City of Jackals Read online

  Ihab seemed to giggle. He said something Makana couldn’t catch.

  ‘Who did this to you?’

  There was more murmuring. Ihab’s head had risen but was now beginning to sink again. He was going to be unconscious soon.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Tom and Jerry. Remember them? Always together, like Batman and Robin, the Dynamic Duo.’ He went into another fit of giggling which made Makana wonder if he was on drugs of some kind. He was not so much talking to himself as delirious. His head sagged and Makana slapped him a few times to revive him. He reached for his telephone only to discover that he didn’t have a signal.

  ‘Try to stay awake,’ he said, getting up. He walked back out into the main hall and moved round to the front of the gallery. He managed to get through to Okasha and told him to alert an ambulance and also to bring men and lights.

  ‘Lights? Why lights?’

  ‘For the rats.’

  When he got back the rat was perched triumphantly on Ihab’s outstretched leg. It let out a squeak of disapproval as Makana kicked it away. He knelt down again and felt for a pulse. Already he knew the ambulance would be too late.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  An hour later the old pasha’s palace had come back to life. It was lit up, just like in the old days, only different. Now cables trailed up the steps and through the front doors to power spotlights set up in the entrance hall. Portable generators hummed loudly. More cables threaded upwards, hanging down over the railings into the stairwell like gigantic spider threads. Everywhere you looked there were armed policemen on the alert, shouting nervously to one another. Ihab’s body went by, carried out by an ambulance crew that cursed each time the stretcher hit a wall.

  He found Jehan examining the remains of the dismembered torso. Makana watched her carefully transferring the remains of the carcass into a rubber body bag. She looked up as he joined her.

  ‘Another victim, or one we’ve seen before?’

  ‘Hard to tell,’ she said, straightening up. ‘The fact that no head has turned up yet suggests it could be our friend from the river. The feet appear to be missing.’ She looked down at the remains in the bag. ‘The rats haven’t left us much to go on – we’ll have to wait for lab tests.’

  ‘So it is possible?’ Makana asked. Jehan nodded.

  ‘It’s possible.’

  He looked around him, wondering if this could be the place where the body was cut up.

  ‘How did you find all this?’

  ‘One of Mourad’s friends led us here. A woman, a friend of the young man they just carried out.’

  ‘This would establish a connection between your missing person and the two Southerners we’ve found, right?’

  A connection, but what exactly was the relationship between the dead man and Mourad and his friends? What were they up to?

  ‘Whoever did this clearly didn’t like what they were up to.’

  ‘Whoever did this is a very dangerous person indeed,’ said Jehan. He couldn’t argue with that. ‘You said they wanted to change the world, but how does this change anything?’

  Makana looked at her. Sometimes it took someone to state the obvious.

  ‘They were hiding people here.’

  ‘Hiding?’

  ‘Refugees. They were helping refugees. People who had nowhere to go, nothing to live for. They brought them here.’

  ‘But why?’

  And suddenly Makana could see where this was leading. ‘To smuggle them out of the country. They gathered them, held them here until it was safe to leave.’

  ‘Then who did this, the killing, the cutting up?’

  ‘Somebody who wanted to stop them. Someone who thought what they were doing was wrong, or rather it went against their interests.’ Makana gestured at the body bag. ‘They were trying to scare them.’

  ‘That’s why Mourad is missing,’ Jehan said.

  ‘If he’s not already dead.’

  Makana excused himself and walked back out, and across to the side where Ihab had been lying. Along the far wall was a collection of what he had taken to be accumulated rubbish. Now he went through it more carefully. There were clothes, blankets, heaps of newspaper with traces of food on them, plastic bags, discarded water bottles. A blackened patch on the wall showed where a stove had once been placed.

  A policeman appeared, saluted smartly and told him that he was wanted.

  He found Okasha standing in the gallery talking on the telephone and distributing orders at the same time. He beckoned Makana to follow him.

  ‘When you decide to ruin my evening you really do a job of it.’

