The Arabesk Trilogy Omnibus (15 page)

“Chief…” The voice was unnecessarily impatient.

“What?” Felix demanded. “What’s your problem this time?”

“The pashazade.”

“Using him as my witness was the Minister’s idea,” said Felix flatly. “You got a problem, take it up with Mushin Bey. Ashraf and I are out of here.”

Madame Mila shook her head. “He goes nowhere,” she said. “At least not with you. As of now, he’s under arrest. Suspicion of murder.” She tightened her grip on the shoulder of the small girl stood beside her. “And this is
my
witness.”

CHAPTER 21

Seattle

Red on white inside, grey on grey without, where the
Pacific beat on jagged rocks and gulls circled like sailors’ souls over a stark concrete bunker that made the work of Mies van der R look soft and fluid.

Micky O’Brian lay inside on a white silk carpet that cost $340 a square yard and could only be ordered over the web from Beijing, cash in advance. Outside, through a long window that ran the length of his precious first-floor art gallery, gunmetal waters could be seen lapping the shore of Puget Sound. Drizzle made the sky as dull as the sea and reduced visibility to a few hundred paces.

The jetty in front of Lodge Concret was bare. A thin strip of factory grating held above the rocking waves by anodized posts. The clinker-built pleasure boat that should have been there was long gone. So was a Matisse nude, a Christo abstract and one of the most important early works of Cézanne still to be in private ownership…
Farmhouse at Auvers
had been painted in 1873, the year after Cézanne moved to Pontoise to be close to Pissarro.

White on red.

Seepage from a bullet hole in the back of Micky O’Brian’s head had formed its own abstract, more Rorschach blot than Rothko. A vivid red splash that would fade to black as blood soaked into silk and eventually dried. There was a message in the colours, and the message was that the man wouldn’t be testifying to anything.

At first glance it looked like Micky was grabbing a nap, half curled on his side in slacks, gold slippers and a Chinese dressing gown with a five-toed Mandarin dragon on the back. But that was only at first glance. His wide-eyed glassy stare told a different story. One that ZeeZee picked up only in fragments, as he checked the long gallery and found it empty of any killer, with its picture lights turned down to “dim” and a still-chilled bottle of Mumm Cordon Rouge open on a side table.

There were macadamia nuts and chilli olives in little bowls alongside the bottle. An open but untouched box of Partegas corona had been placed nearby, along with a neatly rolled spliff placed ostentatiously on a silver ashtray. A very Micky O’Brian touch. The air in the gallery was heavy with scent from a huge vase of black tulips. Debussy drifted from flat wall speakers.
Clair de Lune or
something similar. Something lightweight, in keeping with Micky’s acting abilities.

The visitor Micky O’Brian had been expecting was ZeeZee. But someone else had definitely got here first.

ZeeZee carefully put the fat manila envelope he’d been delivering on the arm of a white leather sofa and considered his options. He could call the police or he could just leave, quietly and quickly. Returning the way he’d come, on the back of his 650cc Suzuki. And why not? He now had no one to meet. No reason for being there.

“Shit.” ZeeZee picked up his envelope and headed downstairs, the Debussy nocturne looping in his head. He made it as far as the sand-blasted glass front door before someone yelled his name.

“Hey, ZeeZee…” The amused shout came from behind him. “Going somewhere?”

He turned to see two bulls he knew in SPD jumpsuits flanking a woman who wore a black Chanel suit, black shoes and Shu Uemura make-up. Not that she needed it: even naked, her face would have been flawless, her eyes bright, brown and hard as glass. He had no idea who she was.

All he knew was the woman had to have practised that contemptuous, deadpan stare. It was too convincing to be real. The grins on the faces of the uniformed officers were something else entirely. Certainly not real smiles, more grim-faced got-you-you-bastard kind of expressions.

“Micky O’Brian…” ZeeZee began, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” said the woman. “Why don’t you take us to meet him?”

