to La Falaise around seven or eight.” Farqash fell silent, awaiting the next question.
“Go on,” said Hamid tersely.
“I was waiting for her to give me the money she owed me, but she didn’t.”
“And why is she paying you?”
“I protect her from the druggies and glue fiends who would carve up her face. I pay off their boss to keep her safe.”
“Keep going,” Hanash said.
“I kicked her out of La Falaise when she didn’t pay me.”
“Where did she go after you kicked her out?”
“I don’t know where she went.”
“Did you see her again after that?”
Farqash remained silent for a moment, then shook his head.
“Where were you yesterday between midnight and three in the morning?”
“I didn’t leave La Falaise until it closed around one. Then I went to Club Hufra in Ain Diab with Warda, the barmaid. We were there until six in the morning.”
Hanash pressed a button and the door opened. A uniformed police officer entered.
“Take him to the basement,” Hanash ordered.
Farqash slammed his boots on the ground in protest.
“Why are you keeping me, detective? Haven’t I cooperated?”
The guard shoved him through the doorway.
“We’ll let you go once we confirm everything you’ve told us,” Hamid told him, as he disappeared down the hallway.
Ibrahim and his mother returned to Kandahar feeling like Nezha’s ghost was trailing them. Their return happened to coincide with the end of evening prayers at the neighborhood mosque. The group filtering out of the mosque was mainly composed of Sufyan’s young followers, hanging on his every word. They had been at the mosque since afternoon prayers, listening to Sufyan deliver one of his moving lectures on the eve of his departure for Syria. He spoke about how it was incumbent on any “real” Muslim to force their sisters, even before they reached puberty, to wear the veil and, even better, the niqab. He also emphasized that if you noticed a family member engage in any sort of immoral behavior or spout secular ideology, then it was your right to correct this behavior. He claimed that the severe drought that gripped the country was a result of the abominations of prostitution, homosexuality, and other corruptions endemic in society. He predicted that a massive earthquake or a catastrophic tsunami were on the horizon, and they would kill millions, destroying everything in their path. He charged his followers with recruiting more young people to follow the true Islam. At the end of the lecture he played a cassette in which an ISIS jihadi called his Muslim brothers and sisters to Syria and Iraq to purify the region.
Ruqiya wasn’t even capable of opening her mouth to reply to the neighborhood women who greeted her. She couldn’t actually make out whether they were offering condolences or insults. This crowd of people felt like an additional onslaught to her already shattered state. Ibrahim grabbed her by the sleeve and led her directly indoors, locking the door behind them.
As Sufyan passed Ibrahim’s home he cast an angry look at the women gathered around their entryway. He could overhear one woman gossiping about Nezha’s scandalous behavior. Sufyan berated her and then knocked on the door.
“Ibrahim, open up,” he said.
Ruqiya opened the door and Sufyan immediately kissed her on the head, not giving her a chance to cry. He offered his condolences and sincere prayers for perseverance. He then turned to Ibrahim and embraced him warmly, as if congratulating him.
Sufyan grabbed Ibrahim by the hand and took him to the mosque. Once inside, he locked the door behind them. Sufyan again hugged Ibrahim and looked at him like he was a hero. Ibrahim was disgusted.
“What you did was incredible, Ibrahim!” Sufyan said.
Driss arrived at that moment, so Ibrahim didn’t get a chance to reply. Driss boisterously embraced Ibrahim, just as Sufyan had done.
“She is now relieved of the dissolute life she lived, brother,” Driss said.
“Remember your dead kindly,” Sufyan scolded him. “All sin and dissolution comes from this unfaithful society.”
Ibrahim tried to speak, but Sufyan gave him a cautionary look and pressed on his shoulders, preventing him from saying anything.
“After morning prayers tomorrow,” Sufyan said, changing the subject, “I’m headed to Syria, inshallah. Let’s spend this evening praying and reading the Quran.”
10
Naeema was in desperate need of an attitude adjustment if she was going hide her true feelings—that her husband should be poisoned like a rat—when he returned home. She went up to the bedroom and began applying makeup in anticipation of his arrival, since faking her true feelings always required a new façade. She was not only angry that he hadn’t been home in three full days, claiming he was in Fez, but she couldn’t believe that he had gone straight back to work without even stopping at home to change his underwear. It felt to her that he’d finally given up caring about the minor details of this charade.
Her husband showed more interest in her cooking than in her. At this point in their marriage, he would sometimes show affection by sitting close to her and whispering disingenuous sweet nothings. And he made sure to compliment her in front of the children. After these minimal efforts he’d retire to his office, which had been converted into a separate bedroom. Naeema suppressed her feelings, as she had grown accustomed to trying to please everyone and would never cause a scene. She suspected him of infidelity and dishonesty, but liked being the wife of a powerful man. She found some solace in the looks of admiration and respect conferred on her by people in her social circles.
When Hanash entered the bedroom she was waiting for him in sheer nightwear that revealed her broad shoulders, large breasts,
and taut thighs. He noticed that she had dyed her hair a reddish hue. He smiled as he approached her. She put her hands on her shoulders as if she felt cold.
“You have to let me and the kids go to Marrakesh tomorrow,” she said. “It’s shameful that Atiqa is there without family.”
“Do whatever you think is best, Naeema,” he said, his voice heavy. “I’m exhausted. I saw two disfigured corpses today. It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”
She was silent, unable to process what he had just told her since her thoughts were elsewhere. He lay back on the bed fully clothed and pressed his temples. Under normal circumstances she would have fired off all sorts of questions about the crime and implored him to divulge every little detail. She sat next to him. He put his hand in his pocket and took out the necklace the female engineer from Hotel Scheherazade had bribed him with, and handed it to his wife.
“For you,” he said.
He stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes so his vacant stare wouldn’t give him away—he knew all too well that this was a pathetic attempt to express regret. She marveled at the necklace and then gave a wry smile, indicating she knew what he was up to. When he saw that her demeanor hadn’t changed, he realized that things weren’t progressing as usual. He took the necklace from her and hooked it around her neck.
“This cost a pretty penny and I’ve been waiting to see the gemstone glimmering on your neck.” He dragged her over to the mirror. “Look how beautiful and elegant it is.”
The valuable gift did nothing to purge her misery, as she was still intent on speaking to him about their daughter. She took off the necklace, inspected it closely, and held it in her palm as if measuring its weight.
“Where is the case and the receipt?” she asked, surprising him with a question he hadn’t anticipated. “I’m going to give it to Atiqa and tell her it’s from you.”
He blushed. It would be impossible to convince her that he had bought it without a case or receipt, especially since it was such a valuable necklace.
“It’s for you,” he said intently, trying to avoid answering her question. “I’m going to bring Atiqa something else, myself, when I have time to visit.”
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