  ‘Would you rather I called one of your colleagues?’

  ‘The kid’s father is a highly respected judge. He has connections and he wants answers. He’s waiting for me now. He wants to meet the man who found his son.’ Okasha ran a hand through his hair. ‘So, what do you think they were up to?’

  ‘They were housing people here,’ said Makana.

  ‘What for?’ Okasha wrinkled his nose at the thought.

  ‘To keep them safe before moving them. They were getting people out of the country.’

  ‘For money?’

  Makana shook his head. ‘Not for money. They are, were, idealists. They thought they were doing something radical.’

  ‘Heaven help us. Save your explanations for the father.’ Okasha tapped his watch. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘You really think this is necessary?’

  ‘He wants to know who murdered his son and why. You’re going to make me look good.’

  ‘Don’t you think he might wonder why you need my help?’

  ‘He won’t remember your name. Or maybe I won’t tell him. All he’ll remember is that we knew what we were talking about.’ Okasha jabbed a finger. ‘All the favours I’ve done for you over the years. Is this too much to ask?’

  They waited in a salon that looked as though it was never used. Ihab’s father shuffled in wearing a maroon silk gown and leather slippers. The sound of women wailing came from somewhere far off in the house.

  ‘Are you the one who found him?’ he asked, his voice cracking. Daud Sabbour was a small, hunched man with a gaunt head furrowed by worry lines.

  Okasha explained who he was and then cleared his throat. ‘Mr Makana is helping us with our investigation. He’s the one who found your son.’

  Words failed Sabbour for a moment. At last he said, ‘How could such a thing happen? What was Ihab doing in that place?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to ascertain, sir.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’ Sabbour ignored Okasha, turning his full attention on Makana.

  ‘It seems Ihab and some of his friends were using the old palace.’

  ‘Using it for what?’ The frowns deepened like the drawing in of a fishing net.

  ‘We’re working on a number of theories.’ Okasha gave Makana a warning glance.

  ‘He was just a boy, a foolish boy.’

  ‘Did he ever talk about what he was up to, outside of university, I mean?’ Makana asked. The judge slumped back in his chair.

  ‘He was dishonest. I hate to admit it, but it’s true. My own son was a deceptive snake. I wouldn’t have trusted him further than I could throw him. But he was my son. I loved him.’

  Makana glanced at Okasha, who rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Makana went on: ‘Ihab was part of a group of students that seem to have been engaged in some kind of political activity.’

  ‘What kind of political activity?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure political is the right word. They saw themselves as radicals.’

  ‘You see, that’s the kind of nonsense he would be involved in. Radicals? What the hell does that mean?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘A group? You mean boys? Were they all boys?’

  ‘There was a girl. Fadihah. Do you know her?’

  Daud Sabbour was waving a hand. ‘I couldn’t deal with the scandal. He was perverted that way, you know?’

  It w
as possible that the judge was in a state of shock that allowed him to be completely candid with two strangers. On the other hand perhaps this was his way of dealing with his son.

  ‘His mother could never accept the truth, but I knew.’ He tapped a forefinger to his temple. ‘You can’t hide that kind of thing from a father.’

  Okasha cleared his throat. A judge, after all, could be afforded some discretion.

  ‘We have no interest in that side of your son’s life.’

  ‘Something like that can drive a man to do strange things, wouldn’t you say?’ Daud Sabbour made a grandiose gesture for them to be seated. Obedient to a fault, Okasha settled himself at the far end of a long sofa with a floral pattern. Once he got there he realised that Makana had remained standing and so got to his feet again.

  ‘Our main concern is with whoever murdered your boy,’ said Makana.

  ‘Nothing you can do or say will change them.’ The judge picked absently at a stray thread on the lapel of his gown. ‘Children are a delight when they are young. You forget that they will be the death of you when they get older.’

  ‘I believe this was more related to his friends at university and their political activities.’

  Sabbour sank further into the large armchair that seemed to swallow him whole. ‘I find all of this hard to take in.’

