by Parker Bilal
‘You laugh, but just remember that when it all goes to hell you’ll be glad to have us around.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Makana lit a cigarette. ‘Actually, I wanted to ask you about a couple of police officers. They work out of Giza. Drive a yellow Mazda.’ Marwan grunted before Makana had finished his description.
‘Hakim and Karim. Nasty pair.’
‘What can you tell me about them?’
‘We’ve crossed paths a few times.’ Marwan chewed his lip. ‘Can’t say I have much of a feel for them either way. But there are stories.’
‘What kind of stories?’
‘They’re both ex-military. At one point they were stationed in the Sinai, charged with rooting out potential terrorists. According to the stories they gained a reputation for going into villages and executing children, holding a gun to their heads until the women told them what they wanted to know.’
‘How did they end up in the police?’
‘They got out of hand once too often. I’m sure they weren’t happy about being posted back here. Those guys make plenty of money out there from smugglers paying kickbacks. What’s your problem with those lovebirds?’
‘They seem to have taken an interest in a case I’m working on.’
‘Take my advice and steer well clear of them.’
‘I’m not sure I have a choice.’
‘They aren’t the kind of people you want to cross.’ Marwan leaned forward. ‘They have protection. They’re on the inside. Either you’re with them, or you’re in their way.’ Marwan might be a blunt instrument, but he was old-fashioned enough to still believe in the idea of the police as a force for good, aside from the odd bribe finding its way into his pocket.
‘Can you think of any reason why they would take an interest in a girl from South Sudan?’
Marwan splayed his hands out wide. ‘Some men go for that kind of thing. You know, the hot-blooded exotic girl?’
‘Could they be running girls?’
It wasn’t the impression he had of Estrella, but who could tell? It would explain the conflict with Aljuka and his men. That would make them reluctant to have Makana nosing around. Did it explain why Hakim and Karim had shown up at Shaddad’s place for the visit by the forensic team?
‘Sometimes it’s hard to believe what goes on in this city,’ Marwan said. ‘It makes me feel like my time is up.’
Makana slid a handful of notes under the almost full bottle he pushed across the table.
‘You don’t have to.’ Marwan sounded almost offended.
‘Buy some of your hard-working colleagues a drink with it.’
‘You know, one of these days I just might do that,’ Marwan laughed as he tucked the money away.
Chapter Twenty-seven
It took almost an hour, but walking helped to clear his head. On the bridge, courting couples huddled, doing their best to ignore the traffic flying past behind them as they gazed out over the river. What was a bridge if not a reason to dream?
Reaching for his phone, Makana leaned on the rail for a cigarette while he called Doctora Siham . . . Jehan . . . What was he supposed to call her? He was no longer sure why he was calling. Staring at the instrument in his hand, Makana was about to hang up when she answered.
‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘No, not at all. I was reading. Well, I was reading and then I must have fallen asleep.’
‘Must have been something fascinating.’
‘Don’t get too excited. A biography of Alexandre Lacassagne, the father of modern forensic medicine.’
‘Hard to see why that might put you to sleep.’
‘Exactly.’ She paused to yawn loudly and then apologise. ‘He actually is interesting. He devised systems, structures to make autopsies more precise, ballistics, all the rest of it. He was a pioneer. We are all indebted.’
Makana was constantly surprised at how easy it was to talk to her about other things.
‘Well, I’m sorry to have woken you.’
‘No, I was thinking of calling you and then . . . I fell asleep.’
‘Did you get any further this morning?’ This morning? It seemed like a week had passed since they’d been in the basement underneath Shaddad’s offices.
‘The students are keen, but they still have a lot to learn about protecting a crime scene. And the situation wasn’t helped by that bawab. He’s an interfering old fool.’
‘Abu Gomaa? Either that, or he’s hiding something.’
‘Well, he was getting in the way and generally being a nuisance. Then Shaddad came down, took one look at the blood on the wall and ordered us all out until we produced a judge’s order to allow us to search.’ She let out a long sigh. ‘It was a mistake going in there like that. Typical Okasha, trying to get things done without ruffling any feathers and ending up making a muddle of it all.’
‘Did you have any luck matching the handprint to our dead body?’
‘No luck there. I mean, simple measurement tells me it was not made by the same person. I’m going to try a more accurate match of the hand shape and digital traces. We’re testing other material, but so far it looks like an unlikely fit.’
Which meant they had nothing to tie the body in the van to Shaddad. It felt like a setback, but there had to be some connection to that basement. Makana listened as she went on.
‘There’s a certain amount of blur in the print. I was thinking about what you said, and it makes sense. The angle of the fingers makes it possible that the hand rested on the wall for support. Without a ladder that hatch would be impossible to reach, but if there were two of them, then one could have escaped.’
‘The one who stayed behind was bleeding.’
‘The question is, why were they being held there? Somebody tried to clean those prints off.’
‘The same person who held whoever was in there prisoner.’
‘Doesn’t this implicate Shaddad?’
‘Not necessarily, but the old man knows much more than he’s letting on. You’ve been a great help.’
‘It’s my job, remember.’
‘I’m sure you have a lot more pressing matters to keep you busy.’
