by Parker Bilal
Chapter Twenty-nine
The sound of the wailing sirens ought to have alerted him, but Makana was tired. After another long, restless night, he had only just fallen into a deep sleep. Even the sound of heavy boots was not enough to get him to open his eyes. It was only when he was dragged to the floor, handcuffed and hauled to his feet that he realised what was going on.
There were five of them. Two held him up while three others ransacked the room, making a point of going through his things. They pulled open drawers and tipped the contents on the floor, they pulled books down from the shelves and then trampled over them in their haste. He could hear others downstairs, the crash of plates and cups breaking.
‘What is this all about?’
‘Quiet! Speak when you are spoken to.’
A lull fell over proceedings when it was announced that the brigadier had arrived. He took his time, roaming around the lower deck with an entourage of yapping assistants. Finally, after a long wait, he emerged at the top of the steps. The look of triumph on his face was only partially concealed by apparent outrage.
‘I always wondered how a creature like you lived,’ he sneered. ‘Now I have my answer.’
‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’
‘I’ll tell you when I’m good and ready.’ Brigadier Yusuf Effendi tipped a pile of papers onto the floor with his swagger stick. ‘Bring him along.’
They allowed Makana to dress quickly and then marched him up the path.
‘Don’t worry, Umm Ali, it’s all going to be cleared up.’
‘May the lord have mercy on you,’ she implored. Her teenage boy bared his teeth at the policemen and then quickly ducked a blow aimed at his head. Aziza stood in the doorway and watched him go. Makana flashed her a smile that she did not return. Up on the road the cortege of vehicles moved off with all the ceremony of a presidential motorcade, with Makana tucked into the rear seat of a squad car between two uniforms.
‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see,’ grunted one of them.
It soon became apparent. As the dull brown pillar of the Ramses Hilton rose into the sky before them like a pagan monument, Makana felt his heart sink. He had a bad feeling about this.
The hotel lobby was busy with people coming and going. The procession of policemen cut a swathe through tourists and staff alike. When they arrived at the seventh floor the lift doors opened to reveal more people. The brigadier was standing by the door to room 719.
‘Go ahead,’ he invited Makana.
As he pushed the door open slowly Makana had the feeling he knew what he was going to find. The sound of laughter came from the television set on the far side of the room. Adil Imam rushing about a stage in a performance that was about a hundred years old. The audience laughing in fits at his antics. Makana stopped at the threshold of the main room.
She might have been asleep. But there was something wrong about the way she lay. Dalia Habashi was wrapped in the sheets of the unmade bed. She was lying face down, her head hanging over the far side of the bed. Instead of fleeing the country she had decided to leave this world. There was something terribly sad about the whole scene. The rumpled bedclothes, the television set with its inane racket.
‘Can’t you switch that off?’
There was a forensic technician standing by the bed. He looked up and stepped aside as Makana drew closer.
‘Don’t touch anything.’
Makana could hear the brigadier tapping his swagger stick behind him. He ignored him and flipped off the television. Then he knelt down and looked into her open, sightless eyes. They were staring off into the empty void. Her pale skin had already turned grey.
‘How long?’ he asked, without taking his eyes from her.
‘Difficult to say,’ mumbled the technician. Makana glanced at him. Either the man was an idiot, or he was waiting for someone to tell him exactly what time would suit them for death to have occurred.
Already the blood had drained downwards, forming dark patches of lividity around her neck and chin. He lifted the sheet slightly. She was wearing a nightgown. The lower part of her arms and shoulders displayed the same blue colour, which indicated that she had been lying there for at least twelve hours.
‘When was she found?’
‘She left a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, so hotel staff didn’t come in until this morning.’