“He’s… When I got here… I didn’t know…”

She looked at ZeeZee without saying anything. Just waited until his words stumbled to a halt and then kept waiting while the English boy skidded around in his head for the right approach to take to what was about to happen—and realized there wasn’t one.

“Don’t tell me,” she said finally. “You got here a couple of minutes ago and found the front door open. You knocked but no one came, so you went inside. And guess what, you found Micky O’Brian shot through the skull
… Or
was it the throat?”

“A head shot,” ZeeZee said, without thinking.

The two uniformed officers looked at each other. As if that only confirmed what they expected.

“And you were on your way to call the police?”

ZeeZee nodded.

“So why didn’t you use the hall phone?” The woman nodded to a Sanyo fixed to the wall by the front door, its screen black but one diode flashing lazily in the lower left corner, to signal the system was set to standby.

“I didn’t see it,” said ZeeZee hastily. “I was too shocked.”

“Which is why you were whistling…” She hummed back at him the main motif from
Clair de Lune.
“I can see the headlines now. The whistling hit man…”

“I haven’t killed anybody,” ZeeZee protested.

“Of course you haven’t,” she said sourly. “So why don’t you come and show us the person you didn’t kill?”

Micky O’Brian’s body was where he’d left it. The blood seemed a little darker, Micky a little more obviously dead. Other than that, walking into the gallery could just have been a bad attack of déjà vu.

“So
you found him lying there like that?”

ZeeZee nodded.

“And you touched nothing?”

He shook his head, then hesitated.

“Yes?” she said, drawing out the word until it ended with a hiss.

“I touched the wine bottle. To check how cold it was… And I turned off the music.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

“But I didn’t touch anything else. I didn’t kill him. And I didn’t take the paintings,”

The detective flicked her gaze to a blank space on the wall. Then back to the body. So far none of them had checked Micky for a pulse. But maybe they’d decided it wasn’t necessary, given the very final expression on his face.

“So you’re trying to shift the blame to an accomplice, right? He shot Micky, took the paintings and left you to lock the front door… Yeah, I know,” said the woman, as she held up her hand to still ZeeZee’s protest. “You didn’t kill him and you don’t know who did.”

Shrugging, she walked over to Micky and looked down for a while, then bent to free something trapped under him. “Here,” she said, tossing it to ZeeZee. “You left this behind.”

The fat envelope he’d been carrying hit the floor as ZeeZee fumbled to make the catch. And then, while he was still worrying about what he’d dropped, ZeeZee realized what he’d just caught. What he’d just tagged with his sweat, fingerprints and oil. An old Wilson Combat, its usual barrel replaced with a .22 conversion. The deep scar of an acid etch where the barrel’s identification number should be.

“Ditch the gun.”

ZeeZee heard her words but he wasn’t really listening. Had he always been the patsy: or was he only now surplus to requirements? He looked in disbelief at the weapon in his hands, knowing exactly who it belonged
to…
Wild Boy had just, very firmly, taken him out of the loop.

“Drop it.” The woman nodded to the man beside her, who flipped his service-issue Colt out of its holster and trained the sight on ZeeZee’s chest before the English boy realised what was happening.

“Put it down real slow.” The man holding the revolver had a Southern drawl and a liking for theatrics. The trigger on his gun was already pulled, his knuckle white from depressing the trigger to its fullest extent. Only his thumb was holding back the hammer.

“Your choice,” the woman said coldly.

Wasn’t it always?

ZeeZee kneeled slowly and placed the Combat flat on Micky’s white carpet, muzzle pointed safely towards the wall. He didn’t want any misunderstandings.

“I didn’t kill Micky O’Brian. I didn’t…”He wanted his voice to sound decisive and confident but instead it sounded shrill, as if he was trying to convince himself.

“Switching to .22 was a good move,” said the officer with the gun. “But, you know what…?”

ZeeZee shook his head.

“You really should have used a silencer. We got a call about the shot right after it happened…”

ZeeZee looked through the gallery’s long window, taking in the rugged coastline, the choppy grey waters, the sheer isolation of this stretch of Puget Sound. Yeah, he’d
bet
there’d been a call, but not made from around here. There was no other house within miles. He couldn’t wait for the part where they looked in the envelope and discovered Micky’s delivery: half a kilo of uncut coke.