‘Look, if someone is killing these people then something should be done about it, and people like Okasha are going to brush it under the carpet. Nobody cares about them, and that riles me.’
‘Tell me again about that drug you found, sodium thiopental.’
‘Well, it acts on the central nervous system. In the right doses it can induce unconsciousness in less than a minute.’
‘How long does it take to wear off?’
‘That depends on the size of the patient, their weight, etc. The half-life is anywhere between twelve and twenty-four hours, depending on body fat. Thinner people take longer to break it down.’
‘So in the case of the young man in the van?’
‘Probably longer. Not a lot of fat on our boy.’
‘So he could have had it in his system for a full day?’
‘That’s possible.’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought you said sodium thiopental was used as a kind of truth serum.’
‘It is. It breaks down inhibitions. In the US they use it in a series of drugs for executing prisoners on death row.’
‘You can kill somebody with it?’
‘In combination with other drugs. It’s usually used as an anaesthetic in surgical procedures, mostly combined with a gas that is faster to wear off.’
‘But you found no trace of any other drug?’
‘No, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t planning to kill him. It may just be that he died of a heart attack first.’
Makana heard her suppressing another yawn.
‘I’ll let you get some rest. One last thing. Have you heard of a place called the Hesira Institute?’
‘Yes, actually. An old colleague of mine is the director. Ihsan Qaddus. Why?’
‘I have to pay them a visit. Perhaps you’d like to come along?
’
‘Me?’ She gave a little laugh. Oddly, Makana felt his heart lift. What did that mean? ‘Are you trying to recruit me as your assistant now?’
‘I’m not sure you’re cut out to be anyone’s assistant.’ That provoked more laughter. ‘No, I just thought you could give me your view of the place. I’m not really sure what they do.’
‘Okay, I’ll come along, but only on condition that you allow me to buy you dinner.’
‘I’m not sure that falls into the category of an assistant’s duties.’
‘You worry too much.’
The matter of dinner was deferred to an undefined point in the future. Makana clicked his phone shut and remained where he was for a moment, staring down at the shimmer of coloured lights on the water. It was difficult to know what exactly was going on with Doctora Siham. It was confusing, he couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing.
As he made to move on his phone chirped again. Sindbad sounded excited.
‘Effendim,’ he whispered urgently. ‘I have a bad feeling about this. I think something is not right.’
‘Just slow down and tell me what happened. Where are you?’
Sindbad explained that he had followed the girl, Mourad’s friend Fadihah. ‘She’s a strange one, but then all of these young people seem to be from another world.’
‘Where are you?’ Makana repeated. Sindbad had an affinity for melodrama. He cried over children’s films, he had confessed more than once, especially the one about a baby elephant.
‘They’re in the old palace on Champollion Street. I think there’s something going on in there.’
‘Wait for me. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
He was in luck. As he stepped to the kerb, a taxi in good mechanical shape rolled up alongside him. There were objects dangling from every corner, making it look less like a taxi cab than a sorcerer’s cave. Whatever spiritual problems the driver might have had, it didn’t affect his driving and they sped swiftly across Zamalek. Sindbad was standing by the Datsun parked under the trees on Champollion Street. The old building took up an entire block. Behind high walls the palace rose in darkness. He explained quickly that he had been following the girl and had seen her go in, and then had heard a scream, and she’d come running out and away.
‘I thought it best to wait here for you.’
‘You did the right thing. How did she get in?’
‘There’s a side entrance.’ Sindbad pointed to an indent in the shadows. ‘Someone’s broken the padlock.’ He handed Makana a torch. It was a cheap plastic thing bought off a cart from a street pedlar, but it was better than nothing. ‘Should I come in with you?’
‘No, you’d better stay here and keep watch. Call me if anyone shows up.’
The palace was set back from the road, surrounded by high walls over which the upper floor could be seen. A forgotten fragment of elegance, jettisoned by history. The windows were jagged with broken glass. Wooden shutters hung lopsided in their frames or had fallen from their hinges. It had been commissioned by Said Halim Pasha, grandson of Muhammed Ali, founder of Ottoman rule in Egypt. He grew up in Istanbul and might one day have ruled the country if history had not had more grandiose plans in store for him. He was made Grand Vizier, and as such witnessed the decline and fall of the Ottoman Empire. An assassin’s bullet brought his life to an end, apparently for his part in the Armenian massacres.
During the day the area around the palace was thick with car workshops and mechanics daubed in engine oil. There were stationers, tyre outlets, coffee shops. Now all the shutters were down. No light came from within. A dark spot in the universe, a black hole into which all life was sucked. He could see why it might appeal to a group of students with romantic notions about changing the world.
The night air rustled the leaves and sent a chill down Makana’s spine. He reached a narrow doorway that was barred by an improvised sheet metal panel held in place by a chain and padlock. The chain hung loosely, the padlock tucked into a couple of links like an afterthought.
Makana looked up and down the street. It was after midnight and nothing was moving. He lifted the padlock, pulled the chain aside, and the door swung inwards with a soft groan. The interior was thick with tall rhododendron bushes that stirred lightly above him as he went by. A path led round to the front of the building, where from the shadows he was able to see it clearly. Close up it was impressive. Carved stone figures loomed over the arched windows. Reclining angels gazed down as he climbed the front steps. There were three high wooden doors and four stone pillars, each adorned with the head of a lion.
