The Ghost Runner (26 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Ayman’s room was not actually a room at all, but a space fenced off from the rest of the storeroom at the back of the hotel by a stack of plastic crates full of empty bottles that once upon a time contained some kind of soft drink. Crates and bottles alike were draped in layers of dust and spun together with cobwebs. The bed was strung with palm-fibre rope that had stretched with time to resemble a hammock more than a bed. His belongings were in a cardboard box. A meagre collection of clothes and shoes, all of which appeared to be in tatters. Torn shirts and ripped trousers, just like the clothes he’d died in. Shoes that were split along the seams or had lost a heel. It wasn’t much of an existence.

‘His parents died years ago. He had no brothers and sisters.’ Nagy remained by the door, his ususal bad temper softened by compassion. ‘Ayman’s parents were distant cousins.’

Makana rifled through a tattered primary school book. Apparently Ayman had been trying to teach himself to read. The stub of a pencil had been used to underline words. Boy. Camel. Bird. Nobody really knew how old he was exactly, but around forty was the general consensus, although his mind had not advanced much beyond that of a ten-year-old child.

‘They left him with us when he was still small.’

For safekeeping no doubt. The family wanted him kept at a distance, in the care of a relative say. A shelf held up by string and nails contained an oil lamp and some old glass jars filled with pebbles.

‘He collected them,’ Nagy explained, shaking his head in wonder, ‘like a kid collects marbles. He was fascinated by the colours and shapes.’

At the centre of the shelf was a small, chipped coffee cup. Inside it was a slip of blue ribbon. Nagy was busy pushing things aside, sliding crates against the wall, thinking about all the possibilities this space offered. Makana slipped the ribbon into his shirt pocket.

Nagy winced as he straightened up, one hand to his back. ‘All these years I looked after the boy and this is how I get repaid.’

‘The world is filled with injustice,’ commented Makana.

Mutawali, the Qadi’s assistant, scurried along the arcade rather than walked. He seemed flustered and when he caught sight of Makana waiting for him on the veranda outside his office he threw up his hands with a groan.

‘I heard you’d been arrested!’

‘A misunderstanding,’ explained Makana as the little man fiddled with his keys to open the door.

‘A misunderstanding, you say? Frankly I don’t understand anything of what is happening in this world today.’

The room was dark and musty, the windows covered by shutters that had not been opened for years. A flat metal bar held down a row of stacked papers, some in folders. Makana stood in the middle of the room as Mutawali moved around as feverish as a mouse. Setting the pile of papers he had been carrying under his arms on the desk, he opened a second set of French windows that opened onto the veranda and the courtyard beyond.

‘As you can imagine, with the Qadi’s sudden death we are left with a great amount of work that needs to be dealt with.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Makana. ‘And I won’t take up any more of your time than is necessary.’

‘This whole business has been a terrible shock for us. This is a small community. For the life of me I cannot understand why anyone would want to kill the Qadi in such a brutal way, or this boy from the hotel.’ Mutawali settled himself behind the desk with a heavy sigh and ran a hand over his face as though trying to restore some element of vigour to the slumped features. ‘Very well, then, get on with it.’

‘The two victims appear to have nothing to do with one another. No relationship at all. It would be helpful to know if there had been any contact between them, to establish a motive, you understand.’

‘I’m not sure to what extent I should co-operate with you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, the fact that you were a suspect, no matter how briefly, does cast a certain shadow on you, you must admit.’

‘It was a case of one police officer being overzealous. It was personal.’

Mutawali fretted with his fingers, tapping the edge of the desk. ‘People don’t like you, I can understand that. You’re an outsider. You make them nervous with your questions. I think it’s the way you ask that makes everyone cautious, even me. We wonder if we are walking blindly into a trap.’

Makana was looking out of the window which afforded a pleasant view over the town. The deep green of the palm trees contrasting with the stark walls of the ruins and beyond that the world seemed to dissolve into shades of grey. A faint heat haze could be glimpsed hovering over the lake.