On the bedside table was a bottle of vodka with the cap beside it. The bottle was almost empty. Next to it lay an array of smaller bottles, different sizes and colours. Pharmacy bottles. A collection of drugs. Some of Na’il’s products perhaps. Makana read some of the names. Seconal, ketamine, sleeping tablets, tranquillisers. There was enough to put a busload of rowdy football fans into a coma. Certainly enough to push one unhappy woman across the threshold from life to death. Makana remained there for a minute, staring at the side of her face. In death, Dalia Habashi seemed more beautiful than in life, as if the burden of chasing dreams and ambitions she could never achieve had loosened its hold on her features, allowing the real woman to rise to the surface and show her face one last time before she sank into darkness for ever.
Makana straightened up. He turned to face the brigadier. The look of satisfaction on his face was now easier to understand.
‘You’ve got some explaining to do. Murder is a serious charge.’
‘This was a suicide. Any fool can see that.’
‘Still trying to teach us our business, eh? Well, we’ll see how that works out for you. As far as I can see it’s a simple case, really. You developed a fixation on this woman. You pursued her, so much so that she had to seek refuge in a hotel. Still you refused to relent. You followed her here and forced yourself upon her. Then, to cover your shame you made her swallow pills to make it look like suicide. Let’s see what the medical examiner says about sexual assault.’
‘They won’t find anything because there isn’t anything to find. This is ridiculous, and you know it.’
‘Do I?’ The brigadier shook his head. ‘We have witnesses who saw you going up to her room. It’s as plain as the sun. You’re a demented and perverted man. When she wouldn’t give you what you wanted you killed her.’
‘You’ve spent so much time with politicians, you can’t tell fact from fantasy any more.’
The brigadier hit him across the face, hard enough to draw blood.
‘You forget who you’re talking to. Perhaps you think that because this little whore was busy corrupting my nephew I think she deserves this? Well, think again.’ He moved closer. ‘I’m going to enjoy observing your interrogation. When we’ve finished you’ll be only too happy to tell us everything.’ He signalled to his men. ‘Take him away, and if he makes one move to get away you have my personal permission to shoot the dog.’ He smiled at Makana. ‘This isn’t the jungle here. We’ll see how your fancy tricks fare against good Egyptian justice. Take him outside to the van and keep him there for me,’ he ordered.
There was an audience of equally shocked faces gathered to watch as they dragged Makana out of the lift. Despite the early hour the lobby seemed to be packed with slack-jawed tourists who were being afforded more entertainment than they had bargained for. Some were even taking pictures. You could see it on the brochures: ‘A city of danger and excitement!’ Two sets of hands grabbed hold of Makana’s shoulders and dragged him along, heels sliding on the polished floor, until he was outside. There was a police prison van parked at the bottom of the ramp. A high lorry with metal sides and tiny windows covered with wire grilles close to the top. Makana was led up the steps and thrown inside. He landed in a heap on the beaten iron floor as the door slammed shut behind him and the bolt screeched into place.
In the half-light Makana could make out benches on either side. These were occupied by three men who appeared to have been detained overnight. A fourth lay on the floor without moving. Despite the early hour, the inside of the prison van was airless and hot. It stank of unwashed men, the acrid stenc
h of stale sweat and urine mixed with oxidised metal. Someone shuffled aside to allow Makana a place to sit. Getting up slowly, he examined himself cautiously and decided that nothing was broken. There would be plenty of bruises by tomorrow, but he would survive.
Somehow in their haste they had overlooked his telephone. When he pulled it out the man sitting opposite him said, ‘Don’t let them see you using that.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be quick.’ Makana dialled Okasha’s number only to be rewarded by the engaged tone. He had a feeling even Okasha was not going to be enough this time. He was going to need a good lawyer. He slipped the phone inside his sock for safety.
‘What did they pick you up for?’ The man opposite was staring at him.
‘I’m not sure,’ sighed Makana. ‘Trying to help them with their work.’
‘It doesn’t matter what you did.’ This from a young man further down who was nursing a nosebleed. ‘They don’t care what they charge you with.’
