The Face in the Cemetery Read online

  ‘Well, it’s not quite like—’

  ‘And under foreign command, too?’

  ‘Well, hardly foreign. It’s the Ministry—’

  ‘But, Owen, you know as well as I do what the political situation is like here. Sadly, not everyone is on our side. There are some here—politicians—’ McPhee spoke the word with disdain, ‘who question the relevance of the war from an Egyptian point of view. Is the Minister among them?’

  ‘Well, I really don’t know—’

  ‘But, Owen, it is important to know. Where does he stand? Could he be playing his own game?’

  ‘Look, he’s got McKitterick right by his side—’

  Every Minister had an English ‘adviser’ alongside him. It was one of the ways in which the British made sure that the Government was going in the right direction.

  ‘But, Owen, he could be pulling the wool over McKitterick’s eyes!’

  ‘McKitterick’s not daft.’

  Although, come to think of it, this new policy with respect to the ghaffirs was not very bright.

  McPhee tut-tutted impatiently.

  ‘Owen, where did the idea come from? The Minister?’

  ‘Well, I think it came from one of the inspectors, actually. He went into it and wrote a report—’

  ‘An Egyptian? Close to the Minister?’

  ‘A German, actually.’

  ‘A German!’

  ‘Yes. McKitterick thinks very highly of him.’

  ‘German! But, Owen, we are at war! Are you seriously telling me that we are allowing an independent army, fifty thousand strong, to roam the countryside under the command of a German?!’

  ***

  Despite Owen’s attempts to straighten him out, over the next few days McPhee kept returning to the matter.

  ‘Yes, I know, Owen. I realize that, strictly speaking, he was not in charge. But, surely, it is very likely that, having written the report, and it having been received in such glowing terms, he would be given responsibility for implementing it. And if he was responsible for implementing it, then—

  ‘Yes, I realize that even if he was given responsibility for implementing it, he wouldn’t be able to do anything now because he is in an internment camp. But there may be others in the Ministry—the Minister himself—

  ‘No, I am not bonkers! Look, the report was accepted, wasn’t it? And implemented. That means there must be support for it inside the Ministry. I really do feel—’

  Then one morning he stuck his head triumphantly in at the door.

  ‘Owen, I have been looking at the Departmental Handbook, and do you know how many Germans there are in senior posts in the Ministry of the Interior?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Six!’

  McPhee came right into the room.

  ‘Doesn’t that say something about the Minister’s sympathies? Six! How do you explain that?’

  It was, in fact, a little on the high side for a single Ministry. There were plenty of foreigners scattered around the Ministries, but not usually such a concentration of one nationality.

  ‘Owen, I really do feel—’

  McKitterick came into the bar, ordered a beer, collected a newspaper from the rack and then went and sat down by himself. Owen gave it a moment or two and then went across.

  ‘I read that report,’ he said. ‘The one your man did on the ghaffirs. You’re right. It was a good piece of work.’

  ‘It was, wasn’t it?’ McKitterick nodded him into the chair opposite. ‘Went into everything. We were able to implement it pretty much as it stood.’

  ‘No one asked any questions? Apart from me?’

  McKitterick smiled.

  ‘No one. Apart from you.’

  ‘Ah, well. Just goes to show, doesn’t it?’ He took a sip from his glass. ‘You were able to get straight on with it, then?’

  ‘Yes. And just as well we did. This internment thing is hitting us pretty hard.’

  ‘I’m sure. You’ve had rather a number of posts affected, haven’t you?’

  ‘Six.’

  McKitterick looked at him.

  ‘Is that another thing that’s bothering you?’

  ‘Not any more,’ said Owen, smiling amiably.

  McKitterick drained his glass.

  ‘Germans are damned efficient,’ he said. ‘They know what they’re doing and they work hard. They’ve given themselves to this country and worked their guts out for it. And, as far as I’m concerned, that’s all there is to it.’

  ***

  And that, thought Owen, would have been the Khedive’s view, too. Desperate to modernize Egypt’s creaking medieval systems, he had recruited far and wide, believing that this was the quickest way of gaining access to the technical and management know-how that more developed countries possessed. The result was that his administration was one of the most international in the world, employing experts of almost every nationality, some drawn to Egypt by the lure of higher pay, others simply by the satisfaction of helping to put a developing country on its feet.