‘Sergeant Hamama has put in a request for permission to see the Qadi’s records, but you know how these things are. We might have another victim on our hands before the paperwork goes through.’

‘Yes, I understand.’ Mutawali clutched his hands together on the desktop. ‘I’m sorry, I wish there was more I could do, but my hands are tied.’

‘Well, perhaps you could tell me a little about the Qadi’s business dealings, informally, I mean.’

‘Well, I’m not sure that I can.’

‘Let’s start by distinguishing between his official duties and his private interests. Perhaps that way we can figure out who the Qadi was due to meet that afternoon.’

‘I . . . well, it’s highly irregular.’

‘So is murder.’

‘Yes, yes, very well. Where to begin? The Qadi had a wide range of interests.’

‘Was it just tourist companies?’

‘No, not really.’ Mutawali fell silent.

‘I think I understand your problem,’ said Makana.

‘You do?’ The deputy’s eyebrows shot up.

‘Of course. Murder is a messy business. It opens up a lot of doors that sometimes it would be better to leave closed. Do you follow me?’

‘I . . . I think so.’

‘This kind of case brings a lot of outside interest. Specialists.’

‘Such as yourself,’ said Mutawali, shifting in his seat.

Makana was silent for a moment, letting the deputy squirm. ‘Do you want to know what I think? I think you are a man who likes things to be in their place. The Qadi was your superior so you were bound to obey him. That doesn’t mean you approved of his methods. Sometimes he did things that you knew were not quite right, but you went along anyway because you were obliged to, but now that he’s gone you are left holding the baby, as it were.’

‘That is one way of putting it.’

‘If the Qadi crossed the line between his official responsibilities and his personal interests that needn’t reflect badly on you.’

‘Naturally. I mean, I would hope not.’

‘So, in this particular instance. If you were to hazard a guess as to who the Qadi might have gone out to the lake alone to meet, what would you say?’

Mutawali cleared his throat. ‘It was nothing to do with tourism. It was a survey company.
AGI LandTech.
’

‘They are conducting a mining survey in the area?’

‘Gas deposits.’ The slim man blinked his eyes nervously. ‘It’s not the first time. They come around every now and then, but they never find anything substantial enough for anyone to take a real interest.’

‘Why was he out there alone?’

‘Sometimes he preferred to do things that way.’ Mutawali examined the tabletop. ‘I always assumed it was not my business to know.’

‘Is it possible to talk to them?’

‘Oh, no, I think they went back to Alexandria, where they are based. I can give you a number. They are rather odd types these survey companies. It’s a touchy subject and they don’t want to step on any toes.’

‘Whose toes were they worried about?’

‘There are those who think that exploitation of the region’s natural resources would be bad for us, for tourism, for the region in general.’

‘But the Qadi wasn’t one of them.’

‘No, he wasn’t. Do you have to report all of this?’

‘I don’t think you have anything to worry about,’ said Makana. ‘Can you think of any possible connection between this man Ayman, and the Qadi?’

‘The Qadi was not in the habit of associating with hotel porters.’ Mutawali smacked his lips as if the thought gave him a bad taste in his mouth. ‘He had no business in that hotel. If he had guests they usually stayed somewhere with a little more class shall we say.’

‘And is it possible that Ayman might have turned up in the courts at some stage?’

‘Yes,’ said Mutawali slowly. ‘Naturally, that is the most likely possibility. But even then I don’t see how that would explain why their deaths should be linked. If this man appeared in court, then presumably he and the Qadi were on opposite sides of the law?’

‘At this point it is dangerous to make any kind of assumption.’

‘I understand. Look, I would appreciate it if you put in a good word for me.’

‘I can see that you were put in a difficult position, but everything now depends on your full co-operation.’

‘Naturally. I’m sorry if I appeared to be un-cooperative. It wasn’t that I was trying to hide anything. I just thought you were here for another investigation.’

