The Burning Gates (22 page)

‘I thought we had dealt with this already.’

‘This is for the benefit of Brigadier Yusuf Effendi, who is on his way here as we speak,’ said Okasha. ‘Did the blood and tissue tests come in?’

‘Yes, I told you.’

‘That’s fine. All you have to do is take us through it all again. He insists on taking command of the case, so I need to show him that we are doing our work.’

‘Why is he here?’ Doctora Siham nodded at Makana.

‘Because he’s part of this investigation, whether the brigadier likes it or not.’

‘This is ridiculous.’ Doctora Siham folded her arms. ‘Nobody trusts anybody. That’s why this country is so far behind.’

‘Please, spare me the political speeches at this hour.’ Okasha gave her a withering glance.

No more than five minutes passed before the double doors flew open and Brigadier Effendi strode in. Even at that hour of the morning he cut an imposing figure, large in stature, his uniform immaculate, the brass buttons and gold braid gleaming fit for a parade ground. Okasha straightened up and saluted. The brigadier nodded back.

‘Well, what have we got here?’

‘Doctora Siham was about to take us through the results of her autopsy.’

‘Very good. Proceed.’ The brigadier snapped his fingers, eyes flickering round. ‘Wait.’ He stabbed a finger in Makana’s direction. ‘What is that man doing here?’

‘He’s here to assist in the investigation.’

‘I don’t need to remind you, Inspector, that civilians have no authority to be here.’

‘Sir, I feel that in this case an exception could be beneficial to our investigation.’ Okasha made a spirited attempt to stand up for himself. He cleared his throat. ‘Mr Makana was working for the victim at the time of his death and I believe he might be able to shed some light on matters.’

‘It’s against regulations, Inspector. You are aware of that?’

‘Yes, sir, but considering the circumstances . . . and the urgency of the case.’

‘If you are prepared to take any possible consequences on your own shoulders then I have no objection.’ The brigadier shot him a long look. ‘Any luck finding my nephew?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

Doctora Siham made a noise that might have been a cough, or a splutter of laughter. Heads turned towards her, but nobody had the courage to say anything.

‘Perhaps we should get on, or do your regulations include me?’ Doctora Siham asked. ‘I am a civilian, after all.’

‘Of course not. Your presence is indispensable.’ The brigadier’s moustache was pure white and betrayed a touch of vanity, now on display as he tried to turn on his charm, although clearly Doctora Siham was immune. His skin was a deep, jaundiced colour. It might have been the bright fluorescent light, or possibly something wrong with his liver. It gave him a slightly bronzed look, similar to the foetuses and organs that floated in formaldehyde in jars set along the far wall.

‘Then, if you gentlemen have no objections perhaps we could proceed.’

‘By all means, Doctora.’

Doctora Siham began to outline her findings. She gestured at the faintly bluish marks that adorned the corpse before them, which made Kasabian resemble a victim of some strange ritual sacrifice.

‘I counted over a hundred and seventy cuts to the body, of varying degrees. These range from shallow to two centimetres in depth. It’s hard to imagine how much that would have hurt.’

‘Then the purpose of these cuts was to cause pain?’ Makana wished he could smoke, if only to kill the odour of bodily decay and chemicals. He considered giving it a try, just to annoy the old brigadier, but he suspected that Doctora Siham would not have approved. She demanded their full attention.

‘Yes. Cause of death was heart failure. None of these subcutaneous incisions in and of themselves was what killed him.’

‘Is there a pattern to the way they were inflicted, a sequence?’ Makana wondered what order a torturer might use. Was there some kind of science to be applied in these matters? His own experience of torture had been of a more random and unplanned nature, the tried and tested method of continued beatings and isolation. Looking down at Kasabian, he imagined what he must have felt. The brigadier grunted something, but it wasn’t clear what he wanted to say.

‘I could not find any order or pattern,’ said the pathologist, ‘but the consistency of the wounds suggests a certain . . . methodology.’

