The Ghost Runner (6 page)

‘Karima.’

‘Yes, exactly, Karima.’ Ragab turned away and Makana saw him wiping a hand across his eyes. ‘She never had much luck, poor child. Her mother died a couple of years ago, after a long illness. Since then she has run the shop alone. Still a child and yet so grown up.’ He turned to face Makana squarely. ‘She didn’t deserve to die such a horrible death.’

The conversation was interrupted as Aziza appeared carrying a tray on which stood a brass coffee pot and two small cups. Makana noticed that she had exchanged the worn and patched shift she had been wearing earlier for a bright dress covered in red flowers. She even had a glittery gold pin in her hair.

‘Anything else I can do,
ya basha
?’ she asked as she set down the tray and poured the coffee.

‘No, Aziza, that will be fine.’

The girl then managed to withdraw from the room backwards. Something she had picked up from the television no doubt. A documentary about ancient emperors and kings? Perhaps he ought to pay her something? So long as it didn’t go through her mother’s hands.

‘So Karima was born while Musab was in prison,’ Makana asked as he spooned sugar into his cup. He left Ragab to help himself.

‘That is correct. Nineteen eighty-four, during his first year inside.’

‘She was still a small child when he came out.’

‘That’s right. She was barely five years old.’

‘What happened when Musab came out of prison?’

‘It appears that Musab underwent something of a transformation while in prison. It happens all too often. Faced with brutality they begin to question their motives. In those dark places of the soul a lot of men find comfort in turning to religion.’

It was a familiar story. Aside from the pressures on inmates to conform, there were plenty of advantages to joining one of the Islamist groups. The prisons were crowded with jihadists of every shape and shade, and many of the guards sympathised. With the right connections many of the hardships could be alleviated.

‘By the time he was released in nineteen eighty-nine he had become a member of the Islamic Jihad group.’ Ragab returned to his seat and reached for the tin sugar bowl. Perhaps he didn’t quite have the qualms his wife did about mixing with the common people. ‘Those were difficult times.’

Makana needed no reminding of 1989. It was the year everything changed for him. A new regime came to power and suddenly his position as a police inspector in Khartoum was thrown into doubt. And it wasn’t only in Sudan. In Germany, the wall came down between east and west. In China, revolting students had seized Tiananmen Square. In Afghanistan, the final Soviet troops were being withdrawn.

‘The world was in turmoil. You know this from your own country. It was a time of great victory for Islam, and many went from here to join the Mujahideen.’

‘So Musab joined the holy struggle,’ said Makana.

‘He joined at the wrong time. The war in Afghanistan had been won. The Egyptians who had fought with the Mujahideen were returning home. Their victory there had led to some euphoria, the sense that the jihad was a global mission to revive Islam. Musab went abroad. Where he went I cannot say. I heard that he had been in your home country, Sudan, but also visited parts of the Soviet Union that were trying to break away: Azerbaijan, Georgia, Kazakhstan. They were trying to ignite a jihad there, to carry on the fight after Afghanistan. He spent nearly five years away. When he returned he associated with the same group of Islamist radicals as before. They had declared war on the Egyptian state. To cut a long story short, his name emerged in a plot to assassinate the Minister of Justice. Musab claimed it was a set-up. His militant days were over, he said. I managed to pull a few strings. I knew the Danish ambassador personally. We played bridge with him and his wife. I convinced him that Musab was a worthy case for political asylum. It was the only solution.’

‘Why go to all that trouble for him? Surely he was no longer your problem?’

‘You are right, but I had become close to his wife and daughter. I suppose I was trying to protect them.’

‘By sending him away?’

‘Nagat had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him. She had started her own business by then and was doing all right without him.’ Ragab set down his coffee cup slowly. ‘My first impression of the man has proved to be the most enduring. Dishonest and cowardly, a delinquent and petty thief. When he came out of prison he had taken on a . . . let us say, a more spiritual aspect. He grew a beard, wore traditional clothes, and spoke of piety and conviction, but underneath he was the same.’

‘Let me ask you a question.’ Makana paced across the room. ‘Am I right in thinking that you suspect Musab of having caused the death of his daughter?’

‘You are a perceptive man, Mr Makana.’ Ragab paused to gather his thoughts. ‘I have no proof. I have nothing, just my own instincts, but I am convinced that Musab was behind this.’

‘Correct me if I am wrong, but I understand that Musab has been abroad all these years.’

‘Seven years to be exact,’ Ragab confirmed with a nod.

‘Then how?’

‘Who knows? Through one of his old contacts, perhaps? Anything and everything is possible, but that is why I wish to hire your services.’

‘Even if he were able to effect something like this, to arrange a fire from abroad, what would his motive be?’

‘Jealousy.’

‘Jealousy?’

‘This is difficult for me to explain, but Musab got it into his head that I was Karima’s father.’

‘Where would he get an idea like that?’

‘Karima was born during Musab’s first year in prison, Nagat must have become pregnant just before he was arrested. He might not even have known. Musab was unbalanced, paranoid. It isn’t hard to imagine how such ideas entered his head. You touched on it yourself. These people don’t understand kindness. I tried to help his wife and therefore he suspected there was an ulterior motive.’ Ragab exhaled slowly. ‘I don’t think he ever quite believed my denials.’

‘Assuming you are right, why would Musab wait so long to take his revenge?’

‘Who can explain what goes on in the mind of someone like that?’

Makana stepped out onto the stern deck where the sounds of the city filtered across the river. Ragab followed him out. The whirr of bats flitted through the darkness in the trees above them.

‘The Musab I knew was a vicious man and a coward. Everyone who knew him testified to that fact. The wife, Nagat, died some years ago of a kidney disease. All that was left was Karima.’

‘And you’re sure Musab couldn’t come back here himself?’

