The Burning Gates (33 page)

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ said the man who let him out. He had a single stripe on his sleeve and his round face strained at the strap on his helmet, distorting his features. He glanced around furtively as he undid Makana’s handcuffs. ‘I used to drive for Inspector Okasha in the old days. I gave him a call. He sent a car for you.’

‘What about the brigadier? I don’t want you to get yourself into trouble.’

‘I can say I was only obeying orders. He can take it up with the inspector, but you can’t stay here.’

Makana needed no encouragement.

‘One thing, the brigadier said something about his nephew. Do you know anything about that?’

‘That’s where you’re going now.’

Slipping some money into the man’s hand discreetly, Makana climbed into the back of the police car. The rising sun was now an orange ball of flame. There was no reason for Makana to feel as sad as he did about Dalia Habashi’s death. It just seemed so pointless. What had pushed her over the edge? Was it Na’il? Had she heard from him? Or was it worse than that? Makana wondered where they were taking him.

They were driving in the direction of Giza. Light flared though the gaps between the buildings, a blinding dazzle. It was still early and the traffic was heading in the other direction, which meant they made fast time. They were almost at Giza station when he saw the flashing emergency lights up ahead, a constellation of them clumped together under the dark wing of an overpass.

It seemed that Ayad Zafrani had taken his suggestion a little too literally. He had dumped Na’il all right. The yellow motorcycle had been transformed into a tangled mass of chrome, burnt metal and blackened paint. An infernal machine that seemed to serve no recognisable purpose. Okasha was standing off to one side giving orders. An area had been roughly cordoned off by wooden barriers and a crowd had gathered to watch proceedings. The body was already loaded onto a stretcher. Doctora Siham was moving around it making a preliminary examination, no doubt spurred on by the urgency of the case.

‘Ah, there you are.’ Okasha looked up and dismissed the men he was talking to. ‘How could I have guessed that you would be getting yourself into more trouble?’

‘Dalia Habashi is dead. The brigadier seems to think it was murder.’

‘And you naturally disagree with that assessment.’ Okasha’s face looked drawn. The strain seemed to be getting to him.

‘I do, particularly since he seems to think I am the prime suspect.’

Okasha rolled his eyes. ‘Brigadier Yusuf Effendi has a career in the force that dates back forty years.’

‘You’d have thought that in all that time he might have learnt something.’

‘I’m not going to debate this with you. Once he finds out that his nephew is dead he’s going to get a whole lot worse. And that’s nothing compared to when he discovers you’re no longer in custody. So I’m counting on you here.’

‘How did it happen?’

Okasha pointed with the aerial on his hand radio. ‘The motorcycle came over the edge up there. Must have been going pretty fast.’ Two police technicians were leaning over the parapet looking down at them. ‘There’s a gap in the railings where a bus apparently hit it six months ago and it hasn’t been repaired properly. He went straight through.’

‘So, you think it was an accident?’

‘What else? He comes round the bend too fast, loses control. It happens all the time.’

They moved over to look at the motorcycle. A group of excited boys were pointing and trying to climb under the barrier. A policeman was doing his best to hold them at bay, rushing back and forth like a shepherd with a flock of wayward sheep. Considering the fall the Yamaha had acquitted itself fairly well. The front wheel and forks were twisted out of place and it must have caught fire. The petrol tank was ruptured and the seat was a charred mass.

Na’il’s battered and broken body lay on a stretcher behind an ambulance from the forensics department. Doctora Siham looked up as they appeared.

‘Ah, there you are,’ she said, running a wary eye over Makana. ‘And I see you brought your unauthorised friend.’

‘How does a man get a cup of coffee around here?’ Okasha grunted. He beckoned to one of his men and ordered him to send someone to fetch coffee. The order was passed along the line. A young policeman in big boots jogged away.

‘Sure you’re up to it? You might want to wait.’

‘I grew up in the
rif
,’ said Okasha. ‘Slaughtering animals was an everyday matter.’