‘A what?’ frowned the brigadier.

‘You mean, this wasn’t the first time the torturer had done this?’ asked Makana.

‘Exactly.’ Doctora Siham went on with her exposition. ‘The ankles and wrists show contusions consistent with a long period of restraint with a rope. The victim was suspended upside down and remained that way for some hours before death, according to the discoloration caused by the settling of the blood. In my opinion, to do this properly, without risk of killing the victim too soon, requires some measure of experience.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us,
ya Doctora
?’ Okasha felt it was time to weigh in, acutely aware of the brigadier’s presence. He shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably. The brigadier stood with his hands clasped behind his back and wore the expression of a man who has more important things to do with his time. ‘I want to know why this was done to this man. He was a good, decent, upstanding man and he didn’t deserve this.’

‘Why do men do these things?’ asked Doctora Siham, arching her eyebrows. ‘You might be better suited to answering that question than myself. What I can say is that the murder weapon was big. Some of the later wounds are deeper and less straight.’ She ran a gloved hand over some of the longer gashes. ‘So, either the perpetrator was getting tired or running out of patience. Or . . .’

‘Or what?’ demanded the brigadier.

‘Or he was beginning to enjoy himself.’

‘Can you say what type of weapon was used?’ Makana asked. She gestured for him to move closer. He leaned in over her shoulder.

‘As you can see, the knife is moved from left to right in some cases and from right to left in others. This would suggest a slashing movement.’ The doctor was thoughtful. ‘Up and down. A smooth, practised action.’ She straightened up and drew interconnected circles in the air with her right index finger. ‘High to low on both sides.’ Her eyes came to rest on Makana. ‘The knife is very sharp on one side and with serrations on the other, which cause tearing.’

‘What kind of knife are we talking about?’ Okasha queried.

‘Not very common, is the answer. Long blade, wide and with a serrated tip,’ Doctora Siham said. ‘A fancy hunting knife or a military survival knife.’ She stopped speaking as the brigadier cleared his throat. He was clearly moved. It must have been a while since he had attended a post-mortem.

‘Inspector Okasha, I cannot stress how important it is that you solve this case as soon as possible. This man was a personal friend, my wife bought paintings from him and now someone has tried to carve him up like so much chopped liver. We have to clear this up and we have to do it now. And that’s an order. Before I am demoted, heads are going to roll.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Okasha even managed a snappy salute.

‘We’re looking for a maniac. Someone who is a menace to society. The sooner we have him behind bars the better. I shall be making a press statement this afternoon. Is there anything I can give them, anything at all?’

‘We are following a number of leads.’

‘That’s it? Well, you’d better have something better than that soon or you’ll be joining your friend here as an investigator.’ The brigadier glanced at Makana. ‘I intend to keep a tight hold on this case.’ He was already heading for the door. ‘Allow nothing to deflect you from your path.’

When he had gone Okasha gave a sigh of relief, removing his cap and pushing a hand through his hair.

‘Now all we need to do is find the killer,’ he said, looking at Makana. ‘And you need to tell me what you know.’

‘Na’il was blackmailing Kasabian about his dealing in stolen artefacts.’

‘You think that’s a reason to have killed him?’

‘Perhaps they argued. But we still need to speak to him.’

‘I agree. We’re doing our best, but you know how it is. What about you?’

Makana had the nagging sense that an essential piece kept slipping out of his grasp. He couldn’t escape the feeling that Charles Barkley was not being entirely frank with him. Why had he really come to Cairo? How had he known about Samari and the painting? The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that somehow Barkley held the key to all of this.

‘Me? I’m going to have another talk with our American friend.’

