by Parker Bilal
‘How did he die?’
‘Who?’ Sergeant Hamama looked up irritated from a drawer he was rifling through.
‘The captain.’
‘There was some defect with his car, as I understand it. Bad luck. Could happen to anyone.’ Hamama slammed the drawer shut and looked around him. ‘Ali! Ali!’ he yelled. The door opened and the skinny officer appeared. ‘Go and fetch me some gum.’ He pulled a grubby banknote out of his pocket and held it in the air. Ali stepped across the room and plucked it from his hand and disappeared out of the door again without a word.
‘The captain was a good man,’ said Sergeant Hamama settling himself back into the big chair behind the desk. ‘Old-fashioned, but good at heart.’
Over his head a smaller portrait of the president appeared on the wall, in full military regalia, his chest covered in medals. The neatness of the room, everything about it in fact seemed to spell the exact opposite of the man now sitting behind the desk.
‘Now, I want you to tell me again that you did not kill that man.’
‘You don’t seriously consider me a suspect?’
‘Please, no questions. Just tell me,’ the sergeant stared intently at him. ‘A simple yes or no will do. Did you kill him?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’ The sergeant thumped his hands down flat on the desk. ‘Now, that wasn’t so difficult, was it? You understand, I never suspected you of doing it. For what it’s worth you seem like a well meaning sort of fellow, it’s just that you are a stranger in town and people around here have a habit of mistrusting people they don’t know.’
‘And now that you’ve asked me you think they will be satisfied?’
‘Between you and me I don’t care, but I can always say I have questioned you and found you innocent of all charges. Nobody can accuse me of not following up.’
Along the wall to Makana’s left stood a row of grey metal filing cabinets. Over them hung a yellowed map of the area. The kind of map you might see in a classroom, with a wooden bar running along the top and bottom to hold it straight. The paper was dry and cracked, torn along the edges. The colour and detail had faded to such a degree it might have been a pirate’s map of where treasure lay buried.
‘What about Ayman, you said he had no record?’
‘I don’t need to check any records. I know everything there is to know about everybody, and a good deal more than that too.’
The door opened and Ali came in carrying a pink packet of chewing gum which he handed to the sergeant.
‘What’s that?’
‘Strawberry. It’s all they had.’
‘All they had? How can that be?’ Hamama didn’t give the other man a chance to reply. ‘Never mind, just bring us some tea.’ He ripped open the packet and crammed several pieces into his mouth and grimaced, but kept on chewing as he stared at Makana. ‘Okay,’ he conceded finally, ‘Ayman didn’t have a record, not really, but he was this close.’ Hamama reclined in his chair and lifted one boot to the edge of the table to rock himself further backwards. ‘Ayman had a certain fondness for little girls. A few years ago a complaint was made. Nothing came of it because, well, everyone knows he was not right in the head. And his uncle, whose hotel you are staying in, promised to keep a tight control on the boy. He was a boy, really, body like a man, but mind like a child.’ Rubbing his chin, Hamama leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. ‘You seriously think this is some kind of message to the whole town?’
‘I don’t know what the killer has in mind, but I believe there is more to this than merely the murder of these two people.’
Sergeant Hamama chewed in silence. ‘I don’t see that. I really don’t.’
‘Did you question the Qadi’s wife?’
‘No, no.’ The sergeant straightened up a pile of papers on his desk. ‘I couldn’t do that. The man is barely dead and this business of the burial is a little awkward. I can’t tell the woman that her husband is being held in a common supermarket freezer.’
‘You don’t think she has heard by now?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not risking it.’
‘More than your job’s worth?’ Makana asked.
‘Look, I don’t know how you do things in the big city, but here you have to tread carefully. It’s a small community and we all depend on one another. We live together.’
Makana was staring at the wall map. ‘Where exactly did he die? Can you show me?’
‘Who?’
‘Your predecessor, Captain Mustafa?’
‘Why is this of interest to you?’
