The Golden Scales Page 11

  ‘Can you tell me who that is?’ he asked, holding out the clipping. Okasha’s eyes dropped and he stared at it for a moment before looking up.

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Makana. ‘He interviewed me when I first came here. He never gave me his name. That’s why I remember him.’

  Okasha gave him a long look, and then he nodded. ‘It’s Colonel Serrag of Intelligence. A very important man.’ He handed back the clipping. ‘You want to stay away from him.’ Then he got up and stamped his feet. ‘The British, eh? They still believe they rule this country, like the old days, or maybe they think it’s the whole world now. Yakhrib beitum. Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘No,’ said Makana. ‘I think I’ll stay around here for a while.’

  ‘Don’t go catching any murderers.’ Okasha wagged a finger at him. ‘At least, not before I do.’

  Chapter Eleven

  In Arabic the city is known as al-Qahira, after the planet Mars – ‘the vanquisher’. In the latter part of the tenth century the Fatimids built an imperial enclave here with high walls to keep the exquisite palaces and their occupants from prying eyes. It soon became the most illustrious city in the Muslim world. The astrologers predicted that the name would bring good fortune. A city named after a distant planet. As if this would keep them safe.

  History of another kind was on Makana’s mind. His own personal history. The reasons that had led him to this city. He still found it hard to shrug off certain traits or superstitions, delusions . . . call them what you would. He didn’t believe in coincidence, but couldn’t help thinking that things were often linked together according to some strange predestined plan. In the days of the Fatimids he would probably have been strung up from the very gates of this city, hung, drawn and quartered.

  There was more connecting him to Liz Markham’s death than mere happenstance. It wasn’t anything he could prove, more like a nagging premonition. The old bazaar . . . The answer had to lie here. Had her enquiries about her daughter sparked off the events that had led to her death?

  People rushed by, calling out their wares, services, greetings, jokes, curses. Life. It was all here. The Khan al-Khalili was said to comprise some of the most valuable real estate in the world; more expensive, metre for metre, than London, Paris or New York. It was subdivided into fractions. The artisans sat cramped in their minuscule workshops, tapping away all day like blind men feeling their way along the lines of their engravings. In the old days the narrow lanes would have been teeming with visitors from all over the world, all eager to strike a bargain; today it was virtually deserted. This was the world he belonged to now. To Liz Markham, searching for her little girl, it would have been a crazy labyrinth. His brief impression of her had been of a determined woman, wounded, angry at herself, at the world. Not the kind of person who takes no for an answer. To keep coming back here all this time testified to her determination. It had taken courage and conviction.

  Makana knew he ought not to be wasting time. Hanafi’s generous reward was slipping through his fingers like sand through an hourglass.

  There were familiar faces here, people Makana had spoken to over the years: men hanging about in their doorways, chatting across the narrow passageways with their neighbours over the heads of the passers-by. They talked about food and football and the price of gold. They broke off to murmur a greeting whenever a visitor wandered by. Good morning, madam, please step inside, sir. No charge for looking. They could express themselves in every European language along with a phrase or two in Japanese. They had heard about the murder, of course, and muttered darkly about how it was going to be bad for business. The last thing they needed. Many recalled the magnoona Englishwoman, who came back year after year, passing out photos of her child. ‘Everyone knew she was crazy,’ said Helmi, an old acquaintance, perched behind the counter of his jeweller’s shop which was no bigger than a large telephone booth and draped with strings of golden scarabs. He had one eye pressed against the lens clipped to his glasses. ‘People said she had been mixed up in something bad, long ago. Many kept away from her, turned their backs. Maybe if they hadn’t, she would still be alive.’