  ‘Is there anyone your son may have mentioned, anyone at all he was concerned about?’

  The judge shook his head from side to side, without lifting his eyes from the floor. The breath went out of him in a long sigh. ‘It’s important that this matter is dealt with as quietly as possible. For the family. You know how the press can be . . .’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about that, sir,’ Okasha reassured him.

  ‘My wife has suffered enough.’ Daud Sabbour looked pained. ‘She loved that boy, perhaps more than was good for him. A son, after all, is special.’ His voice tailed off. ‘She can’t take any more pain. None of us can.’ He lapsed into a long silence. Then he slowly seemed to come out of his reverie. ‘Ihab had his own place in town, a flat that belonged to my grandmother. He moved in after she died. I think some of his friends stayed there from time to time. I didn’t ask. It seemed best to just let him get on with his life.’ He got slowly to his feet and shuffled away. ‘Someone will bring you a key.’ In the doorway he paused. ‘You ask yourself why Allah in his wisdom puts a man through something like this. What did we ever do to deserve this?’

  What indeed? Makana sat in the back of the squad car with Okasha in front yelling orders at the driver, who kept shouting ‘Hadir Effendi’, while driving at high speed with the lights and siren on. A recipe for disaster if ever there was one, and hardly necessary at that hour. Makana tried to distract himself by thinking about the case. What had Ihab been intending? To get away from his respectable family, his father the judge, from whatever sexual concerns were plaguing him? In Daud Sabbour he had sensed disapproval, but also some kind of acceptance. He knew he couldn’t change his son. What parent would not do anything in their power to accommodate their child? In that sense Ihab had won his victory, though he had probably died without the satisfaction of knowing that. The boy found rebellion attractive. It explained his eccentricity, but also his desire to help those most marginalised in society.

  Was there something more between Ihab and Mourad than mere friendship? More to the point, where was Mourad? Makana’s first thought on seeing the body parts in the palace was that he had finally found his quarry, yet even so, with each passing hour he became more convinced that he would never find the young man alive.

  Solitary cars wobbled uncertainly over white lines. A lopsided van veered across their path, as if the driver had fallen asleep at the wheel, or perhaps just woken up. They sped through red lights at deserted junctions until they arrived at a well-kept apartment building behind Bab al-Luq. In the darkened entrance they woke the bawab, a listless and shabby young man with rheumy eyes who was sleeping on a strip of cardboard laid out on the lobby floor. He switched on the lift with a key he carried in his gellabiya pocket and escorted them up to the fifth floor, still rubbing his eyes.

  It was a large apartment with the style of the Fifties about it still. The fittings looked as though they had not been changed since Ihab’s grandmother had lived here. To one side a small kitchen. Beyond, a living area with two sofas separated by a low table. A standing lamp was some kind of art deco design with a woman holding aloft a torch. A life-size plastic Batman glowered in one corner. More cartoon characters. A smaller room had been fitted with a narrow bed, to convert it into a second bedroom. This was strewn with clothing. The whole place was untidy. Maybe this too was part of Ihab’s rebellion – overturn all sense of order.

  They wandered through in silence, broken only by sporadic remarks. The main bedroom had a wardrobe built into the wall that was filled from top to bottom. Ihab seemed to have a taste for shopping. It was mostly casual wear. There were boxes of shoes, piles of jeans, bright pastel-coloured polo shirts, sweatshirts, along with a couple of two-piece suits for special occasions. Rebel or not, he obviously liked to dress well. A long table across the window on the far side of the room was loaded with files and folders, textbooks. One end of it was taken up with cardboard models Ihab had been working on. Glue, craft knives and fragments of plants to act as trees. A computer just like Mourad’s sat on the table, which prompted the thought that perhaps here was an explanation. Had Ihab bought the Apple PowerBook for his less wealthy friend? Makana lifted it up.

  ‘Do you mind if I take this? It might tell us something.’

  ‘Take it, but just make sure you return it.’

