Authors: Parker Bilal
‘To die like that, hung up like a sheep,’ one woman exclaimed. Her earrings trembled, with indignation or excitement, it wasn’t clear which.
‘Butchered like an animal,’ murmured her companion, a fleshy man with a bloated face. Nervously, he squinted sideways through thick glasses at Makana and licked his lips. Makana moved away. These people could scent an interloper the way a gazelle might a lion. He wasn’t one of them.
‘Ah, there you are. I thought you might show up.’
Ali was wearing some kind of Chinese-style suit. A relic perhaps of his Maoist days. It was buttoned up to his beard, which had been trimmed. He looked lean and, well, artistic, which was probably the point. Makana realised there was a streak of vanity in his friend that he had never noticed before.
‘They’re all here,’ Ali said with a sigh, glancing around him. ‘Friends and enemies. People he helped out over the years. It’s all very sad.’
Makana let his gaze wander around the assembled mourners. Artists and their wealthy patrons, rubbing shoulders in honour of one of their own.
‘Did he have a lot of enemies?’
‘No.’ Ali shut his eyes for a second. ‘Aram Kasabian was a master at diplomacy. As smooth as silk. He could bring sworn enemies together and make money out of both of them. A gentleman.’
Makana listened with one ear. Across the room he spotted a tall, well-built man in his fifties, his hair dyed an unnatural shade of black. Qasim Abdel Qasim. Not a single grey hair in sight.
‘What are you doing here?’
Makana turned to find Okasha standing next to him. ‘I came to pay my respects, and to see what Kasabian’s friends look like.’
‘Take a good look,’ nodded Okasha. ‘He moved in powerful circles.’ Makana duly looked. It was a male environment. A boys’ club, as Dalia Habashi might have put it. No matter how cultured Cairo’s elite liked to think themselves, some things remained as old-fashioned as ever. They did business with one another. Those who were in office smoothed the way for those with the financial might to transform the country, to nudge the economy in ways that were lucrative for all.
‘Any news of our friend on the motorcycle?’
Okasha shook his head. ‘There are alerts out for him, but nothing yet.’
In a city this size putting out an alert was like throwing a stone from a minaret and hoping it would strike the right man. Finding one man on a motorcycle was beyond all realistic expectations. It would require more than vigilance, more even than luck. It would take something approaching a miracle for Na’il to be found if he didn’t want to be.
‘What I don’t understand is why he would kill Kasabian,’ Okasha said.
‘We don’t know that he did.’ Makana felt a twinge of guilt at not having shared the information he had about Kadhim al-Samari with Okasha, but only a twinge. If the old poet was right then Na’il could be a very useful witness. ‘Fleeing the scene of the crime doesn’t prove him guilty of murder.’
‘This is what I’m talking about.’ Okasha squared up to Makana. ‘Why do I have the feeling you’re keeping something from me?’
Before Makana could speak somebody was tapping a microphone and the man with the badly dyed hair stepped onto an improvised stage on one side of the room. Qasim Abdel Qasim. Deputy minister. A man, as people liked to say, with a promising future.
‘Here we go,’ muttered Okasha. ‘Now they will begin their nonsense.’
Qasim’s address was delayed as a flutter of excitement went through the room. People were straining their necks to catch a glimpse of something happening over by the entrance.
‘The president’s son,’ said Okasha.
‘Now that we’re all here . . .’ the deputy minister began, which brought a few laughs. Everyone knew who he was talking about. And a comment came from that side of the room that Makana couldn’t catch. The president’s son was responding in person. It didn’t matter what he said, everyone was delighted to be in his presence. It was hard to believe they were gathered to pay their respects to a man who had just been brutally murdered. Cheery pleasantries completed, Qasim turned to the matter in hand, managing quite neatly to switch from light banter to sombre reflection in the bat of an eye. The mark of a true statesman.
‘Our dear departed friend, how often he brought us together in this very room to witness the latest developments in art. Aram Kasabian was a shining light in our little constellation and it was my honour to consider him among my personal friends.’
‘He says that about everyone,’ murmured Okasha.
