at the driver before slumping into his seat, overcome by a dark, morose mood.
‘I hate this city. People here are as dumb as shit.’
‘It’s not all that different from anywhere else.’
Yousef snorted and examined Makana with a wary eye. ‘What did you do to get yourself locked up?’
‘I’d rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same.’
‘Sure, I understand.’ Yousef smirked. ‘I don’t like to judge people.’ He directed Makana down Ghamhouria Street to park in front of a small hotel.
‘I’ll get into trouble if I stay here.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Yousef grinned, revealing a gold eye tooth, ‘everyone round here knows me.’
Not only did they know Yousef, they knew his car. Makana sat behind the wheel and watched uniformed policemen walk by as if the Opel were invisible. After that they toured more of the city’s hotels, coming to a close at the Sheraton in Dokki. This time, Makana watched Yousef disappear through the door, waited a moment, and followed him inside.
The lobby was a vast marble hall broken by partitions and thick pillars. There were lounge areas, a restaurant and café. Sinking into a chair behind a screen, Makana picked up a discarded newspaper from the table. For a moment he thought he had lost Yousef completely, and then he reappeared on the other side of the reception area where he was shaking hands with a man in a dull brown suit bearing a name tag in case he forgot who he was.
The paper contained a story by Sami Barakat on the murders in Imbaba. Another body had been found. Makana had known Sami for a number of years now, ever since he had been investigating the disappearance of footballer Adil Romario. Since then they had become friends. Sami was one of a small number of journalists who was openly critical of the government.
Sami’s article gave the impression there was more to the case of the murdered boys than was obvious. The latest victim had been badly disfigured. Sami gave few details, no doubt at the request of the police investigators. A number of factors pointed to the possibility that the young boy had been living rough, one of the thousands of homeless children eking out an existence on the streets. This, Sami suggested, was one reason so few resources were being allocated to the case. The child’s body showed signs of extensive torture over a long period of time. ‘All the evidence points to someone exploiting these children for their own foul purposes,’ Sami concluded. ‘There are those who appear to want to use these killings to spread irresponsible talk of rituals and stir the flames of sectarian hatred.’
‘Makana, isn’t it?’
He looked up to see a tall, uncertain man standing awkwardly before him. His prematurely thinning hair was combed back from his narrow forehead. His clothes while neat were too big for him. The eyes were a shade of grey, clouded with some murkiness that Makana could not quite decipher. In his hand he clutched a paper napkin. A spot of cream dotted the corner of his mouth.
‘It is you, isn’t it?’
The eyes widened and the smile revealed teeth that were yellow and uneven. They stood out against his pale skin like discordant notes on a sheet of music.
‘I said to my wife, I was sure it was you.’
The woman standing behind him hovered uncertainly. She was a rather plain young woman wearing make-up and clutching a shiny plastic handbag adorned with gold buckles big enough to sink a small boat. They made an odd couple, confused and out of tune with their surroundings. Gentle music was playing in the background over the clink and clatter of plates and glasses.
‘You don’t remember me, do you? Ghalib Samsara?’
Makana did remember. A little over a year ago he had been hired by Samsara’s father. A long-time civil servant as honest as the day was long, but struggling to make ends meet. The family had once been wealthy, but over the years they had slipped down the scale and now lived in a building that was not only falling into ruin, but was about to be taken over by an unscrupulous speculator who was bribing local officials. Makana dug around until he found enough evidence to make the speculator back off. It had been a slow case but Makana could not recall having met the son on more than one occasion.
Makana, on his feet now, folded the newspaper and stepped towards the tall man, trying to edge him away. Ghalib Samsara