The Ghost Runner (5 page)

‘Mr Ragab,’ he ushered his guest, ‘please take a seat.’

There was something inherently awkward about Magdy Ragab. A creature of routine, it was possible he was uncomfortable in surroundings that were not familiar. In any case, he seemed not to register Makana’s words or perhaps did not feel inclined to sit. Either way, he remained standing in the middle of the room, fidgeting with his hands behind his back, eyes fixed on the distant bridge, where a procession of stick figures, now burnt silhouettes against the light of the setting sun, were making their way home alongside a slow-moving slurry of vehicles of every shape and size.

‘You know who I am?’

‘Yes, Mr Ragab, I know who you are.’

‘Of course you do.’ Ragab rolled his shoulders as if trying to shake off his skin. Makana went on. The fact that the man felt ill at ease was perhaps not so surprising seeing as he was talking to someone who had been investigating him for the last week.

‘You are a highly respected lawyer. You have your own practice which employs three other lawyers, all junior to yourself, along with about a dozen administrative staff. You started out in criminal cases but now specialise in corporate law. You have a very good list of clients, within some of the top companies in the country. Bankers, industrialists, businessmen of one kind or another. You have contacts in the upper echelons of the military, as well as a good number of politicians and a few television personalities. They trust you because you work hard. You have a reputation for thoroughness and efficiency. You work long hours and you rarely take a full day off. You live alone with your wife Awatif, who is your second cousin on your mother’s side. You have no children . . .’

Ragab nodded his approval. ‘I inherited the practice from my uncle, on my mother’s side. He was also the one who gave me the Bentley. It’s a nineteen seventy-three model and still going strong. They used to make cars to last.’

Makana reached for his Cleopatras. Ragab watched him closely.

‘You have done a thorough job,’ Ragab went on. ‘My wife warned me that you were a rather strange character of dubious background, and that I should have nothing further to do with you, and frankly . . .’ He paused to allow his eyes to flicker quickly around his surroundings. ‘I have to say this is a rather more unconventional setting than I had expected.’

‘It grows on you,’ said Makana, blowing out a match.

‘I have no intention of letting it do so. I came here because my wife confronted me. She accused me of having deceived her and asked for a divorce. Of course she did not mean this seriously. To a woman of her age and social standing divorce would make no sense. Still, I understand that her pride was hurt. When I asked her how she had learned of these things she told me about you. I came to see where my money had gone.’ Ragab allowed himself a smile, presumably because this was the closest he could come to a joke.

‘Well, while we’re talking about money, I haven’t actually—’

Ragab cut him off. ‘Please, let me finish. You have been spying on me for over a week now. Spying on me. I think you at least owe me the chance to speak my piece.’

‘As you wish,’ said Makana, gesturing for him to continue. For his part, Ragab stood apprehensively, hands clasping and unclasping behind his back.

‘The truth is, I understand the work you do, perhaps better than you think. I myself have employed people much like yourself, which perhaps explains why my wife had to reach out beyond the familiar circle of associates to find you.’ Ragab stopped himself from going on. Clearly there was some kind of barbed comment on the tip of his tongue which he felt was best left unsaid.

‘Mr Ragab, your wife suspected you of infidelity. There’s nothing particularly remarkable about that. She wanted to know the truth and she has a right to try and find out. She believed you were keeping another woman, perhaps even another wife, and she worried this would have consequences.’

‘That is a very liberal, and if I may say so, convenient explanation.’

‘In my experience most cases can be resolved amicably. What I bring to the marriage, if you like, is a degree of openness.’

Ragab smiled again. ‘You missed your calling, sir. You would have made a fine lawyer.’ Pushing his hands into his pockets, Ragab moved towards the window to look out at the river. ‘My wife has a lively imagination. As a young woman she was drawn to a career in the theatre, although I am glad to say that common sense prevailed. Nowadays she is a keen patron of the arts, and knows a good number of artists personally.’

‘That must be nice for you both,’ said Makana. It wasn’t that he had anything against the theatre as such, although he had not visited one since his wife was a university student. ‘Frankly, the only thing that interests me at this moment is that girl lying in the clinic and how she got there. I assume that is why you are here.’

‘You assume correctly.’ Ragab looked momentarily taken aback. He dropped his head for a moment and stared at the floor.

‘So let’s drop all this business of your social credentials. You don’t have to impress me. Why don’t you tell me why you are paying for Karima’s medical care. Is she your daughter?’

‘She isn’t, or rather, she wasn’t . . . Karima passed away two hours ago.’

The image of the creature in the hospital bed came back to him. It was hard not to feel relief for anyone who had suffered so much and yet Makana felt his heart tighten a notch.

‘The doctors did everything they could but they were unable to save her.’

Ragab swayed on his feet and Makana gestured for him to sit. This time Ragab hesitated only for a moment before lowering his frame into the chair. It was a new addition. The carpenter had tried to persuade him to part with the old wicker chair that had been on the
awama
when he first moved in and had been on its last legs. Makana couldn’t bring himself to throw it away so instead conceded to the purchase of a Louis XIV wooden chair that resembled a throne. It was more comfortable than it looked and had stout carved legs and heavy arms. The carved back was inlaid with mother of pearl. It had been lovingly restored by the carpenter and seemed more suited to the palace of a khedive of old than to Makana’s
awama
. It wasn’t a Bentley, but still.

‘Why did you register her as your daughter at the clinic?’

There was a long silence. Finally, Ragab stirred. He passed a hand across his face.

‘That was necessary for technical reasons. My policy covers members of my family. It is not a big issue, but it avoided certain problems in admitting her. I wanted the best treatment for her and the alternative would have been to leave her to the state medical system, which as I’m sure you know would have been tantamount to a murder sentence.’

