Authors: Parker Bilal
‘Nothing like that,’ Makana smiled to put her at ease, although the stern frown showed no signs of fading. Smoking, he decided, was out of the question. ‘Actually, I am conducting an enquiry in parallel to the investigation into the Qadi’s death.’
‘I don’t understand. Are the two investigations related?’
‘They may be.’ Makana changed his tack and stopped smiling as it seemed to be having a contrary effect, making Madame Fawzia more nervous rather than less. A woman who admired authority expected someone working with the police to reflect the sobriety of the office. ‘Such enquiries are complicated and may not make sense to untrained persons. The key to any investigation may lie in an entirely unexpected direction. We would be failing in our duty if we did not explore every possible aspect of a case.’
‘Of course. Then how can I help, Mr . . .’
‘Makana,’ he said tersely. ‘A woman who I believe used to attend this school, Nagat Abubakr, she married a man named Musab Khayr.’
‘That is correct.’ Madame Fawzia twisted the engagement ring on her finger. ‘Though it was a long time ago. I don’t see—’
‘You knew her?’
‘I know Nagat. I attended this very school with her, many years ago.’ The memory temporarily eased the fierce look on the woman’s face, which was round and hard. ‘Why are you asking about her? Has something happened?’
‘I’m afraid Nagat passed away a couple of years ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Madame Fawzia lowered her eyes to stare at her hands, clasped together in front of her on the chipped surface of the desk. The ring was tarnished and around her high neck a simple pendant hung on a thin chain.
‘I am here in connection with her daughter, Karima, who died in a fire.’
‘Her daughter?’ Madame Fawzia’s eyes floated towards a curling, desiccated map of the world that hung on the wall to her right. The colours were faded to soft browns and khakis, as if the world were a forgotten kingdom. ‘This is all very sad news, but we lost contact when she moved to Cairo.’
‘That would have been in nineteen eighty-one.’
‘Yes, exactly. The year the president was shot.’ Madame Fawzia fiddled with her ring. ‘It must be sad to lose a child.’
‘You have children yourself.’
‘No, I never had any of my own. I console myself with the thought that most of the wives of the prophet, may peace be upon him, never bore him children either.’
‘Nagat’s family was once quite wealthy. I understand the family used to own a lot of land?’
‘They had a few fields, but Nagat’s father was a lazy man. He didn’t do much with it, even the house was in ruins. He carried himself grandly, but they couldn’t afford to fix it up.’
‘Musab Khayr. What can you tell me about him?’
‘Musab? Well, they left together. Everyone knew they wouldn’t be back.’
‘What made people think that?’
Madame Fawzia shrugged her shoulders. ‘We just knew.’
‘What can you tell me about Nagat’s sisters?’
‘Her sisters?’ Madame Fawzia seemed momentarily confused. ‘Her sister. She only has the one, Butheyna.’
‘I thought there was a third sister?’
‘Oh, there was Safira, but she ran away.’
‘Ran away?’
‘Disappeared. She was strange that one. People said she spent more time in the company of jinn and afreet than with real people.’ Madame Fawzia regarded him carefully as she spoke, as if conscious of not wanting to sound too far-fetched.
‘What about Butheyna. Where can I find her?’
‘Oh, she left. Her husband got a job in the Gulf somewhere. Kuwait, Qatar, one of those. I can find a telephone number for you.’
‘That would be helpful. And Musab Khayr, what kind of man was he?’
‘I didn’t really know him.’ Madame Fawzia’s eyes were fixed on the light coming through the high window. ‘We were at school together, you know. Me and Nagat. In the same class. I think we even shared the same desk one year.’
‘Did she ever come back here to visit, with her daughter?’
‘She never came back.’ Madame Fawzia grew still, her eyes narrowing as they came back to find Makana. ‘The truth is she wasn’t welcome here. That man was trouble and nobody ever understood why she ran away with him. I still don’t see how this relates to the Qadi’s death.’
‘Like I said, these are two parallel investigations. It’s purely routine.’
‘I see.’
Getting to her feet, she came round from behind her desk and peered at the framed class photographs that covered one wall of the office. ‘She must be here somewhere. Let me see.’ She traced her way back along the years until she came to the right collection of students. Leaning closer she frowned. Finally, she stabbed a stubby finger at the glass. ‘There.’
It was difficult to gain much from the annual school photograph, hard enough to pick out the girl from within the rows of faces. She would have been around fifteen, Makana guessed as he came nearer. He had the impression of a slim figure, her eyes looking away, off to one side. There was something furtive about her, as if she was uncomfortable with having her picture taken. Other girls grinned broadly, or tried to look sincere, or serious, or pretty. Nagat looked unhappy.
‘How long after this did she leave?’
Madame Fawzia fiddled with her ring. ‘Oh, quite soon afterwards. A year perhaps, maybe less.’
‘She was very young. It must have been quite a scandal.’
‘Oh, she was used to creating scandal.’ For the first time Madame Fawzia smiled, her eyes still absorbed with the old school photograph. ‘We all look so young,’ she murmured to herself.
‘You knew her quite well.’
Madame Fawzia turned back to him. ‘We were friends. I sometimes think she liked to have me around because I did what she asked. Nagat liked to be in charge. She wasn’t like Safira.’
‘What exactly happened to Safira?’
‘Nobody knows. She wandered off into the desert. It’s easy to get lost, and if you do no one will ever find you. It was an unlucky family.’
‘Do you know who owns the family land now?’
Madame Fawzia shook her head.
‘You’ve been very helpful,’ Makana said. ‘I shall make a note of it in my report.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ she murmured.
‘I only have one last request. I need a copy of that photograph.’
‘A copy?’ Her brows furrowed. Finally, she reached for the frame on the wall and removed the picture from inside before handing it over.