  Beside a dusty arch of medieval stone leading to a narrow passageway that threaded its way along the back of the bazaar, close to the old city wall, Makana came across a curious shop he hadn’t noticed before. Away from the bright lights and shiny displays, this corner looked rundown and dull. Few tourists ventured this far. A few battered stalls sold old junk, rusty tools and artefacts. Instruments that a dentist or a vet might have used a century ago. There were carpenter’s planes and horseshoes, heavy old brass keys and iron door knockers. It was the only shop in sight, set back in a dogleg just beyond the stone arch. Perched on a rickety chair outside sat an old man wearing a pair of dark glasses held together with Sellotape over the bridge of his nose. Even the tape was cracked and yellowed. He was wearing a dirty brown gellabia and smoking a cigarette. When he spotted him, Makana had the feeling the man had been watching him for some time.

  Still, he made no effort to rise as Makana peered through the window next to him. The layers of dust visible spoke of the unlikely collection of objects inside as not having been stirred for decades. Makana spotted little rectangles of wood about the size of a small page with metal plates and edges to them.

  ‘What are those things?’ he enquired.

  ‘Printer’s blocks.’ The man tilted his face to stare at Makana. ‘I’ve seen you before,’ he said. His cheeks were hollow and he sucked them in further as he inhaled the blue smoke deep into his lungs. ‘I never forget a face. What are you looking for this time?’

  ‘A little girl.’ Makana considered him for a moment. ‘She disappeared. An English girl.’

  ‘A long time ago. Was it something to do with the woman they killed?’

  ‘It was her daughter.’

  ‘A bad business.’ The man sucked his few remaining teeth. ‘But why are so you interested? That was more than ten years ago.’

  ‘Almost seventeen.’

  ‘And you come looking for her now?’

  ‘You know how it is.’ Makana shrugged. ‘Sometimes one story is connected to another.’

  ‘You are trying to connect the stories, is that it?’

  ‘You must have been around in those days, do you remember it?’

  ‘When the girl disappeared? Of course, we all do. It brought shame on us. We don’t steal little girls around here, it’s not our way.’

  ‘How about the police? I suppose they made your life difficult.’

  ‘The police? They didn’t do anything. They knew better than to get involved.’

  ‘Oh, why is that?’

  ‘Anybody ever tell you that you ask a lot of questions?’ The old man got to his feet as a woman covered in black from head to toe, curious to see what Makana had been looking at, tugged her ragged child over to the window to peer through the grimy glass.

  ‘What have you got in there?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing of interest to you,’ the old man snapped, so harshly that the woman was lost for words. Her jaw dropped and she stared at him blankly. ‘Go away and take your filthy child with you.’ He got to his feet and waved them off. The woman snatched the little boy’s hand and hurried off, glancing over her shoulder at the madman.

  ‘You don’t need any customers, then?’

  ‘I don’t like my thoughts being disturbed.’ It seemed a strange attitude for a shopkeeper. Before turning away he paused to deliver one parting comment. ‘I say now what I said back then. If they never found that poor girl, it was because they didn’t want to find her.’

  With that he tossed his cigarette butt aside and ducked inside his shop. Makana considered following him in, but he had the idea that it wouldn’t do much good. With some people, the more you pressed them, the further into the wood they would burrow.

  When he arrived back at the main square Makana spotted the female English officer, Hayden, sitting alone. He w
ould have avoided her if he had seen her in time, but she had already spotted him and was gesturing at the chair beside her.

  ‘Where is your colleague?’

  ‘Bailey? Oh, he’s in there somewhere.’ Her thumb jerked vaguely in the direction of the bazaar. ‘Said he wanted to buy a waterpipe.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Makana nodded. He sat down and studied her for a moment. At close hand he could see that she was younger than he had first thought. She dressed like an older woman, perhaps to draw less attention to herself or to assert her authority.

  ‘Your first visit to Cairo?’

  ‘Well, I was here years ago, when I was a student.’

  ‘Tell me, please. I am curious. Lord Markham, is he very important?’

  Hayden smiled. ‘Not really, but the family name still wields some influence. We have to be seen to be doing our bit.’

  ‘Do you believe Elizabeth Markham’s death may have been politically motivated?’

  ‘You tell me?’ Hayden tilted her head to one side, waiting.

  ‘I doubt anyone here knew who she was. There’s no political gain to be had from killing unknowns.’

