The Golden Scales (17 page)

Next in line were two girls who couldn’t have been more different. One was trapped in the midst of plump adolescence, wiggling her broadening hips at the slightest glimmer of attention, while the younger one was skinny as a cane and cross-eyed, which people often assumed meant she was retarded when actually she was probably smarter than the lot of them put together. She helped her mother with the garden, which was their main source of food and regular income, and carried the vegetables with her to the stall they set up on a mat under the eucalyptus tree by the road. The last child was the little delinquent whom Makana would regularly catch going through his things, looking for something of value. He was the one who was handy with the pliers.

‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ Umm Ali, helpful as always, called out, as he reached the narrow plank that led on board. ‘The telephone has been ringing.’

The sun was setting as Makana climbed the stairs to the rear deck. He often sat up there late into the evenings to read, when the insects were not too bad and there was kerosene in the old lamp on those occasions when the power was cut. Most of the time you didn’t need lights; the glow from the city provided more than enough illumination for most things, with or without the electricity connected. Late at night a surprising serenity fell over the city, when the traffic started to die away and the moon appeared as a ghostly shadow hovering over the skyline. Everything seemed to be holding its breath. Then a sort of clarity would come over his mind. Now he reached for the telephone and dialled all the numbers for Mimi Maliki in Adil Romario’s address book. Once again he had no luck and on the last attempt was about to hang up when, after about twenty rings, a hoarse voice answered: ‘Who is it?’

‘My name is Makana.’

‘Do I know you?’

‘I got this number from Adil Romario. I’m doing a story on him.’

‘On Adil? And you want to talk to me?’

There followed a silence so long that Makana was convinced he had lost her, but then he heard her again, her voice floating in from far away.

‘How much?’

‘What?’

‘How much will you pay me?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Makana. ‘What do you think is fair?’

‘Two hundred US dollars,’ she blurted out, as if the number had just come into her head.

‘That’s a lot of money.’

‘
Ya salaam!
Did I call you? No. You want to talk to me or not?’

‘Fine. It’s a deal,’ said Makana. ‘Where do I find you?’ She gave him an address in Heliopolis and before he had time to say anything more she hung up.

Makana sat back and watched the last traces of light draining from the sky. A band of amber ringed the western horizon. The river turned a deep shade of magenta. The memory of Liz Markham’s battered body would not leave him. It was a distraction that kept nagging at him. Why would anyone torture her? He needed all his energies focused on Adil Romario, but he couldn’t shake off the idea that there was a connection between Liz Markham and whatever malign forces were at work in Adil’s case.

Or maybe it was just his own sense of guilt, taunting him for having been unable to save his own daughter seven years ago. Restlessly, he got to his feet and went over to the aft railings. Seven years ago he had looked down into this same river and watched his wife and daughter disappear before his very eyes.

No matter how many times he told himself there was nothing he could have done to avoid what happened, Makana still returned to it in his mind over and over, running through the course of events, trying to understand if there was something he might have done differently, if this might have affected the final outcome. The memory was like a physical wound that wouldn’t heal. He carried it with him constantly, could not leave behind the pain and regret. He could still recall the swaying of the battered blue police pick-up as it juddered down the rocky slope that first day, when it all began to go wrong.

Ahead of him on the river bank he had spotted a small group of people gathered at a spot under the bridge. The pick-up’s big wheels churned clumps of dried earth into a fine powder that swept in through the open windows, filling the cab with clouds of dust that stuck to the film of sweat already coating his face. It was just gone eight in the morning but already the heat made his shirt cling to his back.

The victim was lying face down in the shallows. Around her the water was fronded with green algae over the rocky bed of the stream. A long, diaphanous strip of cloth had wrapped itself around the otherwise naked body, floating around her like some strange plant. Tresses of hair ebbed back and forth as if alive. His sergeant Mek Nimr was there ahead of him, waving Makana down.

‘Who are they?’ Makana nodded at the five militia men standing around the body. They were all armed, Kalashnikov rifles slung over their shoulders, dressed in baggy peasant cotton.

‘People’s Defence Force. They are the ones who alerted us. They were driving by when a fisherman waved them down from the road up there.’ Makana’s sergeant pointed.

‘And where is he, this fisherman?’

‘We let him go.’

Makana turned on the man. ‘
You let him go?
Why?’

‘He didn’t have much to say,’ Mek Nimr said quietly. He lifted his hand and pointed. ‘He was rowing along here when he saw something in the water. That’s it.’

‘Find him.’

Mek Nimr tilted his head. ‘I don’t have any extra men.’

‘I don’t care if you have to swim up and down this river yourself, find that fisherman and bring him to me.’

The resentment in Mek Nimr’s stare was unmistakable.

‘I think you’re making a fuss about nothing.’

‘When you are made inspector you can do what you like. Until then, you’ll do what I tell you.’

With an impatient click of his tongue, Mek Nimr turned and moved away. Makana watched him go, wondering why he didn’t just file charges against him.

‘Hey!’ called one of the militia men, a wiry individual with a furrowed brow and thick beard. ‘We have to cover this woman up.’ He gestured at the naked body in the water. ‘You can’t leave her lying there like that. It’s
haram
.’

All five of the militia men stared malevolently at Makana. Three of them were young; the one with the beard somewhat older. They carried themselves with the swagger of those who believed that blind, unquestioning zeal was the only qualification they needed. They were the embodiment of the new militia forces that were undermining the authority of the Criminal Investigation Department.

The woman’s body still showed the early signs of bloating, which indicated that she had not been in the water long. The flesh on part of the right side of the face had been eaten away by fish. Makana saw puncture wounds, three at least, in the victim’s side. The weapon used must have had a large blade. He turned to address the militia men.

‘You have to stand back from here. You’re trampling all over the evidence. This is a murder scene. Whatever you think you are, you’re not policemen.’