‘Your need is greater than mine. I can have an extra copy made up to replace it.’
‘That’s very good of you,’ Makana said.
As he made his way back through the streets Makana spotted a messy, fugitive figure stepping out of the post office.
‘Doctor Medina?’ Makana hailed. The deep-set eyes, red from lack of sleep or something else, momentarily sought escape and then resigned themselves. The two men shook hands. As they fell into step Makana spied the Bedouin in the supermarket. He was leaning forward, his forehead almost touching the glass, chewing slowly. The gaunt face was framed by posters advertising washing powder and chocolate eggs.
‘I caught one of Hamama’s men searching my room last night,’ said Makana.
‘Really? Did they find anything?’
‘I don’t know what he was looking for.’
‘Money, probably. They are all disreputable.’ Doctor Medina paused to find his Rothmans. He nodded at the
’ahwa
they were passing. ‘Why don’t we drink a coffee?’ he suggested.
They sat on the terrace that was about a metre wide around a metal table that sat awkwardly on broken paving stones. The doctor nodded greetings to what seemed like a continuous stream of people wandering by.
‘You seem to know everybody,’ observed Makana.
‘In America, everyone has a therapist to talk to. In Italy, the Catholics have their priests. Well here, all we have is our doctor. So I know all their intimate secrets. I know about the kidney stones, the constipation, the impotence. They would like to hate me and some no doubt would like to kill me but they know they would not survive for long without my help.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘It feels like a lifetime,’ sighed Doctor Medina. ‘I love the open air, the land. When I first came here I would go out into the desert for days. So much space, and the stars! Instead we crowd together like sheep. What does that tell you about human nature?’
As the doctor puffed away on his cigarette, Makana wondered if his buoyant mood was due to a lack of alcohol or the anticipation of what was to come. The fact that the doctor was able to function more or less normally suggested that he had some control over his drinking but Makana had met alcoholics before. The smart ones were clever at concealing it.
‘You should be careful of Sergeant Hamama.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Makana.
‘Simply a friendly warning. You can be sure that he wants something from you in return.’
‘Like what?’
‘Who knows? Hamama may not look ambitious, but he is. Ever since he took over as police chief when Captain Mustafa died.’
‘When was that exactly?’
‘Only about a month ago, maybe less. Captain Mustafa was an outsider, like me. He’d been here for years but was never really accepted. Hamama is a local boy. There’s a lot of support for him but he doesn’t have the rank. There are rumours that the high command in Mersa Matruh have their doubts about him. That’s why he’s so keen to clear this case up as fast as possible. It’s his chance to prove himself. The longer it drags on the more likely it is they will send an outsider in.’
‘What happened to the captain?’
‘A car accident.’
‘Where was this?’
‘Out on the old desert road west of the town.’
‘Where does that road lead?’
‘Oh, it’ll take you anywhere you want to,’ the doctor smiled. ‘The desert routes take you west into the Libyan desert and beyond, to Niger, Mali, or south to Chad and Sudan, but it’s dangerous.’
‘In what way?’
‘It’s easy to hide in such a vast open space. There are a lot of bad people out there. The type you don’t want to meet. Smugglers, armed men of one faction or another.’
A movement drew Makana’s eye to the upper floor of a building on the far side of the square. The previous evening he had noticed a young man there. He appeared to be back again, yawning, leaning on the parapet blowing smoke into the air.
They finished their coffees and got to their feet. Doctor Medina insisted on paying. ‘How are you getting around?’ he asked as they stepped back into the road.
‘On foot, most of the time, unless Sergeant Hamama happens to be around.’
‘I have an idea,’ said the doctor. ‘Follow me.’
They crossed the square to the narrow street that ran behind the hotel, past the mosque Makana could see from his hotel window and which appeared to be inhabited only by stray cats. At the corner was a small restaurant and beyond that a shop that rented out bicycles to tourists. Doctor Medina hailed a young man of about twenty with long hair who emerged from the shadows, his hands black with engine oil.
‘Kamal, this is Mr Makana. He needs some means of transport while he is staying here. I thought of the Norton.’ Kamal scratched the back of his neck. ‘It is working, isn’t it?’
‘Of course,
ya doktor
.’ With a gesture of apology, Kamal ducked away to attend to a couple of blonde girls in search of bicycles.
‘He keeps telling me he’s fixed it,’ Doctor Medina said to Makana, ‘but it’s never ready. This is a good opportunity to sort this out once and for all. It’s a good machine,’ he beamed. ‘You’ll like it.’ With that Medina turned and began walking away. He had only taken three paces before he stopped. ‘Why don’t you come over later?’ he called. ‘I may have something to show you.’
Makana promised he would look in. As the doctor left, Kamal came back over.
‘Would you like to see it?’ he asked before leading the way through to the back of the workshop. The Norton looked like it belonged in a museum.
‘How old is that thing?’ Makana asked sceptically.
Kamal grinned, rubbing his hands with a dirty rag. ‘It’s from when the British were here, during the world war.’
‘And it still works?’
‘Oh, these machines just need a little care and attention. They last for ever.’
It was a spirited defence, but Makana was not entirely convinced about the wisdom of getting on a death machine like this.
‘How long has it been sitting here?’
‘Well, it had a few problems. Some spare parts are difficult to get hold of, but the doctor loves this thing. It’s just that, well, he had a couple of accidents.’ Kamal glanced at Makana to see if he understood that he was referring to the doctor’s drinking habits.
‘You know him pretty well.’
‘The doctor? Sure, everyone knows him. He’s a good man, he just has his moments.’ Kamal ran the rag over the wide leather seat. Makana could see cobwebs between the spokes. ‘You’re the one who came here to help the police, right?’