Michael Pearce - The Bride Box

And, fortunately, that was just about to happen. The action had moved on, almost certainly into the Sudan, and there was little point in him staying on here. Apart from anything else, by this time the mountains of papers on his desk would be toppling over and something had to be done about them. Nikos, who, he knew, believed that any time spent out of the office was time ill-spent, wanted him back.

There were one or two things, however, to be settled before he left. The first was what was to be done about Mustapha. Clearly he had to be formally charged and brought before a court. Owen himself could not do this: all that sort of thing had to be handed over to the Parquet. In fact, formally, it had already been handed over to the Parquet, in the shape of Mahmoud.

He and Mahmoud discussed the matter. Mahmoud agreed to bring Mustapha before a court. The question, though, was which court. The obvious answer was the one in Cairo. But there were arguments against that. In Cairo the trial could easily become enmeshed in politics and not get anywhere. Denderah was a long way from Cairo. Especially in terms of the urgency with which the legal system would address it. Better somewhere away from Cairo, sophisticated enough to be able to handle the issue, not so sophisticated as to be more interested in playing political games than bringing the issue to a conclusion. They decided that Mahmoud would take him to Luxor. The court there was sufficiently developed to be able to take on the trial and, being closer to the scene of the crime, might even be able to address it more easily.

So Mahmoud and Mustapha took the train south and Owen the next train north. Owen was the only passenger to get on at Denderah. He looked for Clarke but did not see him. Bibikr, who had come to the station to see Owen off, said he would have gone back to the coast with the gum arabic.

Owen was a little surprised at this, given Clarke’s previous fussiness over the guns and his insistence on overseeing personally anything to do with guns. No doubt, though, he would have made special arrangements.

Owen, of course, had also made arrangements.

‘I don’t know that I can!’ said Nassir, the warehouse clerk. ‘I’m that busy this morning!’

‘Too busy for a cup of coffee?’ said Georgiades, affecting amazement.

‘Well …’

‘Not even one?’

‘A quick one!’ stipulated the clerk.

Which stretched until it was no longer a quick one — but, then, there was a lot to catch up on after the weekend and the latest reckless ventures of Georgiades’ wife.

‘But hasn’t she got shopping to do?’

‘Tell me about it!’ said the Greek gloomily.

‘A man must eat!’

‘Oh, I eat all right. She looks after that side well.’

‘But not the other side?’ said Nassir hopefully. The Greek was sparing of details but the clerk had gathered the impression that that side was pretty good, too; remarkably so, in fact.

‘Take aubergines,’ said the Greek.

‘Aubergines?’ said Nassir, disappointed.

‘She went down to the market this morning to get some. A few, for lunch. And she came back with two barrow loads! “What’s this?” I said. “Are we feasting the neighbourhood, or something?”

‘“That’s an idea!” she said. “We could charge twenty piastres a head. Two hundred and fifty people — I could get more aubergines if I haven’t got enough. That’s five thousand piastres. Cost, definitely less than two. That’s three thousand profit. With that I could buy …”

‘“Just stick to aubergines,” I said. “And my lunch!” But there you are, you see: she goes out to buy a simple thing and finishes by buying up the whole market!’

‘May Allah preserve us!’ said Nassir. ‘She goes out to buy a few things for your lunch, and in a moment she’s disrupted the whole economy! There’s suddenly a shortage of aubergines!’

‘And the trouble about that ,’ said the Greek, ‘is that it pushes the price of aubergines up, and then she comes back to the market and makes a killing! And everybody else in the market is going mad!’

‘The worries of having a wife!’

The clerk looked reluctantly at his watch. ‘I have to go. There is much to do today, with Clarke Effendi coming back.’

‘He’s coming back, is he?’

‘Sent a message.’

‘And what about the goods?’

‘They’ll be arriving on the train before. I’ve got to get down there and see them off the train. He doesn’t like to have them hanging about by themselves even for a moment.’

‘And then you’ve got to move them on, I suppose.’

‘First, to the warehouse, and then on from there afterwards. But he likes to see to that himself.’

‘Another night job.’

‘It could be. It very well could.’

‘You’d best be getting along, then. And I’ve got to be getting back to my wife. To stop her.’

‘Stop her?’

‘She’s thinking of putting the money she makes from the aubergines into night dresses.’

‘Night dresses!’ said Nassir, sitting down again.

‘She knows a chap who’s got a lot of night dresses on his hands. A shop went bust and left him with a lot of stock to dispose of. She reckons she could get them for two piastres each. Now, four hundred and sixty at two piastres …’

But, enticing as this prospect was, from more than one point of view, the warehouse clerk was forced to tear himself away.

The Greek ambled along the street, exchanging greetings with everyone he passed, calling in at the barber’s for a brief word which became several words, and coming to a stop at the broad pan of the pavement restaurant, where he sniffed the air appreciatively.

‘It’s different,’ he said.

‘Always the same!’ decreed the restaurant owner. ‘We never change.’

‘Is it the oil?’

‘Just the same. It may be slightly different this morning,’ he conceded. ‘We’ve opened a new tin. But the oil is just the same. I get it from Feisal.’

He dipped a spoon in and tasted it. ‘Well, I think it’s just the same!’ he said. ‘Here, you try.’

The Greek sipped. ‘I can’t taste any difference,’ he admitted. ‘It was just that, coming down the street this morning, it struck me as different.’

‘You’re tasting the newness. The oil is just the same but it’s fresh from the can.’

‘That must be it.’

The Greek squatted down beside the pan.

‘Of course, it’s a bit early for lunch …’

‘Oh, come on — try a bit!’

‘Well, just one. A little kebab.’

The restaurant owner watched him.

‘Delicious!’ the Greek said appreciatively.

The owner, relaxing, went back to his chopping of vegetables.

‘Hello!’ the Greek said, catching sight of his neighbour. ‘It’s Abdul, isn’t it? Nothing on this morning?’

‘Just carried a wardrobe.’

‘Then you’ll need something to restore you!’

He signalled to the owner, who dipped some beans into the bowl before Abdul.

‘I haven’t forgotten you,’ said the Greek. ‘I’ve got something coming along. It’ll be a rush job.’

‘How rush?’

‘The next couple of days. It’s on its way. A handy load.’

‘If it’s too big, I can’t do it. I’ve got something on.’

‘I expect you could fit this one in. It comes in bits. You could do part of it tomorrow, part the next day, and then fit it in. The thing about it is that my friend pays well — over the odds. But it’s got to be fitted in, like I said.’

‘When would I know?’

‘Soon. It’s worth putting yourself out for. As I say, he pays over the odds. It’s delicate, you see.’

‘Perishable?’

‘Fragile, rather. You’d have to be very careful with it. That’s why he doesn’t want just anybody. He’s got to be strong, but careful with it.’