‘There are those of us,’ Qasim went on, ‘who believe that art plays a central role in our national culture. Our history sparkles with great artists and writers. Art is a brilliant light that, as we know, many would choose to extinguish, to return us to darker times. So let Aram Kasabian be remembered as an enlightenment figure. A man proud of his country, and whose country was proud of him. A man who strived every day to make this world a better place.’
‘They make me sick,’ said Okasha as Qasim droned on. He turned to push his way to the back of the crowd. ‘They make out they are heroes, defending the values of their country.’ Incensed, Okasha paced up and down. Makana lit a cigarette and waited. ‘Meanwhile they’re busy making themselves rich, at our expense.’
‘What’s bothering you?’ Makana asked when he got a chance to speak.
‘They want to shut down the case. That’s why I’m telling you we have to close it.’
‘Who wants to shut it down?’
‘Who do you think?’ Okasha nodded his head at the interior and the man on stage who was still talking. ‘This is the kind of case where everyone is in the spotlight.’
‘And they don’t care who did it?’
‘They want it sewn up neatly. No loose ends. In a case like this, that’s all that matters. The whole world is watching.’
‘I see.’
‘I hope so.’ Okasha scratched his head, an agitated man. ‘And there’s another thing. Na’il is one of us.’
‘A policeman?’
‘Ex-Central Security Force. A real lowlife. Apparently he went into business for himself, dealing in narcotics. They tried to throw him out but the case was dropped, so they kept him on off-the-record as an informant.’
‘We still need to find him.’
‘We will, and then you’ll tell me what it is you’re hiding from me.’
Makana turned away from Okasha to find Qasim standing in front of him with a bemused look on his face.
‘Have we met before?’ The smile was like a splash of olive oil across a sunny plate.
‘At Kasabian’s house, the night of the opening.’
‘Ah, of course.’ The smile faded. A case of mistaken identity. ‘You’re the investigator who was helping Aram. What exactly were you doing for him?’
‘That’s confidential.’
‘I see.’ Qasim turned to Okasha. ‘Inspector, is this man helping you with your inquiries?’
‘Yes, Deputy Minister, he is cooperating fully. We are working round the clock to bring the culprit to justice. Have no fear, it is only a matter of time.’
‘Not too much time, I hope.’ Qasim drew himself up to his full height. Already his eyes were roving the room looking for which direction to move in. ‘Ah, Brigadier, perhaps you can tell us how the investigation is going? This is Brigadier Yusuf Effendi. Do you know Mr Makana, Brigadier?’
The stern man had a barrel-like stomach held in place by the brass buttons on his uniform. He leaned back and squinted at Makana. His voice was slurred and a slight twitch affected his rather impressive white moustache.
‘Never seen him before in my life.’ He snapped his fingers at a waiter and took a glass of something fizzy. ‘Who is he?’
‘Well, I was hoping you might be able to enlighten us. He is apparently helping Inspector Okasha here with the investigation into Kasabian’s murder.’
‘Really?’ The brigadier turned his eyes on Okasha. ‘What’s this I hear about your looking for my nephew?’
‘Your nephew, sir?’
‘That’s what I just said, Na’il Abdelkarim is my sister’s child. He’s an undercover operative with CSF. Now answer my question, is it true?’
‘He was identified as a possible witness.’
‘Who identified him?’ demanded the brigadier.
‘A motorcycle matching the description of the one your nephew owns was seen fleeing the scene of the crime.’
‘Nonsense. Have you spoken to the boy?’
‘We’ve been unable to locate him,’ Okasha reported. The brigadier muttered into his drink. ‘Makana here also witnessed him being escorted out of Kasabian’s house. It seems there was some bad feeling between your nephew and Mr Kasabian.’
‘Now listen,’ the brigadier addressed Okasha, ‘I shall be taking personal charge of this investigation. You will report directly to me. Make sure you leave no stone unturned.’ By now the brigadier’s booming voice was attracting attention. Okasha shifted uncomfortably at being addressed in public like this. The brigadier wasn’t finished. ‘And as for this man, what did you say your name was?’