‘I came here looking for a man named Musab Khayr. Does that name ring a bell?’

Mutawali rubbed his chin. ‘It does actually. It’s a long time ago, I was just a junior clerk, but I recall he was a criminal, mixed up with the smuggling bands. I think he worked for Wad Nubawi, who is an old reprobate. Apparently he’s changed his ways, but in the old days . . . Well, they ran this town in a climate of fear. This Khayr man was one of their thugs.’ The Qadi’s deputy folded his arms. ‘I think there was a terrible scandal and he left, fled for his life.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re wasting your time looking for him here. He would never come back.’

A crowd of men had gathered outside the police station. Their anger rumbled over them. At the top of the steps stood a nervous-looking Sadig. His eyes followed Makana as he drifted along the edge of the crowd and turned the corner onto the square. There a group of boys was kicking around a decapitated head. On closer inspection it turned out to be an old football. An old leather ball, now shredded by constant use. It no longer contained air, but had instead been stuffed with old rags and flapped around. One of the boys broke away and ran over to fall in beside Makana. It was Bulbul, still wearing the worn plastic slippers held together with bent nails.

‘Is it true there is a crazy man killing people who are not good Muslims?’ he asked.

‘Where did you hear that?’ asked Makana.

‘People say all kinds of things,’ shrugged the boy.

‘Tell me about that house over there. The one on the corner.’

‘The old house?’ Bulbul spat on the ground. ‘It’s haunted by jinns.’

‘Nobody lives there?’

‘Not any more. There used to be an old Turkish lady, but she died. People say she was actually a jinn.’ The boy stared morosely at the old house on the other side of the square. ‘They say that she’s still in there. At night sometimes you can hear her moving around.’

‘That’s why you throw stones at the gate when you go by?’

‘It’s just a habit,’ the boy shrugged again. ‘It stops the jinns from coming out. So how about it, you want to see the Mountain of the Dead? What about the Temple of the Oracle, have you been there yet? I’ll give you a special price.’

‘Some other time,’ said Makana reaching for a cigarette. The boy held out his hand for one which Makana ignored. ‘Who was she?’ he nodded at the old house.

‘I don’t know. Some crazy old Turk,’ said the boy, losing interest. No business to be done and no free cigarettes made for dull conversation. The ball rolled ahead of them and he bounced off to retrieve it, cutting a surprisingly unathletic figure for such a young person.

Doctor Medina was in his clinic poring over Ayman’s remains. The white coat he wore had, unbelievably, acquired more stains, which didn’t seem possible. There was also blood on the surgical gloves he wore. Ayman’s naked corpse was laid out on plastic sheeting that was stretched over the examination table. For once the doctor appeared to be enjoying himself. He also, surprisingly, appeared to be sober.

Makana stayed close to the open doorway where the heady stench of rotting flesh and formaldehyde was less overpowering. He lit a Cleopatra to cover the smell.

‘Thank god, another smoker,’ said the doctor, who was puffing energetically at the cigarette which hung from the corner of his mouth.

‘You seem to be enjoying yourself.’

‘I haven’t had this much fun since medical school,’ the flabby features tightened to accommodate the grin, revealing a trace of a much younger man. ‘You’re earlier than I expected. The sergeant hasn’t arrived yet.’ The deep-set eyes widened. ‘Or perhaps that was intentional?’

‘What have you got so far?’

‘As I suspected, he was killed by a blow to the rear of the cranium. A blunt instrument. I’ve managed to extract wood splinters and some paint.’

‘What colour paint?’

‘Hard to tell at the moment. Everything is red.’ Doctor Medina flashed a broad grin at his own witticism. Makana leaned his head out of the doorway to exhale. It wasn’t so much to prevent the contamination of the examination room as to breathe something that wasn’t chemical. The doctor was carrying something on a spatula towards the spotlight over the big stainless-steel sink in the work surface that ran along the wall. He placed the matter into a small sieve and poked a gloved finger through the contents. ‘Possibly green.’