  For the most part they worked together harmoniously; and now he was extremely angry that a particular group of people in his service should be singled out by the British in this way. They were his servants, not Britain’s; and, like McKitterick, as far as he was concerned, if they served him with efficiency and loyalty, that should have been that.

  But on this, as on most things, there was little he could do if the British wished it otherwise. Partly in recognition of this, he had just taken himself off in high dudgeon to Constantinople.

  ***

  In Owen’s mail the next day was yet another communication from the Parquet. This time it was a copy of the mamur at Minya’s response to the Parquet letter. Clearly taken aback by the speed of the Parquet’s reply, and sensing that it implied an importance to the case which he had hitherto not suspected, he had himself responded with unusual celerity.

  He listed, as requested, various instances of damage to the walls of the grave, which he attributed to ‘Mustapha’s foot,’ and confessed to the disturbance and displacement of sundry feline corpses, which had come about in the course of the removal of the woman’s body. Otherwise, God be praised, the site was essentially ‘as Pharaoh left it.’

  As for the woman herself, the cause of death, according to the hakim, was poisoning by arsenic. After deliberation and much consultation with the husband, the husband’s family, and the village at large, the mamur had come to the conclusion that the poison had been self-administered. The woman had always been the odd one out.

  The Parquet official had written ‘Noted’ on the letter and then, in bold, triumphant script: ‘Case closed’.

  Moved to wrath, Owen wrote back inquiring how, if it was a case of suicide, the mamur could be so confident that the woman had lingered long enough to bandage herself tightly from head to foot, take herself to the grave, and climb in.

  ***

  Paul rang up to propose a game of tennis.

  ‘It’ll have to be singles,’ he said, ‘now that John and Peter have gone.’

  John had left with the regiment a couple of days ago. Peter, who was with another regiment, had gone the week before. Cairo seemed to be emptying.

  They met that afternoon, about five, when the heat had gone out of the sun, played a couple of sets and then went to the bar. The bar was almost empty. What people there were at the Gezira were not playing golf or tennis. Owen wondered what they would do for cricket now that the regiments were gone.

  ‘They’ll be all right when the Australians come,’ said Paul.

  ‘They’re definitely coming, are they?’

  ‘Oh, yes. And soon. The Sirdar won’t release his regiments until he’s sure of replacements. Not with the Turks on the Canal.’

  The other side of the Suez Canal was Ottoman ground
and for some time there had been rumours of an increasing concentration of troops on that side. Turkey had not yet come into the war and whose side it would come in on was still in doubt. Not that of the British, most people suspected.

  Owen told Paul that he had been thinking about his own position.

  ‘They need experienced officers,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the experience. It seems wrong not to use it.’

  ‘I’ve been wondering the same thing,’ said Paul. ‘Not that I’ve had your training or experience, of course. Still, I’ve been wondering whether I ought to volunteer. I’ve got so far as to think I’ll have a word with Kitchener when he gets back.’

  ‘You might have a word with him about me, too.’

  ‘I will. But do you know what I think he’s going to say to me? “You’re more use here,” that’s what he’ll say.’

  He looked at Owen.

  ‘And I think he might say the same of you.’

  ‘I think he might not,’ said Owen. ‘He doesn’t like me.’

  ‘It’s not just up to him.’

  ‘Perhaps you could float the idea generally,’ said Owen. ‘You know, sound people out.’

  Paul nodded.

  They got up from the table. As they left the verandah, he said:

  ‘Have you talked to Zeinab about it yet?’

  ***

  That was something he’d been deferring; but, as he climbed the stairs to their apartment, he told himself it was something he could not go on putting off. That evening, as they sat over their drinks on the balcony, he broached it.

  Zeinab seemed to freeze.

  ‘You can’t do that!’ she said.

  ‘Well, I know, but—’

  ‘What’s the war got to do with you? It’s over there. You’re here.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘You belong to Egypt now,’ she said fiercely. ‘You belong to me!’

  ‘Yes, I know, but—’

  ‘What the hell’s it got to do with you?’ she said again, her eyes filling. ‘You’ve made your life here. With me. Don’t I count for anything?’

  He tried to put his arm round her, but she shook it off.

  ‘You say one thing and then you do another! You say you love me and then you do—this!’

  ‘Look, I’ve not done anything yet. And maybe I won’t do anything. All I’m doing is thinking about it.’

  ‘Even to think about it,’ said Zeinab, ‘is wrong. It hurts me. Even for you to think about it!’