‘Makana.’
‘You realise it’s an offence to impersonate a police officer?’
‘I never claimed to be a police officer,’ Makana said quietly. ‘I was working for Kasabian.’
‘Working? In what capacity?’
‘I tried that already,’ Qasim breezed. ‘He says it’s confidential.’
‘Confidential?’ The brigadier guffawed, spraying a good amount of spittle around him in the process. ‘We don’t know the meaning of that word. We have no secrets, and more importantly nobody has any secrets from us. Good luck with your investigation, Inspector. I shall have my eye on you. I want results.’
The guests were starting to file out of the gallery. Having done their duty and shown up, they now had better places to be.
The old gatekeeper got up from his chair when he saw the Thunderbird approaching. Sindbad climbed out, producing a rag to rub over the exterior. He seemed to have taken a liking to the car.
‘Is he at home?’
‘Mr Jalal? Yes, effendi, he is here, but as I explained on the telephone, he is not receiving visitors.’
‘Then he’ll have to get used to the idea. This is important.’
Like an old soldier the gatekeeper trailed along beside Makana as he walked up the path.
‘Did Kasabian and his wife ever have any children?’
‘No, effendi. They were never blessed with children.’
‘Then who does the house go to?’
The gatekeeper was silent for a moment. ‘It will go to his assistant, I suppose.’ The sound of his leather slippers on the stone resumed. ‘Things won’t be the same without him.’
Jules was waiting for them at the top of the front steps. He was wearing a dark green robe over a pair of pyjamas and looked as if he had just got out of bed.
‘I don’t understand why you can’t leave me alone at this difficult time. Have you no respect for the dead?’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I just had a small query.’
He gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘The press simply will not leave me alone. It’s become quite intolerable.’
A part of Makana wanted to know just exactly what the relationship was between Kasabian and his assistant. Another, more old-fashioned side preferred to remain in the dark.
‘It’s just that the other day you mentioned that Na’il had worked for Kasabian in some capacity. I wondered if you could be a bit more explicit?’
‘Look, I’ve told the police everything I know.’
‘Well, I’m not with the police, Mr Jalal.’
‘Obviously I understand that, but your business with Mr Kasabian is now terminated. It makes no sense, now that he’s no longer around.’
‘It makes sense to me,’ Makana said. ‘Look, Mr Kasabian may have been killed as a result of the investigation he hired me to do.’
‘The police didn’t say anything about that.’ Jules looked suspicious. ‘They’re looking for Na’il.’
‘Let me ask you, then. You know Na’il. Do you think he would have been capable of killing Kasabian that way?’
Jules shuddered at the memory, but then recovered. ‘No, I don’t believe so.’
‘Neither do I. Look, it seems to me that the man I was paid to trace is the most likely suspect right now. I think that I have an obligation to find out if that’s true, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Well, I think you’re wrong. It can’t be so.’ Jules broke off and leaned over to address the old gatekeeper who was standing in the garden as motionless as a tree. ‘Thank you, Amm Ahmed, I’ll take care of our guest now.’
Muttering to himself under his breath, the old gatekeeper turned to wander back to his post.
Jules looked at Makana. ‘You’d better come in.’
Makana followed him down a dark hallway behind the stairs and into a living room at the back of the house. It was a big room with a high ceiling but it felt small, crowded as it was with heavy furniture. There were statues and carved figures, glass cabinets whose shelves were arrayed with smaller items of a similar nature. There were wooden barges to carry the sun, complete with slaves to row them. Then there were animals – crocodiles, falcons, rams. Makana had visited the National Museum in Tahrir Square on occasion and it struck him that Kasabian possessed a collection that was worthy of comparison. Smaller in size, but the quality of the pieces was without doubt of a similar calibre. On the walls hung heavy, gilt-framed paintings of the country’s former rulers, King Farouk and a collection of pashas, plump-faced and pale-skinned, all wearing the obligatory fez and rows of medals pinned to their swelling chests. They had bankrupted the country and hocked it to the European powers while sailing by on golden chariots drinking champagne. Those were the days.