Chapter Twenty

Hamid Bostan, assistant manager at the Marriott Hotel, was a worried man in an impeccable blue suit. The real manager was a bright-faced blond man from Switzerland with an unpronounceable name and a big smile revealing rows of perfectly aligned white teeth. His face filled an enormous framed portrait in the lobby where he welcomed new arrivals as they entered with a cheery gaze. Almost as convincing as the portraits of Mubarak that graced government offices everywhere. Naturally, he was too busy to actually take part in the day-to-day running of the hotel, which was left to Bostan, the thin man in the blue suit. He wore a pencil moustache that somehow matched the fine layer of hair combed across the top of his head. It wasn’t the first time he had had dealings with Makana, which perhaps explained why, the moment he caught sight of him, he spun and walked in the opposite direction. Makana followed him to the reception desk, where Bostan proceeded to studiously ignore him while engaging with a young man on the other side of the counter. The effect was undermined by the receptionist, who kept trying to draw his manager’s attention to the fact that someone was waiting to speak to him.

‘Sir . . .’

‘Yes, yes. I can see.’ With a sigh Bostan finally turned to Makana. ‘I am not blind, I would just prefer not to see you in my hotel.’

‘I haven’t come to cause you any trouble.’

‘That would make a change.’ Bostan abruptly turned away from the counter and began walking. Makana fell in beside him.

‘Would it surprise you to know that I am actually working for one of your guests?’

‘Nothing about you would surprise me.’ Bostan paused to reprimand a bellhop whose uniform needed straightening. It seemed to cheer him up. ‘Who is this fortunate individual?’

‘Mr Charles Barkley.’

The name brought the hotel manager to an abrupt halt. As it happened, right beside the life-size photograph of his superior. The contrast between the confident Swiss smile and the harried, nervous Egyptian could not have been stronger. He resembled a lean, underfed greyhound. He couldn’t have done a better job if his tongue had been hanging out.

‘Barkley?’ Bostan echoed, steering Makana by the elbow to one side. ‘I should have guessed it. Are you really working for this man?’ He dropped Makana’s arm and stepped back for a moment, before drawing closer. ‘I should have you arrested.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘Mr Barkley and his associates have gone. They left the hotel overnight without checking out. Do you know what that means?’ Without waiting for a reply, he tugged Makana back to the reception desk and began issuing orders. Behind the counter people tripped over one another in their haste. Finally, a sheet of paper was set on the counter. Bostan scrutinised it for a moment and smiled, as if in disbelief. ‘The bar bill alone comes to almost three thousand dollars.’

‘What associates?’ Makana asked. Bostan stared as if facing an idiot. ‘You said he had associates?’

‘Five of them.’ Bostan slid another sheet of paper forwards. ‘Four Americans, Raul Santos, Randy Hagen, Cody Jansen, Eddie Clearwater, and one Iraqi, Faisal Abdallah.’ He tapped the names on the list as he read them out. Makana took the sheet.

‘Don’t you take photocopies of guests’ passports when they check in?’

‘Naturally. Standard procedure. You can’t just allow anyone to walk in.’

‘Heaven forbid.’

Bostan snapped his fingers a couple of times. ‘Show me this Barkley’s papers.’ There was more agitation behind the counter. The receptionists seemed to be drawing lots as to which one of them would break the bad news. He looked from one to the other. ‘Well, what is it?’

‘Sir, we have photocopies of four of the Americans but not Mr Barkley.’

‘I see, and how do you explain that?’

‘I can’t.’ The girl twisted her fingers into a knot. ‘There was some confusion when they checked in.’

‘Really? Well, believe me there will be no confusion when I find out who is responsible. Who was on duty?’

‘I was,
effendim
. I remember that Mr Barkley said his passport was at the bottom of his suitcase and he would bring it down later.’ She gave a shrug. ‘He was very convincing. Since we had all of the others . . . I was trying to be accommodating.’

‘We’ll see how accommodating you find it without a job.’

‘Yes,
effendim
.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘And . . . there’s something else.’

‘What? Don’t keep me waiting, girl!’

‘There’s a problem with Mr Barkley’s credit card,’ she said. ‘We tried getting in touch with American Express but they were very slow.’