The Ghost Runner (35 page)

Madame Fawzia stared at him, imploring him to understand what she was convinced he never could. ‘We were never the same after that. We lost something.'

‘The body was never recovered?'

‘A few years later a body was found, or rather a few bones, some clothes. People said that it was her.'

There was another knock on the door. This time it sounded like a group of people were outside.

‘Madame Fawzia, are you all right? Do you need help? Should we call for the police?'

‘Yes, yes, I'm fine,' she called, ‘I still don't see what all of this is to you?'

‘I have one more question. Do you know who owns the Abubakr family land?'

‘No, and I don't care. I can't bear to go over all of that again.' Madame Fawzia blew her nose and dried her eyes. ‘In the days of my grandfather they were one of the leading families. It was all squandered though, over the years.' Getting to her feet, she said, ‘I would prefer it if you didn't come back here. I don't want to see you again.'

Makana stood on the veranda and watched her go. The women in black who were waiting outside the door huddled around their headmistress like worried crows, herding her along. They cast anxious glances back at Makana, as if wondering what cruelties he had subjected her to.

Chapter Twenty-seven

 

The Norton was waiting where he had left it. The harsh white light off the buildings drove people into the shade so that no one saw him as he rumbled along the streets towards the road that led out between the lakes. He opened up the throttle so that the tepid air over the water provided some relief from the intense heat. In the far distance the landscape appeared to dissolve in the haze.

To his surprise he found Luqman's place was not boarded up. Makana surveyed the range of clutter scattered around the little shack, the nautical fragments, lengths of heavy Manila hawser, frayed rope, fishing nets, capstans, life rings, glass spheres that once served as net floats. It all served a purpose, adding to the nonchalant, laid-back mood of the place that Luqman had created. In amongst all of it sat an older man, heavy set and wearing a beard and gellabiya. He was painting the upturned hull of the old wooden rowing boat. Makana watched him dip the brush into the pot and began applying the paint in slow, lateral strokes along the wooden hull. It was a pale-blue colour; like everything here it seemed to be chosen to induce a sense of calm. The man stood up as Makana approached, brush in hand. His jaw was set and he frowned at Makana.

‘What do you want?' he snapped.

‘Nothing,' said Makana. ‘I just thought I'd come out and see the place.'

‘There's nothing here. I'm just sorting a few things out.' The man eyed the Norton warily. ‘Isn't that the doctor's motorcycle?'

‘Yes,' said Makana looking back at the machine. ‘You know him?'

‘I sold it to him.'

‘I see.' Makana held out his hand. ‘I'm Makana. Are you related to Luqman?'

‘Muhammed. I'm his uncle.' The man nodded at the shack. ‘On his mother's side.'

‘You're painting the boat.'

‘Yes.' The two men stared at the upside-down hull. ‘I promised him I would fix it but I never got around to it. You know how it is. And now . . .' The man sniffed loudly. ‘Well, the boy needs all the help he can get. I don't believe a word of what they say. He would never do those things.'

‘They say they have a confession.'

‘It's not worth the paper it's written on. We all know how they get confessions out of people.' The thought put him on his guard. ‘Are you the one who's helping the police?'

‘I was. They seem to not need my help any more.' Makana paused. ‘I don't think your nephew committed those murders.'

‘I know he didn't,' said Muhammed angrily. ‘They're up to their usual tricks. They treat us like fools, but one day . . . well, anyway. We'll see.'

‘He likes this place, doesn't he?' Makana gazed out at the lake.

‘He loves it. There used to be a house here, but it fell into disrepair. Khalid was away for a few years. He went to study abroad. When he came back the house had collapsed. But he refused to let go of it. He built that little shack and started his own business. I think he still wants to rebuild the house when he has the time, and the money, of course.'

‘Of course.' Makana offered his cigarettes and Muhammed took one. ‘But I understood that he wanted to sell the land?'

‘Sell?' Muhammed reared back from the lighter flame as if singed. ‘He would never sell.'

‘I thought that was the conflict he had with the Qadi. He wanted to sell and the Qadi said it wasn't his land to sell?'

‘No, no. You've got it all backwards. The land is ours. It was left to him and we have the papers to prove it. The Qadi wanted to buy up the land cheaply. He was buying up everything he could once he heard about the gas reserves.'

‘The gas reserves?' The flame from the lighter hovered in the air.

‘Sure, this whole area,' Muhammed raised an arm and pointed east. ‘Everything you can see along this strip. The surveyors say it's all sitting on one giant gas reservoir.'

Makana looked at the flat sandy landscape. ‘So whoever owns this is going to be rich.'

‘Sure. Of course, in the old days nobody had any idea about all that. But now . . .' Muhammed gave a philosophical sigh. ‘Khalid is against it. Always has been. He knows that if they are allowed to do it they'll destroy this place. There are all kinds of birds that pass through here on their way down to Africa. Did you know that?' Makana shook his head. ‘Well they do,' the other man went on. ‘Khalid doesn't care about money. He has travelled the world you know, and he always said there was no other place like this anywhere. He's a good man and they should be ashamed, blaming this thing on him.'

‘You don't have much faith in the law, then?'

‘Which law? The one that keeps us poor, or the one that makes them rich? Khalid's mistake was going to them in the first place.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘I mean, he went to the captain and complained.'

‘Captain Mustafa?'

‘That's right. It's all down on paper. Then he went and got himself killed so nothing happened.'