Doctora Siham tilted her head back. ‘Interesting you make no distinction between a sheep and a human being.’ She pulled back the sheet and leaned over the body.

Na’il had been in bad shape the last time Makana had seen him, in the basement of Ayad Zafrani’s clubhouse, but now he looked infinitely worse and very much dead. The face had been caved in and the jaw detached. He didn’t resemble a human being so much as a broken and battered piece of meat. Makana was glad he hadn’t eaten that morning and even managed to resist the urge to reach for a cigarette.

‘He wasn’t wearing a helmet?’

Doctor Siham shook her head. ‘Doesn’t look that way. People think they are indestructible. They fly through the air like gods with wings until they hit something.’

‘Very poetic,’ muttered Okasha. ‘Is there anything you can tell us?’

‘Not much that you’d care to hear,’ said the pathologist. ‘The wounds seem consistent with what we know. A high-velocity impact. The head in particular. His mother would have trouble recognising him.’

‘We’re sure it’s him,’ Okasha said. ‘He had a driving licence and identity card in his wallet.’

‘There are no signs of burns,’ Doctora Siham went on, ‘even though the machine caught fire. He was found some ten metres from the motorcycle.’

‘There’s an old guy who sleeps under here,’ grinned Okasha. ‘The body missed him by about this much. He woke up with a shock.’

‘Did he see anything?’ Makana asked.

Okasha shook his head. ‘I talked to him myself. Nothing he says makes sense.’

Doctora Siham cleared her throat.

‘Sorry, Doctora, please continue.’

‘It’s too early to say for sure, but there’s something odd about the injuries.’

‘What do you mean by odd?’ Makana asked.

‘Well, if you look at the lower back and ribs, particularly the sides, you can see haematomas.’ She indicated the yellow and purple weals. ‘In this case, death would have been instantaneous, or as good as. In a fatal traffic accident the trauma occurs at or immediately before or after the moment of death. There isn’t time for bruising to occur. The heart is no longer pumping the blood. The blood tends to pool according to gravity, but that takes a different form.’

A boy carrying coffee cups on a tray was let through the barrier and made his way over. Okasha’s face lifted.

‘Ah, finally.’ He turned and began spooning sugar into a glass. The others declined. The boy looked at the corpse with open curiosity. Makana declined the offer of coffee. Doctora Siham tapped her foot.

‘When you’re ready.’

‘Sorry, Doctora,’ Okasha apologised and paid the boy for his coffee. The boy held his hand out for the money without taking his eyes off the body.

‘Off you go, boy.’ Doctora Siham shooed him away. ‘As I was saying, his superficial wounds appear consistent with the kind of trauma associated with what we see here; high-velocity vehicle collision with static objects. There is shearing, abrasion, broken legs and arms, but then there are other signs. Bruising, even cuts that show signs of healing.’

‘Meaning what?’ Okasha frowned as he sipped his coffee.

Doctora Siham gave him a curious look. ‘Meaning that some of this damage was inflicted before the accident. Perhaps several days before.’ She glanced at Makana to see if he was following.Okasha sipped his coffee and brushed a hand over his moustache. ‘Let me see if I understand this . . .’

‘He was tortured before he was killed,’ said Makana.

‘You should keep this one close,’ said Doctora Siham. ‘He could save you a lot of time.’

‘Tortured?’ Okasha glanced at Makana, who looked back at the body. It would be true to say he felt a certain degree of complicity, guilt even. He had witnessed Na’il being beaten. Could he have saved him? It seemed unlikely, but still. It was a bad feeling, this helplessness, and the sense that he should have tried harder. It was possible that Na’il had been a key witness. He was the only person to have been on the scene when Kasabian was murdered or shortly afterwards. He would have been invaluable if it came to putting any kind of legal case together. Makana’s thoughts turned back to Dalia Habashi. Had she known Na’il was dead? Had she just guessed it? Makana would never know for sure.

Doctora Siham was speaking. ‘The picture is distorted by the high-impact trauma produced by the fall.’ She shook her head. ‘But there’s no doubt in my mind.’