‘You can’t talk to us like that.’ The tall bearded man stepped forward. ‘This is a clear case of moral corruption. You don’t need to be a policeman to see that.’

Makana stepped up to him until their faces were almost touching. ‘Get back or I’ll have you arrested for obstructing police enquiries,’ he said quietly.

The man stared contemptuously at him, then turned away, waving the others to follow him. When they had decamped to their pick-up truck further along the river bank, Makana kneeled down again beside the woman. Her head was tilted to one side. Despite the damage done by the fish he could see there was something familiar about her. Yes, he recognised her. She was a teacher in the nearby school across the river. Mek Nimr came back, ambling along the river bank, to report that there was no sign anywhere of the fisherman who had found the body.

‘I think I’ve seen her before,’ Makana told him. ‘I think she’s a teacher.’

Mek Nimr’s lip curled in a sneer. ‘I never liked teachers.’

‘She was a good woman.’

‘She can’t have been all good, otherwise what is she doing here, without her clothes on?’

Makana stood up and looked around him. ‘We don’t know that she died here. She might have been brought here after she was killed, sometime early this morning.’

Mek Nimr gave a laugh of incredulity. ‘How would they get round the curfew?’

Makana looked at him. He was right. The militia men huddled by their pick-up were involved in some kind of animated discussion. They fell silent as Makana approached.

‘You say a fisherman called you down from the road?’

‘It’s what happened.’ A small man with sharp, pointed teeth answered for them. He had the wild, feverish look of a man with a taste for violence.

‘Haven’t I seen you before somewhere?’

The eyes darted sideways and the man was shoved out of the way as another one pushed in.

‘Who do you think you are? You have to treat us with a bit more respect.’

Makana reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette, noting their looks of pious disapproval. The bearded man was taking a back seat now, climbing back into the car.

‘Until I get confirmation of your story, that’s all it is . . . a story.’

They were crowding round him, like football players protesting against a penalty.

‘There are five of us. You think we are all lying? We took an oath to defend this country and the believers in it.’

‘My job is to look at the facts, not to listen to what people profess to believe.’

This provoked more scuffling. The more Makana saw of them, the less he trusted them.

‘Why do you need this fisherman? Are our words not good enough for you?’

‘He’s the only other witness,’ Makana sighed. ‘For all I know you could have killed her yourselves and dumped her here.’

That was too much for them. They lurched forward, guns raised. Threatening a uniformed police officer didn’t seem to be a problem for them. Mek Nimr finally stepped in. He was smiling, that thin, contemptuous smile Makana had come to know.

‘You stand with your back to them,’ Makana said. ‘Does that mean you are more afraid of me than of five armed men?’

Mek Nimr lowered his hands and stepped back. The picture of humility. ‘I was only trying to do my duty, sir.’

‘Then get these
awaleeg
out of here. I want all their names and I want them checked for criminal records. That one I have seen before.’ He pointed at the man with the sharp teeth. Makana was sure he had arrested him five or six years back for something. Aggravated burglary?

‘They are People’s Defence Force. You can’t treat them like suspects,’ protested Mek Nimr.

‘No one is above the law, or has that changed too?’

The militia men were protesting loudly, calling on the Almighty to verify that they were speaking the truth, as if that was all the proof of their innocence that was necessary. Makana knew there was something wrong here. These men had not simply found this woman in the water, he was sure of it. There might have been a fisherman, but Makana knew they would never find him, not alive at least. Had he come across them dumping the woman’s body, or worse?

He watched Mek Nimr lead them away. He seemed to have their ear. Why was that? Makana had the sense that something dangerous was being played out right before his eyes, though he still couldn’t make it out clearly. It was pointless going to Major Idris about the run-in with the militia. Idris was too busy seeking out technological wonders of the modern age that had been foreseen in the abstractions of the Quran. It was a hobby of sorts. He published articles about it in the police gazette. He didn’t want to hear about these incidents. The major already considered him a maverick. He was young and zealous and probably the worst policeman Makana had ever met. He’d once asked Makana why he never went to prayers during the day.

‘I wasn’t aware it was obligatory,’ Makana had replied.

‘You’re not an atheist or something are you?’ Then, without waiting for a response, Idris burst into laughter. ‘I was only joking. Of course you are not!’

But the cold smile, the evasive eyes, told Makana that this was probably exactly what his superior was thinking. For him it wasn’t about religion, it was about conforming. Idris had revealed his scorn for someone who did not know how to join in. An atheist heathen. Might he have been able to save them at that point? Makana wondered afterwards. If he had been smarter, if he hadn’t been so stubborn, would he have managed to keep his family alive?

Chapter Fifteen

Decades ago, in his native Italy, Guido Clemenza’s career as a player was halted by a scandal involving match fixing. There were rumours of links to the Mafia. The case was eventually dropped and he managed to reinvent himself as a trainer by going into exile. After an unsuccessful stint in the Gulf he had been hired by Saad Hanafi. In Egypt he was built up into the archetypal European technocrat. A dictator of sorts, obsessed with punctuality and efficiency. Physically, he fitted the bill perfectly, with his chilly blue eyes and steel-coloured hair. A new Mussolini. Clemenza’s brutish face made regular appearances in the gossip columns, beside one model or another. Apparently he enjoyed the high life. His once trim waistline had expanded and the sharp angles of his jaw were sunk now beneath the onset of jowls. Clemenza put Makana in mind of a Roman senator from the days of Hadrian or Marcus Aurelius. Perhaps football managers were the modern-day equivalent. Certainly he could be ruthless. By all accounts he was good at what he did. He worked the team hard and got results. Or, at least, he used to. More recently their record had been disappointing. And there clearly wasn’t much affection for him as far as the players were concerned.