  ‘You think we are overestimating our own importance, don’t you?’

  ‘You are following your protocol, and . . .’ he hesitated, ‘if you’ll permit me to say, I think you misunderstand the primary motive of our Islamists. Their aim is to bring down the government, not to attack Westerners.’

  ‘They seem to do a good job of it if that’s not what they’re after!’

  ‘It’s a way of attracting attention . . . creating panic, damaging tourism.’

  ‘Well, they’ve been very effective in that, wouldn’t you say?’

  Makana conceded the point with a smile. ‘It would be useful to know something of Elizabeth Markham’s background. She told me she had been coming here for several years.’

  ‘You met her?’ Hayden looked taken aback.

  ‘We met purely by coincidence,’ Makana explained, waving to attract the attention of a waiter who was busy polishing his shoes with a paper napkin and clearly had no time for distractions.

  ‘She’s the one who told you about her daughter?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I admit we were pretty impressed that you managed to find out about the girl so quickly.’

  ‘It was many years ago, it’s true.’

  ‘And you think that Elizabeth’s death might be connected to the child’s abduction?’

  ‘It’s a distinct possibility, don’t you think?’ Makana waited. Hayden seemed to be considering something. The waiter had finished with his shoes and had now turned his attention to the creases in his trousers.

  ‘There’s something you should perhaps know,’ Hayden began. ‘Liz Markham had a nervous breakdown after she lost her daughter. She was in a mental institution for several years.’ Over Makana’s shoulder she managed to attract the waiter’s attention just by smiling at him. ‘Tea?’

  Makana nodded. ‘That’s why she couldn’t come here? She was in hospital.’

  ‘Exactly. Liz Markham’s drug problems began when she was still a teenager at boarding school. Lord Markham had practically no relationship with his daughter for many years. When Alice went missing, he had Liz put away.’

  ‘I didn’t know you could do that in England.’

  ‘You can if you’re powerful enough. Markham has a lot of friends in high places.’

  ‘And when she came out, the first thing she did was to come here and look for Alice.’

  ‘There has never been any sign of the girl since, right?’

  ‘Not so far as I know.’

  ‘But you intend to look into it?’ Hayden was watching him carefully. Makana nodded.

  The tea arrived. Hayden watched him select a couple of mint leaves and drop them into his glass, and followed suit.

  ‘Is that a mosque?’

  Makana followed the direction of her gaze across the square. ‘One of the holiest sites in Islam. The shrine where the head of Imam Hussein is said to lie.’

  ‘Only his head?’

  ‘It’s questionable whether even that is actually there.’

  ‘What happened to the rest of him?’

  ‘They were separated on a battlefield in Karbala.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Hayden, sitting up. ‘The most famous battle in Islamic history. It marks the division between orthodox Sunni and Shi’a Islam. The death of Hussein marked the end of the line of Rightly Guided Caliphs, who were directly descended from the Prophet Muhammed.’

  ‘You prepared for the trip.’ Makana was impressed.

  ‘I read a couple of guidebooks on the plane.’ Hayden shrugged dismissively. ‘You seem to have given all of this a lot of thought.’

  ‘I know what it’s like to lose a daughter.’

  He regretted saying it as soon as the words were spoken. Hayden set down her glass.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ She looked away for a moment, acknowledging his loss, then she turned back to him. ‘Do you mind if I ask you what exactly the relationship is between you and Inspector Okasha?’

  ‘We’re friends.’ It would have been easy to lie, but somehow he couldn’t, not now. They had crossed a boundary of trust. And besides, he had a feeling she would see right through him.

  ‘But you are a police officer?’

  ‘Not any longer.’

  Hayden’s tea was forgotten. She studied him for a long time and then nodded to herself slowly, as if she understood or accepted the explanation as it was.

  ‘He must have great trust in you.’

  ‘He has his moments.’ Makana lit a cigarette.

  ‘Why do you think Liz Markham was tortured?’

  ‘My feeling is that her death is related to her past here, to the disappearance of her daughter.’

  ‘But the investigation into that turned up nothing.’