‘Oh, no, that is out of the question. The state would arrest him immediately and throw him back into prison where he belongs.’

‘What about contacts? Who does he still know?’

‘Oh, there are plenty of people who remember him. He has contacts in the underworld. Criminals, murderers. It wouldn’t be hard to find someone to do this. I can provide you with a list.’ Ragab straightened up. ‘All I am asking, Mr Makana, is that you bring me the evidence. Show me who did it and I will take care of the rest. I will make sure they get the justice they deserve.’

In the half-light Ragab’s features seemed to dissolve, so that Makana had the impression he was addressing a large, untidy ghost. A spirit from somewhere far back in time.

‘How does your wife feel about me working for you?’

‘My wife knows nothing about this arrangement between us, and I would prefer to keep it that way.’ Ragab reached into his pocket. ‘She knows I am here this evening, but she believes it is to settle her account.’ He held out an envelope. ‘This contains what she owes you for services rendered.’ A second envelope joined the first. ‘Here I have placed the same amount as a retainer if you should choose to accept the case. We can settle up any outstanding amounts at a later date.’

Makana hesitated only for a moment before taking both envelopes. He had a feeling that Magdy Ragab was the kind of client he could get used to working for.

Chapter Five

Inspector Okasha strode down through the Ghuriyya quarter in his usual manner. As always, his commanding presence had an instant effect. The layabouts who hung around the entrance waiting for opportunity to tap people on the shoulder sidled away without a word. Pedlars shouting out their wares missed a beat, even a woman carrying a basket full of vegetables balanced on her head managed to crane her neck around without spilling a single onion. Okasha carried himself with authority. A big man in a uniform. To many around here his was a familiar face, having worked this part of town for many years, back in the old days.

‘Did I tell you about the time I was stabbed?’

‘More than once, I’m afraid,’ murmured Makana as they descended the steps beneath the high wooden beams, finely carved and painted, that supported the roof linking the sultan’s tomb to the mosque.

‘My first month on the job and a fool of a man pulled a knife on me. I wasn’t expecting it. We only wanted to question him but it seems we hit the target on our first try. Anyway . . .’ Okasha paused to exchange a greeting with a gnarled old stick of a man who rose up from where he was squatting against the wall when he recognised the officer.

‘You honour us,
ya
basha
. Please come and sort out these
harafeesh
. They are only boys but they make our lives hell.’

‘Don’t worry about it, old man. I shall personally see to the matter.’ Okasha closed with a salute to make his vow official before turning back to Makana. ‘Now, where was I? So the knife went through my side, narrowly missing any vital organs. Cut straight through the uniform. Of course, that’s exactly the kind of thing that makes a man’s reputation.’

‘And you’ve never looked back.’

‘We caught the culprit in the end. Then he was sorry he had pulled the knife. He kept apologising. Of course, he came to a bad end, they all do.’

They had turned off the main thoroughfare and were cutting through lanes of stalls, tightly packed together, brushing by hanging garments, stacks of aluminium pots and pans of all sizes, towers of shoe boxes and sacks of coffee beans. A handful of armed police officers had been sent ahead and were now clearing the area in front of a narrow shop. The paint around the edges of the wall was burnt and blistered as was a metal sign over the entrance that was sealed by a roll-down shutter. A sergeant stepped up neatly and saluted as they approached. Okasha returned the gesture.

‘Has someone sent for the keys?’

‘They’re just coming now, sir,’ the sergeant nodded and Makana turned to see an overweight man wearing a grubby olive-green gelabiya that was open down his chest to reveal an even dirtier vest. Unshaven, his plump face was blurred by a thick moustache that was itself buried within three days’ worth of white bristles. He walked with a limp, his right leg moving in a loose circle to catch up with his left. A sandal dangled like a stray leaf of lettuce that had attached itself to his foot unnoticed. As he approached he called ahead.

‘
Hadir, effendi
. Here I come.’ Onlookers stepped aside, as they might for a leading actor making his entry onstage. A large ring of keys jangled in his hand as he came. It was quite a performance and Makana wondered if Okasha had met his match.

‘Nineteen seventy-three,’ the man muttered loudly, fixing Makana with one eye. ‘I crossed the canal and we taught the Jews a lesson they never forget to this day. Since then I carry an Israeli bullet in my hip, proudly.’ The last word was accompanied by a thump of his hand to his chest.

‘That’s all very well, but can you open this door?’ Okasha didn’t have much time for other performers.

‘
Effendi
, you ask and it shall be done.’ With more huffing and puffing the man got down on his knees and began fiddling with the keys. It took longer than expected and Okasha was tapping his feet impatiently until the
bawab
eventually found the right key and the padlock was released. As the shutters rolled up the onlookers crowded round the entrance for a look, and the police officers, distracted, forgot about pushing them back.

The interior of the shop was a charred cavern, the walls and ceiling thick with soot. Mounds of blackened debris had been swept to the sides along with strange contortions of twisted metal, a chair or a shelf. Coiled springs protruded from the remains of what had been a mattress. All was now sodden in water which filled the air with a thick, putrid stench.

‘What did they used to sell here?’ Makana asked absently, addressing no one in particular. The answer came from an onlooker standing behind him.

‘Blankets, pillows, small mattresses. All that kind of stuff.’

‘It goes up the moment you bring a match near it,’ another concerned shopkeeper added.

‘We’re only lucky nobody else’s shop was affected.’

‘What time was this?’ Makana asked.

‘It’s in the report,’ said Okasha, but he was cut off by one of the witnesses who elbowed himself forward.

‘It was late. Most of us had closed down for the night. We went to the mosque for the isha prayer and we stayed on afterwards, just talking.’

‘Then someone came in saying there was a fire down here,’ carried on another.