CHAPTER 22

6th July

300-3500 Hz (with harmonics peaking above 3500), is
an average frequency-range for the human voice. And the sensitivity of human hearing is pretty smooth between 500-5000Hz, with 110dB being usually as loud as a voice gets.

The prisoner in the next cell was breaking 120dB, his screams emptying in a single breath that ended as swallowed, choking sobs. And though the air in Raf’s small room now stank of sweat, everyone was being positively polite.

The bey was good—Felix had to give him that. He hadn’t tried to claim immunity or demanded to talk to the Minister. He’d even allowed an embarrassed sergeant to wire him to a polygraph, fastening the band round his own wrist and placing his right hand completely flat on the plate. Not that the bey was exactly cooperating, either.

He hadn’t yet removed his black jacket, which still looked immaculate after hours of questioning: and he’d only just taken off his dark glasses, after Madame Mila finally agreed to lower the brightness of the overhead lights.

It had been hypocritical of the fat man to have put on record at the outset that he hoped the coroner-magistrate knew what she was doing—because he didn’t hope that at all. What he actually hoped—very much—was that Madame Mila was making the worst mistake of her short but impressive career.

“Hani heard you shouting at each other.” The sergeant kept his voice reasonable. At Madame Mila’s earlier suggestion, he’d tried hectoring but that only made the man in front of him shut down. Emotionally autistic.

“Arguing,” stressed Madame Mila. “All of last night.” That was the fact to which she kept coming back, time after time. The one fact Raf couldn’t deny.

“She wanted me to marry Zara bint-Hamzah,” repeated Raf. “I refused. She was cross.”

“Oh, she was
way
more than cross.” As ever, Madame Mila’s voice was cutting. “She threatened to disown you because you betrayed that poor girl. So this morning you went home and stabbed her. Rather than take the risk… That’s what happened, wasn’t it?”

“No,” said Raf. “It wasn’t…”

“So how did it happen?” The young police sergeant fired his question, but it might as well have been Coroner Mila speaking. This was definitely her show.

“I was in my office all morning.”

“No,” said the sergeant, looking at a screen, “we’ve been over this. You left at 11:30…”

“And went straight to Le Trianon,” Raf shrugged. “That’s the same thing. You can check at Le Trianon.”

“We have. You left your cappuccino undrunk and your paper on the table.”

“While I went for a stamp round Place Saad Zaghloul”

“Which was at what time?”

“Noon,” said Raf. “Maybe later. As I said, I didn’t look at my watch.”

Heartbeat, blood pressure and limbic pattern all held steady. Every diode on the Matsui polygraph lit a peaceful green. They might as well have been discussing the weather.
Hell.
The sergeant sucked at his teeth.
The weather might have got more of a limbic reaction out of the man.

The officer glanced bleary-eyed down at his screen. “According to the maître d’ you were gone for an hour, at least.”

Raf shook his head. “I got back slightly before that, then waited to catch someone’s eye. I wasn’t in a hurry…”

Madame Mila snorted.

“Besides,” said Raf calmly, “you know there isn’t time to walk there and back, from Zaghloul to Sherif, inside an hour, never mind murder somebody and fake a break-in. Which I didn’t.”

“So you took a taxi,” the sergeant announced tiredly.

“Then where’s the driver?”

“We’re finding him now.”

“No,” said Raf, looking straight at Madame Mila. “You’re not, because there
was
no taxi. I went nowhere near the Al-Mansur madersa at lunchtime and I didn’t kill my aunt—as that machine has already verified…” He nodded contemptuously at the primitive polygraph.

Felix pushed himself away from the wall. “Time to call the Minister,” said the fat man. He was talking both to the coroner-magistrate and to a fish-eye unit she’d placed on the plastic table between Raf and her sergeant. “You had your eight hours. You blew it… I’m releasing him.”

He glanced at Raf and grinned.