off a corner. Scars in the base showed that the tabletop, now fixed roughly in place with a couple of hasty screws, had once been a folding leaf. Its faded style hinted at the elegance of another age and he wondered if it had once belonged to the grandfather she had spoken of.
The chair creaked comfortably as he settled himself into it. For a long moment he remained motionless, taking in everything in sight. He was aware that he had barely glimpsed the surface of who or what Meera had been, and that the key to her death lay in somehow managing to see through her eyes. A tray inlaid with mother-of-pearl contained pens and pencils. Objects she chose with care. On the right side a series of shelves contained sheets of paper and envelopes of various sizes, shapes and colours, all stacked in order. He went through these slowly and meticulously, opening old bills and leafing through receipts. The drawers were cluttered with things she did not much care for but could not bring herself to throw out. A tangle of ribbons, Sellotape, thumbtacks, a bottle of Chinese ink for an old-fashioned fountain pen. The pen itself was a bulky German thing. A man’s pen. The name Graf von Faber-Castell engraved on the side. The left-hand side of the desk was taken up by a stack of three little drawers. Each with a heart-shaped piece of ivory inset around a tiny keyhole. One of them was missing its little ebony handle. None of them was locked. The first was stuffed with more outdated receipts: a watch-repair shop, Madbouli’s bookshop, a stationer’s in Sharia al-Kasr, a pharmacy in Zamalek. He sifted through and replaced them. The second contained bits of jewellery, odd earrings, a pair of spectacles with a cracked lens, old coins and notes from Syria, Greece, French Francs, Italian Lira, Spanish Pesetas. The watch and the glasses belonged to a man, mementoes perhaps of her father. As he was stuffing them all back the drawer snagged and refused to close fully. Pulling it all the way out he peered into the cavity and saw that something had been caught at the back. It must have slipped down or been stuffed there. Scrabbling about with his fingers he eventually managed to free it: a photograph of three men in military uniforms. It appeared to have been taken in a desert somewhere. He studied the barrenness behind them and wondered where it could be. Then he turned his attention to the faces. He immediately recognised two of them: Rocky was at the back, his left eye drooping. Second from the left was Ramy, Faragalla’s nephew. Makana remembered him from the picture of the excursion at the Blue Ibis offices. The third man he hadn’t seen before. Makana turned the picture over, but nothing was written on the back. After a moment he tucked it into his pocket. As he turned to leave, Makana paused in the doorway and wondered what he wasn’t seeing. Maysoun was standing by the front door, her head bowed.
‘Thank you,’ he said, as she opened the door for him. She said nothing. It looked as though she had been crying.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was almost eleven o’clock by the time Makana reached the uneven streets of the Mouski and stepped into the narrow gap beside the old silversmith’s shop. At this hour of the evening the metal shutters were down along the shopfronts and the streets were deserted. The odd naked lightbulb spilled watery pools of illumination over the shadows. Cats stepped daintily through the garbage left from the day’s market like queens from a forgotten age. The hiss of an oil lamp marked the progress of a man trundling his cart homeward, his back bowed with weariness. The cart was laden with heaps of peanuts and roasted melon seeds, wayward horns of paper cones curled skyward like model towers in a fantastical city.
The air felt muggy and humid, as if it might rain. The narrow cut looked dark and uninviting. Makana picked his way carefully. Once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom he found the faint city glow filtering over the rooftops was enough for him to see by. Despite the late hour and the silence, as he cut across the square Makana had the impression he was being observed. When he tugged the bell there was again a long pause before the quiet slap of slippers could be heard approaching. The bolt was drawn and