‘I’m just curious by nature.’
‘But this has nothing to do with these murders. Don’t you think you ought to be focussing your mind on the killings?’
‘I am, I just need to know certain things.’
After a moment the sergeant stood up. He stared at Makana as if still unsure what to make of him. Finally, he leaned over and tapped a finger on the map.
‘He was out here, just west of the oasis.’
‘What’s out there?’ asked Makana, lighting a cigarette.
‘Not much really. Would you mind not smoking in here? I’m trying to stop.’
Makana dutifully stubbed out the cigarette as carefully as he could before returning it to the packet. He got to his feet and went over to study the map.
‘There’s an old storage depot built by the company that constructed the road, but it has been empty for years.’
‘And these are tracks?’
Sergeant Hamama squinted. ‘The old camel routes through the desert.’
‘They’re not marked, I assume.’
‘No, nothing out there is marked. You have to know your way.’
‘So who would know these routes apart from Bedouins and camel herders?’
‘People guard the knowledge well. You can lose your way easily and never come back.’
‘Who else would know how to use these routes?’
Sergeant Hamama looked at Makana. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘Nothing, I’m just curious. Musab Khayr, would he have known?’
‘Maybe.’
‘He was involved in smuggling so I suppose he did.’
‘There are all kinds out there. Smugglers, rebels from some conflict somewhere, common bandits. Not much difference between them if you ask me. Groups of armed men. That’s what it boils down to. You can’t keep track of them and you can’t control them. The truth is you don’t know who you might run into out there.’
‘Why was he out there alone?’ Makana asked as Ali appeared balancing a small tray which he set down on the desk.
‘Who?’
‘Captain Mustafa.’
‘I’ve wondered about that quite a bit.’ Hamama said, settling himself back down in his chair to begin spooning sugar into his cup of tea until there was a layer two fingers thick in the bottom of the glass. He stirred it thoughtfully. ‘The truth is that I don’t really know. Captain Mustafa had his own ways and he didn’t confide in me all the time.’
‘Maybe there just wasn’t anyone around that he trusted,’ Makana said quietly.
‘That’s what I like about you,’ smiled Hamama over the top of his glass. ‘You don’t beat about the bush. Captain Mustafa and I were not the closest friends in the world. We disagreed on a lot of matters, but he didn’t deserve to die like that.’
‘How exactly did he die?’
‘You’re really not going to leave this subject alone, are you?’
‘Once I know all the details I’ll drop it.’
‘Okay. Well, there was an electrical fault. A spark ignited the fuel in the tank. The car exploded.’
‘Isn’t that rare?’
‘What do I know? I’m not an expert. People die in different ways.’ His jaws worked up and down on the gum. ‘Satisfied now? Do you mind if we move on? I mean, you do want to solve this case, don’t you? Because I have a duty to protect the people of this town. I don’t want a mad man wandering around cut
ting people up.’ Sergeant Hamama set down his glass. He drew a circle with his forefinger on the desk and spoke without looking up. ‘I’ll tell you something, Makana. I don’t know you. I don’t know where you come from, or how you ended up in this place, but I believe in fate. Call me an old woman, but I believe you were sent here for a reason.’ He tapped his knuckles on the desk. ‘I believe that is so, and I think maybe that reason is to find this killer.’
Chapter Nineteen
Ayman’s room was not actually a room at all, but a space fenced off from the rest of the storeroom at the back of the hotel by a stack of plastic crates full of empty bottles that once upon a time contained some kind of soft drink. Crates and bottles alike were draped in layers of dust and spun together with cobwebs. The bed was strung with palm-fibre rope that had stretched with time to resemble a hammock more than a bed. His belongings were in a cardboard box. A meagre collection of clothes and shoes, all of which appeared to be in tatters. Torn shirts and ripped trousers, just like the clothes he’d died in. Shoes that were split along the seams or had lost a heel. It wasn’t much of an existence.