‘So you lied to get her admitted.’

Ragab blinked. He didn’t like being accused of lying. ‘The director of the hospital is aware of the details.’

‘A theatre lover perhaps? Happy to bend the rules for an old and loyal client?’

‘Something like that.’ The faint suggestion of a smile flickered around Ragab’s lips. Amused perhaps at the ease with which the world arranged itself around his needs. ‘You don’t like me. I can tell.’

‘What difference does it make?’

‘None, maybe. Perhaps it could be an advantage.’

‘Did Karima kill herself?’

‘That’s why I wish to employ your services.’

‘You want to employ me?’

‘You seem surprised. I don’t believe in letting sentiment cloud one’s decisions. You clearly know your job. For an entire week I was unaware that I was being observed. And your past reputation is well documented.’ Ragab nodded beyond Makana at the array of newspaper clippings pinned to the wall above the desk, most of them written by Sami Barakat. ‘I checked up on you and made a few calls. Apart from that I consider myself a good judge of men, Mr Makana. I believe you will do your utmost to pursue this matter to a conclusion. Contrary to popular belief, money does not buy commitment. It buys obedience, devotion to the source of the money, but not to the task in hand. Commitment is a commodity one cannot buy for love or money.’

‘I’m honoured,’ murmured Makana, inhaling smoke deep into his lungs.

‘There is another reason, which, once I have explained the outlines of the case to you, I am sure will lead you to the same conclusion.’

‘You have my attention.’

Ragab’s big hands had stopped gripping the arms of the chair. As he spoke he appeared to be more at ease.

‘Most of the people I employ for surveillance or investigative work have a history. That is to say they are usually retired from the police or intelligence services. This has advantages, of course, because they can draw on old contacts for information from within. But in this case, I believe that could be the source of a conflict of interests.’

Makana stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Is this connected to your relationship to the girl?’

‘Eighteen years ago I was appointed to defend a young man in court. His name was Musab Muhamed Khayr.’ Ragab brought his fingertips together in a steeple and lowered his chin in concentration. ‘He was a delinquent, a petty criminal charged with selling contraband, mostly cigarettes and alcohol smuggled from Libya. I found him to be not only an unpleasant man to deal with, petty and violent, but also untrustworthy. I hardly believed a word he told me. Still, despite my feelings about him personally, or my disapproval of his actions, I had been entrusted with his defence and this was what I carried out to the best of my abilities.’

Makana noted an air of old-fashioned righteousness about Ragab. A man resigned to the fact that chivalry was dead, that the world was full of people lacking in moral fibre. It was a hard burden to bear, but he was doing his best.

‘What happened?’ asked Makana.

‘Musab was sentenced to five years. It was a harsh sentence, especially for his wife, but he did not help himself by being impertinent towards the judge who naturally took a disliking to him. The smuggling of alcohol is regarded with some severity by many in the judiciary.’

‘He was expecting you to get him off the charges?’

‘Exactly, he thought he would not go to prison. It astonishes me sometimes how people allow themselves to be deluded in this way.’

‘It’s an astonishing world.’

‘Yes.’ Ragab nodded solemnly. ‘Anyway, as the case came to a close I discovered that Musab’s wife Nagat was living in quite sordid conditions. She occupied a room not fit for a cat, above a garage in Imbaba. I went to visit her in the course of my preparations for the trial. She had just discovered she was pregnant. Her husband didn’t even know yet. She had no source of income. I took pity on her.’ Ragab faltered. ‘I can’t explain why. My own father died very young and my mother struggled to bring us up, perhaps the sight of this young woman struck a chord.’

Makana wondered if there was more to it than that, although it seemed to almost go against the grain, a man of Ragab’s standing to become involved with the wife of a common criminal, but human nature was nothing if not unpredictable.

‘So you helped her,’ he said.

Ragab got to his feet and paced around the room as he spoke. ‘There were practical matters to do with the case which meant that I saw a good deal of her. She was distraught, as you can imagine. Being pregnant with her husband in prison was not an ideal situation. I did my best to reassure her.’

‘How exactly? Did you give her money?’

‘Yes, and with little chance of seeing it reimbursed, I might add. I also arranged for her to move into a cleaner, more comfortable place. I even found some work for her in the office of a colleague. It wasn’t much, but it provided some income. I used my contacts with a local mosque that provided medical assistance to make sure she received adequate treatment. When she decided to start a business of her own, I also helped her a little with that.’

‘You went to a lot of trouble,’ said Makana, ‘considering how you felt about her husband.’

‘That was precisely the reason I felt compelled to help his wife. She struck me as being a victim herself, having been taken in by this man at a young age. She had been blind to his faults, she said, but the pregnancy had opened her eyes. She wanted nothing more to do with him.’

Ragab’s large eyes blinked. The way he told it, the story certainly didn’t do any damage to his reputation. Benevolence, after all, was a highly valued virtue. Although it seemed like a lot of effort for the wife of a client he didn’t even like. Maybe Nagat truly had stirred some measure of compassion from Ragab’s childhood memories of his struggling mother. On the other hand, maybe she had stirred something else.

‘You can call me a sentimental fool, but the fact is that I felt protective towards her.’

Although in his fifties, Ragab dressed and carried himself like a somewhat older man. Now, silhouetted against the dying light, he appeared younger than his years. Makana wondered how much the domineering Mrs Ragab knew of this story.

‘Perhaps I allowed myself to go too far.’ Ragab licked his lips. ‘When the child came I was seized by feelings I was not familiar with. I wished to protect it, to take care of it in some way.’ There was a mournful slant to his eyes as they lifted to find Makana. ‘My wife and I did not have the good fortune to be blessed with children of our own, and I suppose all of those pent-up feelings found an outlet in this little girl.’