‘We were minding our own business when this big car rolled up,’ said the third man. These two seemed to be friends. ‘The driver told us to move on. We told him we had just as much right to be there as he did. So he called the animals out and that was it.’
‘What happened to your friend?’ Makana gestured at the man on the floor.
‘He was concussed. They were taking him to hospital when they got a call to come here.’ The young man thumped his fist into his thigh. ‘I don’t see what gives these people the privilege to walk all over the rest of us.’
‘What are you, students?’
‘Faculty of Architecture,’ he nodded. ‘Soon as I graduate I’m leaving this country.’
‘Shame on you,’ said the first man. He was older and clearly not one of the group. A rubbery-faced fellow with scabs all over his chin and the shifty eyes of a habitual offender. ‘As soon as you get your education you leave. How can you not think about helping?’
‘This country doesn’t need my help. It needs a miracle.’
‘Easy for you to say.’
‘Who was in the big car?’ Makana asked, if only to break the deadlock.
‘One of those fat crocodiles who sit on the president’s knee.’
‘You mean a minister?’ asked the man with the scabs. ‘If you mean a minister then you should show him the respect of his post.’
‘Listen to you,’ the young man laughed. ‘What have they done to deserve respect?’
‘Anyone in this country can rise to a government position. Where would you be if you were elected and people talked about you that way?’
‘Well, there’s not much chance of that happening, is there?’ the younger man retorted, ignoring the pleas of his friend with the bloody nose to desist.
‘People like you make me sick,’ the scabby-faced man whined. ‘You have all the privileges but all you can do is talk your country down.’
They were interrupted by a thumping on the door. A face peered through the grille.
‘Which one of you is Makana?’
‘I am.’
‘Say Alhamdoulilah, you’re being transferred.’
The scabby-faced man thought this was too much. ‘Why the hell is he being transferred? He only just got here. I’ve been here all night.’
The guard rapped his baton on the grille. ‘You carry on and you’ll stay there all week.’
There wasn’t room to stand up properly in the back, so Makana had to stoop as he went towards the door. He nodded to the young man as he went by.
‘Do you want me to call someone for you?’
‘No, it’s okay.’ The student sounded weary. ‘They do this all the time. They’ll drive us around until they get tired and then they’ll let us go. Processing us would be too much trouble.’
‘Why are you getting so friendly with him?’ snapped the scabby man. ‘He’s a snitch. They just put him in here to get us to talk.’ He started to laugh, as if he was losing his mind. The man with the bloody nose threw himself forward.
‘If anyone here’s a snitch, it’s you, so shut your mouth old man, before it’s shut for you.’
Makana stepped up to show his face at the grille. After a time he heard the bolt squeak and then he was climbing down the steps to the street.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ said the man who let him out. He had a single stripe on his sleeve and his round face strained at the strap on his helmet, distorting his features. He glanced around furtively as he undid Makana’s handcuffs. ‘I used to drive for Inspector Okasha in the old days. I gave him a call. He sent a car for you.’
‘What about the brigadier? I don’t want you to get yourself into trouble.’
‘I can say I was only obeying orders. He can take it up with the inspector, but you can’t stay here.’
Makana needed no encouragement.
‘One thing, the brigadier said something about his nephew. Do you know anything about that?’
‘That’s where you’re going now.’
Slipping some money into the man’s hand discreetly, Makana climbed into the back of the police car. The rising sun was now an orange ball of flame. There was no reason for Makana to feel as sad as he did about Dalia Habashi’s death. It just seemed so pointless. What had pushed her over the edge? Was it Na’il? Had she heard from him? Or was it worse than that? Makana wondered where they were taking him.
They were driving in the direction of Giza. Light flared though the gaps between the buildings, a blinding dazzle. It was still early and the traffic was heading in the other direction, which meant they made fast time. They were almost at Giza station when he saw the flashing emergency lights up ahead, a constellation of them clumped together under the dark wing of an overpass.
