Michael Pearce - The Mamur Zapt and the Night of the Dog

“Sort of,” said Owen.

Paul, who had accompanied John Postlethwaite to an Anglican service, gave Owen an approving glance.

“That’s more like it, Gareth. Keep it up. The Pyramids tomorrow. Yes? Please?”

Their credit was increased, in John Postlethwaite’s eyes, when they ordered coffee. Most of the British in the hotel were drinking something stronger. Mahmoud, of course, as a Moslem, did not drink alcohol, and Owen, who habitually took on protective colouring, fell into line without thinking.

They took it on the terrace where there was more air and a slight breeze ruffled Jane Postlethwaite’s sleeves.

“Get what you wanted?” Owen asked.

Mahmoud looked at Jane Postlethwaite.

“She had touched up her hands,” said Jane Postlethwaite, “but the pattern was the same.”

“It was the woman you saw?”

“Yes.”

“You would be prepared to swear to that?”

“I would,” said Jane Postlethwaite firmly.

“And Zoser?”

“He was the man I saw.”

Mahmoud sat back with a little sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Miss Postlethwaite,” he said. “There was always the chance that you might not.”

Jane Postlethwaite sipped her coffee meditatively.

“When so much depends upon it,” she said, “it seems wrong to be so certain.”

“But if you were certain-?”

“I know,” she said, “I should say so. Well, I am prepared to say so.”

“A man’s life was taken,” Mahmoud pointed out.

“Yes. That is why I am prepared to testify.”

Owen felt that things were moving a little too fast.

“That may not be necessary, Miss Postlethwaite,” he said smoothly.

The British community would not be very happy about the involvement of one of its ladies in a public trial. Nor, it occurred to him, in the special circumstances of John Postlethwaite’s visit, was the Consul-General likely to be overjoyed.

Jane Postlethwaite looked puzzled.

“Don’t you want me to give evidence?” she demanded.

“Well, it’s not quite that-”

“Yes,” said Mahmoud.

Jane Postlethwaite looked uncertainly from one to the other.

“It may prove distressing for you, Miss Postlethwaite,” said Owen.

“And you would like to spare me?”

“Of course.”

Jane Postlethwaite looked down into her lap. Then she raised her head.

“Captain Owen,” she said, “do you think that proper?”

“Well…

“When so much is at stake?”

“Well…”

“Captain Owen, why do you wish to spare me?”

“Because… because… he fumbled.

“Because I am a pretty girl?”

There was no answer to that one.

“Or because I am British?”

“Both.”

Jane Postlethwaite rose from the table in a fury.

“That is not right, Captain Owen,” she said icily. “That is not right.”

As she reached the door, she turned.

“If you wish me to give evidence, Mr. el-Zaki,” she said, “I certainly shall.”

“Sorry!” said Mahmoud.

“Christ!” said Owen.

They walked a little way in silence. It was the hottest part of the day, and apart from them there was nothing moving in the streets. Even the donkeys were lying down.

“It’s not much,” said Mahmoud.

“Not much?”

Mahmoud, however, was thinking of the case.

“It’s not much to go on. A positive identification, yes, but only by one person.”

Owen allowed his mind to drain back.

“Any corroborative evidence?”

“Hardly,” Mahmoud admitted.

“It’s not strong,” said Owen.

That was another thing; if it was Jane Postlethwaite’s word against Zoser’s, the court would almost certainly convict. But it would look bad. The word of a European against the word of an Egyptian. It would be OK if there was other evidence. But to convict on her word alone! The Nationalist papers would pick it up. They might make quite a thing of it. They’d do it deliberately to embarrass the Government. And, my God, they would certainly succeed if it came out that she was Postlethwaite’s niece.

“I thought you wanted to wrap it up quickly,” said Mahmoud in injured tones.

“I do,” said Owen. “But it’s got to be watertight. Suppose we don’t clinch it? The Copts will say we tried to put it on him and the Moslems will say we let him off.”

“I could always pull him in for questioning.”

“Think he’d talk?”

“They sometimes do.”

Sectarian killers especially. They usually didn’t even bother to deny the charge. They saw it, rather, as something to boast of.

“Think he would?”

Mahmoud was silent.

“No,” he said. “Not unless I could shake him.”

“And for that you need something to shake him with. Are your men going to come up with anything?”

“At the moment,” said Mahmoud, “there doesn’t seem to be a lot for them to come up with.”

“No previous contact?”

“Apparently not. Zoser keeps himself pretty much to himself. All his contacts seem to be within the Coptic community. Apart from work. And that doesn’t help us much because, so far as we have been able to ascertain, the Zikr doesn’t appear to have bought a bottle of perfume in his life.”

“It’s not the sort of thing he would buy, is it?”

“No, he’s not that sort. And that’s another thing. The two men are as different as chalk and cheese. It’s hard to see how they could ever get to know each other long enough for it to come to this. Zoser’s withdrawn, doesn’t have much to do with people. Religion is everything to him. The Zikr must have been devout too, of course, but he got round a lot more than Zoser, mixed with people, liked crowd and noise and a bit of fun. Something of a character, too. People say he was a bit of a joker.”

“A joker?”

The idea came to him. Or came back to him. Something that Georgiades had said.

“I know,” said Mahmoud. “It’s hard to imagine a Zikr being a bit of a joker, isn’t it? Still, they can’t always be chanting and dancing. They’ve got lives of their own too.”

“It’s not that.”

“No? Well, anyway, my men have been unable to find any connection between the two at all. Which almost certainly makes it a sectarian killing.”

“Yes,” said Owen, “but why him? Him particularly?”

Mahmoud shrugged.

“He was the nearest?” he suggested.

“But he wasn’t, was he? Zoser picked him out.”

“We don’t know that.”

“OK. Put it another way: what made Zoser start picking?”

“He doesn’t like Moslems.”

“Yes. But what made him decide to do something about it? Now?”

“It suddenly came over him?”

“Something triggered it off. What was that something?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“I might,” said Owen. “I might.”

“What the hell’s this?” said Georgiades, staring into his mug unbelievingly.

“Yussuf’s got problems,” said Nikos from his desk.

“I’m going to speak to him,” said Owen.

“For God’s sake speak to him quickly,” said Georgiades. “Otherwise I’ll have problems.”

“I’ve got one for you already,” said Owen.

“Thank you.”

“The problem is this: how do we find out whether the Zikr who put the dog in Andrus’s tomb is also the Zikr who got killed?”

“I see your problem,” said Georgiades, after a moment’s reflection.

“Get that boy to have a look at the body,” said Nikos.

“He’s only a child,” Owen objected.

Nikos shrugged his shoulders and went on with his writing. “Look,” said Georgiades. “I hate to shatter these gentle English illusions-”

“Welsh,” said Owen.

“That’s right,” said Georgiades, “somewhere over there. But that innocent child earns his livelihood robbing corpses.”