‘His parents died years ago. He had no brothers and sisters.’ Nagy remained by the door, his ususal bad temper softened by compassion. ‘Ayman’s parents were distant cousins.’
Makana rifled through a tattered primary school book. Apparently Ayman had been trying to teach himself to read. The stub of a pencil had been used to underline words. Boy. Camel. Bird. Nobody really knew how old he was exactly, but around forty was the general consensus, although his mind had not advanced much beyond that of a ten-year-old child.
‘They left him with us when he was still small.’
For safekeeping no doubt. The family wanted him kept at a distance, in the care of a relative say. A shelf held up by string and nails contained an oil lamp and some old glass jars filled with pebbles.
‘He collected them,’ Nagy explained, shaking his head in wonder, ‘like a kid collects marbles. He was fascinated by the colours and shapes.’
At the centre of the shelf was a small, chipped coffee cup. Inside it was a slip of blue ribbon. Nagy was busy pushing things aside, sliding crates against the wall, thinking about all the possibilities this space offered. Makana slipped the ribbon into his shirt pocket.
Nagy winced as he straightened up, one hand to his back. ‘All these years I looked after the boy and this is how I get repaid.’
‘The world is filled with injustice,’ commented Makana.
Mutawali, the Qadi’s assistant, scurried along the arcade rather than walked. He seemed flustered and when he caught sight of Makana waiting for him on the veranda outside his office he threw up his hands with a groan.
‘I heard you’d been arrested!’
‘A misunderstanding,’ explained Makana as the little man fiddled with his keys to open the door.
‘A misunderstanding, you say? Frankly I don’t understand anything of what is happening in this world today.’
The room was dark and musty, the windows covered by shutters that had not been opened for years. A flat metal bar held down a row of stacked papers, some in folders. Makana stood in the middle of the room as Mutawali moved around as feverish as a mouse. Setting the pile of papers he had been carrying under his arms on the desk, he opened a second set of French windows that opened onto the veranda and the courtyard beyond.
‘As you can imagine, with the Qadi’s sudden death we are left with a great amount of work that needs to be dealt with.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Makana. ‘And I won’t take up any more of your time than is necessary.’
‘This whole business has been a terrible shock for us. This is a small community. For the life of me I cannot understand why anyone would want to kill the Qadi in such a brutal way, or this boy from the hotel.’ Mutawali settled himself behind the desk with a heavy sigh and ran a hand over his face as though trying to restore some element of vigour to the slumped features. ‘Very well, then, get on with it.’
‘The two victims appear to have nothing to do with one another. No relationship at all. It would be helpful to know if there had been any contact between them, to establish a motive, you understand.’
‘I’m not sure to what extent I should co-operate with you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, the fact that you were a suspect, no matter how briefly, does cast a certain shadow on you, you must admit.’
‘It was a case of one police officer being overzealous. It was personal.’
Mutawali fretted with his fingers, tapping the edge of the desk. ‘People don’t like you, I can understand that. You’re an outsider. You make them nervous with your questions. I think it’s the way you ask that makes everyone cautious, even me. We wonder if we are walking blindly into a trap.’
Makana was looking out of the window which afforded a pleasant view over the town. The deep green of the palm trees contrasting with the stark walls of the ruins and beyond that the world seemed to dissolve into shades of grey. A faint heat haze could be glimpsed hovering over the lake.
‘Sergeant Hamama has put in a request for permission to see the Qadi’s records, but you know how these things are. We might have another victim on our hands before the paperwork goes through.’
‘Yes, I understand.’ Mutawali clutched his hands together on the desktop. ‘I’m sorry, I wish there was more I could do, but my hands are tied.’
‘Well, perhaps you could tell me a little about the Qadi’s business dealings, informally, I mean.’
‘Well, I’m not sure that I can.’
‘Let’s start by distinguishing between his official duties and his private interests. Perhaps that way we can figure out who the Qadi was due to meet that afternoon.’