‘You’re saying he was tortured and then pushed off the overpass?’ Okasha was incredulous. ‘On his motorcycle?’

‘It’s a novel twist.’ The pathologist shrugged. ‘Usually it’s a long fall from a high building. This is a more imaginative variation on the theme. Don’t tell me this is the first time you’ve heard of it, Inspector.’ The doctor pulled the sheet up and gestured for them to load it into the ambulance. Then she peeled off her rubber gloves and reached into her coat for a cigarette. Makana lit hers and one of his own. She crossed her arms and looked down at her shoes.

‘I’ll be able to tell you more when I get him into the lab, but right now I’m inclined to believe that somebody beat him over a period of hours, perhaps days, and then, when death occurred, decided to hide the evidence by making it look like he rode over the edge of the road on his motorcycle. Not bad, but obviously not too smart either.’

‘So he was beaten. Any idea what with?’

Doctora Siham tugged at her ear. ‘I can’t say, but it looks like a long instrument. A metal bar, but fairly thin. Perhaps an iron rod. I’ll be able to tell you more when I can do a more thorough investigation. All that I’m telling you now are simply my preliminary thoughts on the subject.’

‘We appreciate all your efforts, Doctora,’ Okasha said stiffly. It was a reminder of the authority the pathologist exerted. She had a reputation for tearing strips off bigger men than Okasha.

Now she dropped her cigarette to the ground and walked towards her car. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I have more.’

‘A formidable woman,’ Okasha said, with an admiring shake of the head. ‘Of course you know what they say, that if she had a husband she wouldn’t be as devoted to her work.’

‘Maybe you should be thankful,’ said Makana.

‘Oh, believe me, I am.’ As the ambulance pulled away, Okasha turned his attention to Makana. ‘So, what do you think? Why would anyone torture and kill our friend?’

‘You mean our best witness?’

‘Possibly.’ Okasha shrugged. ‘We don’t know what he might have seen or not seen.’

‘Na’il was mixed up in a lot of things.’

‘And this woman at the hotel, what is her connection?’

‘They were involved.’

‘Involved as in they were sleeping together?’

‘Dalia Habashi was in trouble financially. Na’il was trying to help her, in his own way.’

‘There are times I almost think I understand you,’ Okasha eyed Makana suspiciously. ‘We’ve known each other a long time. I’d like to think you would tell me if you knew anything about this.’

‘Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like more than to finish this before the brigadier gets a chance to lock me up again.’

Okasha’s eyes were heavy and swollen. ‘The brigadier wants me out. That’s how he works. He wants those loyal to him close by. He probably already has somebody lined up for my job.’

‘I’ve always told you, if you want to get ahead you need to make friends in politics.’

‘Well, I would if I could stomach them. Nowadays it’s all about having your photograph taken with a minister, or an actress, or some other damn fool.’

‘It’s about a lot more than that and you know it.’

Okasha motioned to the wrecked motorcycle. ‘Tell me what this is about.’

‘Na’il was blackmailing Kasabian. He knew Kasabian was selling antiquities on the black market. Some Egyptian pieces, which nobody seems to care too much about, but also Iraqi, which has become a hot issue since the Americans moved in. Na’il threatened to expose him and wanted money to keep quiet. Money he was planning to give to Dalia Habashi.’

‘Where would Kasabian get hold of Iraqi antiquities?’

‘From an Iraqi officer named Kadhim al-Samari. The man I was hired to find.’

‘What you’re saying makes no sense. He hired you to find someone he was already dealing with?’

‘That’s where it gets complicated.’

‘Get to the point, Makana. We don’t have a lot of time here, and bear in mind you’ve just accused the brigadier’s favourite nephew of blackmail.’

‘Na’il was an enterprising man. He had another deal going for him. When he found out why Kasabian had hired me he went straight to Kasabian’s client.’

‘The American? Charles Barkley?’

‘Exactly, only it turns out his name is not Barkley, it’s Zachary Kane.’