Makana turned his attention back to the corpse. He wondered how long it would be before someone asked to see his credentials.
‘Can you tell anything?’ Macarius seemed eager for Makana to prove his abilities.
‘It’s hard to tell without a forensic investigation, but it looks as though he died from the beating he took.’ Makana ran the beam of light over the ground around the boy’s body but it had been so firmly trampled that any evidence left by the killer would have disappeared by now. He turned his attention back to the body.
‘The bruises indicate that he was still alive when these blows were administered. My guess is that he choked on his own blood.’
Makana examined the underside of the body. It looked as though he had been killed on the spot. He moved in closer, fanning away the flies that clogged the boy’s nose and mouth. Behind him he could hear more shouting coming from the street. A scuffle that had been going on for some time, he realised, was growing in intensity. He pushed it from his mind and concentrated on the body again. The boy’s clothes were relatively clean. He was wearing jeans and a ragged coat. His hands were filthy. Not just from the place he was lying, but dirt was engrained in the skin, under his broken nails. The beam of light traced the length of the body and Makana’s eyes were drawn to the wrists. There was evidence of old scarring, as if he had been tied up for long periods. But not recently.
‘He was held against his will somewhere,’ said Makana. ‘And then he was released.’
The torch beam stopped on a spot halfway up the boy’s calf. Makana leaned closer and touched the torn fabric.
‘May God have mercy on his soul!’ Father Macarius instinctively crossed himself. The gesture provoked an angry response.
‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing?’
A group of burly men were now clustered tightly around the entrance to the ruined building. Makana recognised a couple of faces who were outside the mosque protecting Sheikh Waheed. Their progress was hampered by the people inside the building who pushed back instinctively, not seeing who was trying to get by them. For a time there was confusion and it wasn’t clear what was going on. Father Macarius tried to make amends.
‘I meant nothing by it.’
‘Keep your rituals for inside your church.’
‘Don’t let him speak!’ yelled one irate man from further back.
‘They want to close our eyes to the truth!’ added another.
Everyone seemed eager to get involved in the fight. Faces peered out of the gloom, like miners trapped deep inside the earth’s crust. The light from torches and hurricane lamps grazed their eyes as if from an approaching storm, lighting up their fear.
‘Don’t talk about things you know nothing about.’ Makana regretted speaking the moment the words were out of his mouth. The burly men turned their attention to him.
‘What kind of an investigator are you exactly?’
‘The kind that can recognise insolence when he hears it.’
‘What unit are you attached to?’
These were the same men he had seen outside the mosque, or at least some of them. He was sure of it. More than likely they were local men, thugs attached to the Merkezi, the Central Security Forces, by some obscure, loosely defined bond. They would be reluctant to reveal their identity, although probably everyone around here knew who they were and what they did.
‘This area must be secured for the scientific unit. Instead of spouting nonsense about religious sacrifices, why don’t you make yourselves useful?’
‘Who are you to give us orders?’
‘I don’t have time for this.’ Makana stepped boldly forward until he was standing in front of the one he took to be the leader. A large man with a moustache. He had, as far as he could tell, nothing to lose. ‘I never forget a face,’ he said quietly.
‘Me neither,’ replied the other.
It seemed like a good moment to move on, so Makana turned to make sure Father Macarius was right behind him before leading the way out into the narrow alleyway. The crowd made way for them and the burly men took it upon themselves to secure the crime scene. Somewhere in the distance sirens could be heard drawing nearer. Any minute now the riot squad would come charging through waving batons and beating back the crowds.
‘It’s better to be gone,’ he whispered. Father Macarius, his confidence shaken, agreed with a simple nod. As they reached the end