‘I . . . well, it’s highly irregular.’
‘So is murder.’
‘Yes, yes, very well. Where to begin? The Qadi had a wide range of interests.’
‘Was it just tourist companies?’
‘No, not really.’ Mutawali fell silent.
‘I think I understand your problem,’ said Makana.
‘You do?’ The deputy’s eyebrows shot up.
‘Of course. Murder is a messy business. It opens up a lot of doors that sometimes it would be better to leave closed. Do you follow me?’
‘I . . . I think so.’
‘This kind of case brings a lot of outside interest. Specialists.’
‘Such as yourself,’ said Mutawali, shifting in his seat.
Makana was silent for a moment, letting the deputy squirm. ‘Do you want to know what I think? I think you are a man who likes things to be in their place. The Qadi was your superior so you were bound to obey him. That doesn’t mean you approved of his methods. Sometimes he did things that you knew were not quite right, but you went along anyway because you were obliged to, but now that he’s gone you are left holding the baby, as it were.’
‘That is one way of putting it.’
‘If the Qadi crossed the line between his official responsibilities and his personal interests that needn’t reflect badly on you.’
‘Naturally. I mean, I would hope not.’
‘So, in this particular instance. If you were to hazard a guess as to who the Qadi might have gone out to the lake alone to meet, what would you say?’
Mutawali cleared his throat. ‘It was nothing to do with tourism. It was a survey company. AGI LandTech.’
‘They are conducting a mining survey in the area?’
‘Gas deposits.’ The slim man blinked his eyes nervously. ‘It’s not the first time. They come around every now and then, but they never find anything substantial enough for anyone to take a real interest.’
‘Why was he out there alone?’
‘Sometimes he preferred to do things that way.’ Mutawali examined the tabletop. ‘I always assumed it was not my business to know.’
‘Is it possible to talk to them?’
‘Oh, no, I think they went back to Alexandria, where
they are based. I can give you a number. They are rather odd types these survey companies. It’s a touchy subject and they don’t want to step on any toes.’
‘Whose toes were they worried about?’
‘There are those who think that exploitation of the region’s natural resources would be bad for us, for tourism, for the region in general.’
‘But the Qadi wasn’t one of them.’
‘No, he wasn’t. Do you have to report all of this?’
‘I don’t think you have anything to worry about,’ said Makana. ‘Can you think of any possible connection between this man Ayman, and the Qadi?’
‘The Qadi was not in the habit of associating with hotel porters.’ Mutawali smacked his lips as if the thought gave him a bad taste in his mouth. ‘He had no business in that hotel. If he had guests they usually stayed somewhere with a little more class shall we say.’
‘And is it possible that Ayman might have turned up in the courts at some stage?’
‘Yes,’ said Mutawali slowly. ‘Naturally, that is the most likely possibility. But even then I don’t see how that would explain why their deaths should be linked. If this man appeared in court, then presumably he and the Qadi were on opposite sides of the law?’
‘At this point it is dangerous to make any kind of assumption.’
‘I understand. Look, I would appreciate it if you put in a good word for me.’
‘I can see that you were put in a difficult position, but everything now depends on your full co-operation.’
‘Naturally. I’m sorry if I appeared to be un-cooperative. It wasn’t that I was trying to hide anything. I just thought you were here for another investigation.’
‘I came here looking for a man named Musab Khayr. Does that name ring a bell?’
Mutawali rubbed his chin. ‘It does actually. It’s a long time ago, I was just a junior clerk, but I recall he was a criminal, mixed up with the smuggling bands. I think he worked for Wad Nubawi, who is an old reprobate. Apparently he’s changed his ways, but in the old days . . . Well, they ran this town in a climate of fear. This Khayr man was one of their thugs.’ The Qadi’s deputy folded his arms. ‘I think there was a terrible scandal and he left, fled for his life.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re wasting your time looking for him here. He would never come back.’