The door to the right was ajar. He pushed it and stepped inside a spacious entrance hall where he paused for a moment to listen while his eyes adjusted to the gloom. He clicked on the torch and nothing happened. He had to shake it a few times before it produced a stuttering, intermittent beam that he played upwards over curving staircases and galleries. A wide staircase forked in mid-air, twisting around in a spiral, rising in tiers to left and right linking the galleries that ran around each floor. The yellow tongue of light picked out a thick carpet of dust on the floor. It was criss-crossed by footprints. Too many to count. Coming and going. A regular stream of visitors, kids curious to see what was in there. Vagrants. Homeless people. Some looked more recent.
Makana passed beneath the central landing suspended in the middle of the hall and began to climb. More footprints. They scattered in different directions, but he managed to untangle what looked like a main stream and followed that. On the first floor they led him round the gallery, then deeper inside. Now he heard squeaking coming from somewhere. A scurry of feet that made his skin crawl. He moved cautiously, aware of the sad state of disrepair in the structure. Doorframes hung off the wall. There were gaping cracks, holes where someone had removed some tiles or stripped away wooden fittings. A blackboard was a reminder that it had once been used as a school. It was still possible to imagine what it must have been like in its heyday, when pashas wandered these rooms boasting of empires and statesmen clad in fine garments attended lavish galas and feasted on sumptuous dinners. Why was it that past glory only ever served to tarnish the present?
Makana came to a halt, his train of thought cut short by an object on the ground ahead that appeared to be moving. It seemed to be alive. The light flickered and went out. He shook it again and when it came on he saw a seething mound of fur. Rats. His stomach lurched. They seemed to be devouring something. He looked around for something to throw and his eye was caught by more movement further over. Another mound, and then another. The beam of light flickered on and off, bouncing from one island of fur to the next. The floor was alive.
He stepped back to the door and looked around for a weapon. Grabbing hold of the splintered doorframe, he pulled. With a screech a long piece ripped free. Two steps more and he swung hard at the nearest heap. The result was mayhem. Several of the smaller rats hopped off and scurried away in the darkness in different directions. Some carried on eating. One outsize rat took offence and threw itself at Makana, who managed to bring up the bar quickly in defence. Undeterred, the rat sank its teeth into the wood and clung on grimly until Makana, seeing that it was actually beginning to make progress, climbing doggedly towards him, flung the bar off to his right, spinning it into darkness, which in turn sparked more squealing.
Makana cast around for another weapon and found a longer, sharper piece of wood. He thrust the point into the midst of the remaining rats, to be rewarded by a rise in the frenzy pitch. Eventually they seemed to tire. A number dropped off and scurried away, leaving Makana holding the speared remains of something gruesome. He could make out white bone and dark, rotten flesh still clinging to what looked a lot like a human thigh. By now the stench had hit him. The flesh, whatever it had once been, was in an advanced state of decay.
Further over a larger object proved to be a torso, a broken rib pointing up like a curved finger. Using his improvised weapon, Makana moved around the ballroom identifying various p
ieces of a body. It was a job to keep the rats at bay.
As he was about to retreat outside and leave the rats to it, Makana heard another sound. It was so faint he thought at first that he was imagining it. Above the squeaking of the rats it was unmistakably human. There was someone else in the building. Flicking off the torch, Makana walked back out onto the gallery, where he stood motionless, listening. It came again. A grunt followed by whispering. Someone was talking in a low voice. It was coming from the other side of the building. He made his way around, clicking on the torch as he went. Shadows stirred around his feet like fog, skittering away from him in ripples. The gallery was lined with high arches and stone pillars, the railings decorated with wrought-iron whorls that twisted as vines around them. He tracked round to the other side, pausing to lean over the banister and peer down into the entrance hall below.
Nothing moved. The sounds came from somewhere to his right. The torch flickered teasingly on to reveal a door hanging at a skewed angle, before the beam went out again. The lintel was decorated with indented floral patterns. Beyond he saw only pitch black. Another doorway gave onto a room overlooking the courtyard. Light filtered through a half-shuttered window. It felt damp and cold. It also smelt of people. The stench of human beings trapped in a confined space.
The moaning had stopped. He waited until it came again and shook the torch. This time the beam came on to reveal a figure propped up against the wall. Despite the blood and bruising to his face, Makana recognised Ihab. He was leaning so far over he was almost lying down. He held both hands to his belly. Blood had leaked through his fingers and stained his jeans, pooling around him on the ground in a sticky patch. A small rat perched nearby, its nose twitching in anticipation. Makana kicked out and it retreated, temporarily at least, darting off into the shadows. Placing the torch on the ground, he went down on one knee and pulled the hands away to assess the damage. There was no resistance. Ihab was barely conscious. His skin was clammy to the touch, his face drained pale.
‘Can you hear me?’ Makana slapped his face lightly. ‘You need to stay awake. You’ve lost a lot of blood.’