Makana offered his cigarettes again and leaned in to light one for Muhammed. ‘On the night the Qadi was killed some tourists said they saw a woman out here alone. Did Luqman ever mention a woman?'

Muhammed's eyes followed a crane winging its way low across the lake. ‘There was only one woman he ever really cared for and she died a long time ago.'

‘Who was she?'

‘A girl when he was growing up. They lived on the farm next door to where Khalid grew up. Over there on the other side of the lake.'

‘Is that the piece of land the Qadi wanted him to sell?'

‘Yes, exactly. Like I said, nobody had lived there for years. The house had been quite handsome in its day, but the stuff we use for the walls contains too much salt, you know.'

‘
Kharshif
. When it rains it washes away,' said Makana.

‘You've been paying attention. Well, that's what happens. If you don't take care it falls down.'

‘This girl who lived next door.' Makana turned back to the man. ‘You don't remember the name of the family?'

‘Sure I do. Abubakr, Safira Abubakr. She broke his heart twice, first when she turned down his advances and then later on . . .'

‘When she died?'

‘Yes, exactly.' Muhammed looked quizzically at him. ‘How did you know?'

 

On the way back to town Makana felt the sting of sand grains against his face. He had to lean into the hard wind that cut across the lake as the Norton bumped its way through the ruts in the unsurfaced road. When the wind dropped, as it did from time to time, or gusted more strongly, it felt as if the ground were sliding away from under him.

The town's narrow streets were thick with traffic. Lorries swayed, donkeys stumbled along and a procession of battered cars struggled through the cloud of dust and heat. People were closing up their shops and offices and heading home. They wouldn't return until the cool of the evening. Reluctantly, Makana pulled up alongside the bicycle repair shop. Kamal was there, standing in the street looking worried.

‘The headlight doesn't seem to be working. Do you think you could take a look at it?'

‘Looks like you've had a bit of an accident,' said Kamal looking at a bent wing mirror and noticing Makana's wounds.

‘It's just a scratch,' said Makana dismissing his bandaged hand with a wave. He followed Kamal inside the workshop.

‘Not too bad. These old things can take a bit of battering.' Kamal stooped to try and repair the side mirror. For a time Makana watched him work.

‘You're young,' he said finally. ‘You still have time to make a life for yourself.'

‘What are you talking about?' Kamal was smiling. An odd smile, a little uncertain of himself.

‘It's about Rashida.' Makana watched the young man as he set down his tools and straightened up, wiping his hands with an oily rag.

‘What about her?'

‘She asked me to meet her last night. At Cleopatra's Eye.'

‘Last night?' Kamal frowned.

‘Yes. That's where I came off the bike.' Makana gestured and both of them looked at the Norton for a moment. ‘She wasn't there. Or rather, I didn't see her at first.'

‘What are you trying to say?' Kamal had grown very still. Makana took a deep breath. He had never been very good at this.

‘She's dead, Kamal. Somebody drowned her.'

‘Is this some kind of joke?' Kamal tried to laugh, but faltered. ‘Are you trying to be funny?' He started to turn away, shaking his head. ‘I saw her only yesterday afternoon.'

‘They haven't found the body. Whoever did it must have removed her after I was gone.'

‘You're lying.' He shoved Makana hard in the chest, sending him back against the wall.

‘Why would I lie, Kamal?'

‘Why?' Kamal cast around helplessly, hoping against hope for some reason that would make it not true. He walked away from Makana, to the doorway of the workshop where he stood for a moment, silhouetted against the light.

‘I'm sorry. I had to tell you, but I can't prove it. I know you were close.'

‘We were going to go away. I begged her to run away with me, but she kept putting it off. She said we needed more money.' Kamal was talking to the open square, not looking at Makana as he came to stand beside him. ‘I said we didn't need money, that we would make enough when we got to Cairo.'

‘I know she wanted to leave with you.'

‘She told you?' Kamal looked back at Makana. ‘I can't believe it. It makes no sense. Who would want to kill her?'

‘She wanted to tell me about what happened a long time ago. I think her father was involved.'

Kamal shook his head. ‘I don't know anything about that. She never hurt anyone in her life. She was . . .'

‘She was a good person, Kamal. She was brave, too. She was trying to help me,' Makana put out a hand to touch the boy's shoulder, but he pulled away.

Turning his back, Kamal bowed his head and a sob escaped him. After a while he said, ‘I'll fix the bike for you and leave it round the back. You can pick it up later.'

There didn't seem to be much more to say, so Makana left him there.

 

If Madame Fawzia had shown no surprise at seeing Makana, the Qadi's assistant, Mutawali, was so taken aback he dropped the telephone he was holding and got to his feet.

‘I understood you had been removed from this investigation.'

‘There seems to be some disagreement on that issue,' Makana said, taking a seat without being asked. ‘There are still a couple of points which need clearing up.'

‘But I've told you everything I know,' Mutawali protested.

‘And you were a great deal of help,' said Makana solemnly.

The Qadi's deputy sank down into his chair. ‘I believe you misled me last time we spoke. I had the impression you were conducting some kind of investigation into the running of this office.'

‘And what makes you think that I am not?'

‘I . . . I don't know. I just assumed. Look, I told you before, I had nothing to do with the Qadi's private business deals.'

‘I spoke to the survey company.'

‘And?' Mutawali sat back.

‘They tell me that they were ready to begin drilling when there was a problem with their land permits.'

‘When was this?'

‘A couple of months ago at the most. This office would have been in charge of issuing land permits. Can you think of a reason why there would have been a delay?'