  The living-room shelves were dedicated to cassette tapes and compact discs. A trove of popular music flanking a stereo system. There was a large set of amplifiers, one in each corner of the room. The kitchen was bare. The cupboards revealed a few tins and a packet of coffee. Like most students Ihab seemed to have spent his time outdoors, in coffee houses, snack bars and fast-food places, judging by the quantity of pizza boxes and other packaging to be seen in the kitchen. A telephone charger sat on top of the television but no phone was in sight. Before the police arrived Makana had searched Ihab and sifted through the upper floor, but he had found no telephone at the palace either.

  ‘We’re wasting time,’ Okasha yawned, his interest flagging.

  ‘I thought you wanted to find out who killed the judge’s son.’

  ‘Look, it could have been anyone. It could even have been your lost man there. Sure, maybe they had a lovers’ tiff and one thing led to another.’

  ‘This looks rather more serious than a fight between lovers, don’t you think?’

  ‘What do I know? I’m an old man who no longer understands what’s happening in this world.’

  ‘Ihab wasn’t acting alone. There was a group of at least three. Ihab, Fadihah and Mourad. There could be more of them. We should try to find them.’

  ‘I leave that in your capable hands.’ Seeing the look on Makana’s face, Okasha raised his hands in defence. ‘What can I do? I have limited resources. You heard his father. He just wants it all to go away.’

  Makana turned to the porter who was loitering in the doorway. ‘Apart from the owner’s son, who else lived here?’

  ‘It’s not my business to keep an eye on who comes and goes.’

  His manner was insolent enough to strike a spark in Okasha. He stepped up to the man, causing him to back into the wall.

  ‘It’s late and I’m tired, okay? So don’t play games. Just give us a straight answer.’

  The man glanced at Makana, trying to work out what all the fuss was about. He decided to change his tune:

  ‘The truth is people came and went all the time.’

  ‘Men, women, students? Who?’ Okasha growled. ‘Tell us some of the names. Ihab we know. How about Mourad? Does that ring a bell?’

  The bawab shook his head. ‘I only knew Ihab. The others didn’t really stay long enough, or if they did the
y didn’t speak to me.’

  ‘Young people.’

  A brief nod. He had a small face, narrow features and eyes that seemed to do anything but remain in place. The wandering eyes that suggested he had all kinds of sidelines going for him. The kind of man who could get hold of anything you wanted. Hashish, alcohol, girls, if that was what you were after.

  ‘He was generous, was he, Ihab?’

  ‘His father was a big man.’ The bawab’s mournful eyes lifted briefly before diving for the floor again. ‘It’s a tragedy for Sayyid Sabbour. A good man.’

  ‘He didn’t come here very often.’

  ‘The boy is old enough to take care of himself.’

  ‘You’re wasting our time.’ Okasha’s smile faded. He prodded the man in the chest, pushing him back against the wall. ‘I ought to run you in for questioning. This is a murder investigation. If we bring the scientific team in they’ll find fingerprints, hairs, all kinds of things. We’ll know exactly what went on here and what your part in it was.’

  ‘Nobody did anything wrong. I swear.’ The bawab held his hands up. ‘You know how young people are today. And besides, this one wasn’t interested in that sort of thing, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘Get out of here,’ Okasha said. ‘And make sure you don’t go far. There are still things we might want to ask.’ When he had gone, Okasha removed his cap and rubbed his eyes. ‘I need to get some sleep.’

  Makana had a mild headache and he’d run out of cigarettes. There was a twisted pack of Marlboros lying on the kitchen counter. He picked it up and managed to salvage a forgotten cigarette. A matchbook lay conveniently alongside.

  ‘He told you something before he died?’

  ‘Nothing that made any sense. He’d lost a great deal of blood by then. He mentioned a couple of cartoon characters. Tom and Jerry. Batman and Robin.’

  ‘Cartoons? Now you’ve lost me.’

  ‘The point is I think he recognised his killers.’

  ‘Killers? There was more than one?’

  ‘He only mentioned pairs. I think there were two of them.’