  ‘The police were convinced they were dealing with a person of dubious moral character. Liz had a drug problem. Here that is looked on very gravely.’ Makana took a deep breath. ‘Usually, if a little English girl goes missing, they would move heaven and earth to find her. It’s bad publicity otherwise. No one wants to visit a country that preys on little girls. So why didn’t they in this case?’

  They both fell silent, reflecting on this.

  ‘Do you have any idea why she came here to Cairo with a small child, all those years ago?’ he asked.

  ‘None at all,’ said Hayden. ‘I assumed it was for a holiday.’

  ‘And the identity of the girl’s father. Do you have any information about that?’

  ‘To be honest, we didn’t consider the child relevant to our investigation. It was a long time ago,’ said Hayden apologetically. ‘I do know that when Alice went missing, Lord Markham hired a detective to help find his granddaughter.’

  ‘I would be interested to hear what he discovered.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Makana was feeling as if they had reached some kind of understanding when a shadow fell between them. It was Bailey, carrying a waterpipe under each arm. A wide grin split his broad face.

  ‘You found one then?’ Hayden looked up brightly.

  ‘Cheeky buggers try to charge you a fortune. Managed to knock them down, though.’

  ‘I should be going,’ Makana said.

  ‘Oh, please, not on my account,’ said Bailey, sitting down. ‘How can you drink tea in this weather? I need something long and cold, like a beer, say.’

  The waiter rushed off to oblige. Hayden got up to shake Makana’s hand as he made to leave.

  ‘Thank you for being so candid.’

  ‘Please, enjoy your stay.’

  She watched him walk away across the square.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Bailey demanded.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said with a smile. ‘So, go on, show me what you found.’

  Chapter Twelve

  It was late afternoon and the steady flow of commuters making their way home had
begun. Car horns jabbered at one another and the air swelled with the thick heat of shuddering engines and choking clouds of black exhaust. Crossing the street, Makana bought a newspaper and stood and waited. Twenty minutes later Farag emerged from the grubby entrance. He was wearing a dirty brown leather jacket and sunglasses that looked flashy and out of date. Looking neither left nor right, he walked in the direction of the main road. Again, it struck Makana what an unlikely pair they made, Farag and Adil Romario.

  Five minutes later, Farag’s secretary appeared. She moved slowly, as if her legs were giving her pain, dragging a heavy handbag like a shapeless black dog. When she turned the corner Makana followed. She walked in the direction of Tahrir Square and down into the metro at Sadat station. He kept far enough behind to ensure he wasn’t seen, pausing to drop a note in the window and getting a ticket flung back at him in return. Passing the mural of the great leader as peacemaker, he arrived at the platform in time to see the squat figure shuffling down to the far end, where the women-only carriages at the front of the train would stop.

  When the train arrived it was crowded. Passengers patiently stepped aboard, with Makana staying as close to the front as possible. He watched her through the connecting doors. She appeared to be sleeping, the black bag on her lap now, her head nodding slightly as the train rushed under the river in the direction of Dokki. She looked so tired he could probably have stood right in front of her and she wouldn’t have recognised him, but still he took his time, allowing her to get ahead of him before he slipped into the crowd making its way up to ground level.

  She walked south for a couple of blocks before turning into a narrow, uneven street cluttered with dusty, immobile cars that looked as if they had been petrified in volcanic ash. Her destination was a modest apartment block. The door of the lift clanged shut as Makana came into the lobby, climbing the stairs, listening all the time for the lift to stop. On the fifth floor, he heard the door creak open and then swing shut. There was more heavy breathing and the dragging of footsteps across the narrow hall, followed by a key being inserted into a lock. Makana stepped neatly up in time to see a door close. He waited a moment or two before leaning on the buzzer, hearing the corresponding noise from within. There were more laboured footsteps and finally the door opened and the woman stood before him. She stared at him blankly for several moments before realisation slowly dawned. The blood drained from her face. When it seemed to occur to her to close the door, Makana put his foot forward quickly to block it.