It seemed that Ayad Zafrani had taken his suggestion a little too literally. He had dumped Na’il all right. The yellow motorcycle had been transformed into a tangled mass of chrome, burnt metal and blackened paint. An infernal machine that seemed to serve no recognisable purpose. Okasha was standing off to one side giving orders. An area had been roughly cordoned off by wooden barriers and a crowd had gathered to watch proceedings. The body was already loaded onto a stretcher. Doctora Siham was moving around it making a preliminary examination, no doubt spurred on by the urgency of the case.
‘Ah, there you are.’ Okasha looked up and dismissed the men he was talking to. ‘How could I have guessed that you would be getting yourself into more trouble?’
‘Dalia Habashi is dead. The brigadier seems to think it was murder.’
‘And you naturally disagree with that assessment.’ Okasha’s face looked drawn. The strain seemed to be getting to him.
‘I do, particularly since he seems to think I am the prime suspect.’
Okasha rolled his eyes. ‘Brigadier Yusuf Effendi has a career in the force that dates back forty years.’
‘You’d have thought that in all that time he might have learnt something.’
‘I’m not going to debate this with you. Once he finds out that his nephew is dead he’s going to get a whole lot worse. And that’s nothing compared to when he discovers you’re no longer in custody. So I’m counting on you here.’
‘How did it happen?’
Okasha pointed with the aerial on his hand radio. ‘The motorcycle came over the edge up there. Must have been going pretty fast.’ Two police technicians were leaning over the parapet looking down at them. ‘There’s a gap in the railings where a bus apparently hit it six months ago and it hasn’t been repaired properly. He went straight through.’
‘So, you think it was an accident?’
‘What else? He comes round the bend too fast, loses control. It happens all the time.’
They moved over to look at the motorcycle. A group of excited boys were pointing and trying to climb under the barrier. A policeman was doing his best to hold them at bay, rushing back and forth like a shepherd with a flock of wayward sheep. Considering the fall the Yamaha had acquitted itself fairly well. The front wheel and f
orks were twisted out of place and it must have caught fire. The petrol tank was ruptured and the seat was a charred mass.
Na’il’s battered and broken body lay on a stretcher behind an ambulance from the forensics department. Doctora Siham looked up as they appeared.
‘Ah, there you are,’ she said, running a wary eye over Makana. ‘And I see you brought your unauthorised friend.’
‘How does a man get a cup of coffee around here?’ Okasha grunted. He beckoned to one of his men and ordered him to send someone to fetch coffee. The order was passed along the line. A young policeman in big boots jogged away.
‘Sure you’re up to it? You might want to wait.’
‘I grew up in the rif,’ said Okasha. ‘Slaughtering animals was an everyday matter.’
Doctora Siham tilted her head back. ‘Interesting you make no distinction between a sheep and a human being.’ She pulled back the sheet and leaned over the body.
Na’il had been in bad shape the last time Makana had seen him, in the basement of Ayad Zafrani’s clubhouse, but now he looked infinitely worse and very much dead. The face had been caved in and the jaw detached. He didn’t resemble a human being so much as a broken and battered piece of meat. Makana was glad he hadn’t eaten that morning and even managed to resist the urge to reach for a cigarette.
‘He wasn’t wearing a helmet?’
Doctor Siham shook her head. ‘Doesn’t look that way. People think they are indestructible. They fly through the air like gods with wings until they hit something.’
‘Very poetic,’ muttered Okasha. ‘Is there anything you can tell us?’
‘Not much that you’d care to hear,’ said the pathologist. ‘The wounds seem consistent with what we know. A high-velocity impact. The head in particular. His mother would have trouble recognising him.’
‘We’re sure it’s him,’ Okasha said. ‘He had a driving licence and identity card in his wallet.’
‘There are no signs of burns,’ Doctora Siham went on, ‘even though the machine caught fire. He was found some ten metres from the motorcycle.’