  She jumped to her feet and ran inside. He heard the door of the bedroom slam.

  ***

  The telephone was already ringing in the outer office as he went through. Nikos picked it up, listened and then put his hand over the mouthpiece.

  ‘It’s another one,’ he said.

  Owen went on into his office. He heard Nikos say:

  ‘I’ll put you through, Effendi.’

  He picked up the phone on his desk.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Owen, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Your men have arrested one of our nurses!’

  ‘Is she German?’

  ‘Her mother’s German.’

  ‘Well, then—’

  ‘But her father’s English.’

  ‘That ought to be all right, then.’

  ‘But it’s not all right! Your men have arrested her.’

  ‘Which Consulate is she registered with?’

  Foreign nationals were supposed to register with their Consulate.

  ‘Both.’

  ‘She can’t be registered with both. It’s got to be one or the other.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, Christ, you can’t be both English and German.’

  ‘What about dual nationality?’

  Owen swore quietly to himself.

  ‘Is she registered for dual nationality?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, she’s registered with both Consulates.’

  ‘But that’s not the same thing.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No. Look, we’re working from a list supplied to the Ministry by the German Consulate and it doesn’t say anything about her having dual nationality. What it says is that she’s German.’

  ‘Well, she isn’t that, is she? Not if she’s half English.’

  ‘She ought to have said she was half English. Then this wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘I think she just thought…All right, all right. The thing is, she can’t quite make up her mind which she wants to be. She’d quite like to be both. She says you never know which nationality is going to come in handy.’

  ‘At the moment, it’s definitely the British. Look, no matter how she’s registered, this is clearly a case of dual nationality—’

  ‘At least.’

  ‘At least?’

  ‘She was born in Egypt. Doesn’t that make her Egyptian as well?’

  ‘No. Not unless she wants it.’

  ‘Well, she does want it. Quite. The point is that that’s what she is, really. She was born here and has spent all her life here—’

  ‘Look, if she wants to be an Egyptian, she’s got to get herself registered as an Egyptian.’

  ‘Yes, but she doesn’t want to be just that, she wants to be the others as well. Could she apply for triple nationality, do you think?’

  ‘She’s not, by any chance, getting married to a Panamanian?’

  ***

  Afterwards, though, he fell to wondering about the girl and her situation. It was not uncommon in Egypt. With so many nationalities, it was not surprising if, despite the tensions and barriers between them, sometimes people got married across the lines of division. As, perhaps, he and Zeinab would.

  As the girl’s parents had. He wondered if they were still alive and, if they were, whether they were living in Egypt. They might well be. In that case the wife might be on one of the lists. Was she being taken away like all the other Germans? The picture came into his mind of the woman on the landing stage at Minya holding out her hands to him. Would it be like that?

  It was easy to take people if you thought of them just as names on lists. But Owen had always found it difficult to do that. His mental maps were bristly with the individual reality of people. This was sometimes an advantage to him in his work as Mamur Zapt, sometimes a disadvantage. In the case of taking people into internment it was definitely a disadvantage. Every so often he would become aware of the lives behind the lists and then it was as if a piece of grit had got into the process, like a grain of sand beneath his eyelid, and then he would worry at it and worry at it and be unable to leave it alone.

  The woman in the cat cemetery was a bit like that. He had no real sense of her as an individual, yet she refused to go away. Partly it was that the Parquet, with their incompetence, kept bringing her back before him. Partly, though, it was a certain curiosity about the life that lay behind the body; the life of a European married to an Egyptian. How had it gone? he wondered.

  ***

  Yet another communication from the Parquet! Goodness, had they no other work to do? What depth of idiocy would they sink to now? He took the slip of paper out of the envelope and looked at it.

  Then he sat up.

  The handwriting was different from that of the communications he had recently been receiving. It was small, neat, precise, purposeful.

  The message merely said:

  I have taken over this case.

  Mahmoud

  Chapter Four

  Mahmoud el Zaki was one of the Parquet’s rising stars and Owen had known him almost ever since he had been in Egypt. He was a young, ambitious lawyer whose ambition, however, took the form less of personal advancement than of advancement for his country. Like the Khedive—a comparison he would have hotly rejected—he wished to free Egypt from the
ramshackle practices of the past and see it take a place among the developed nations. Unlike the Khedive, he saw no need for foreign help in achieving this. Egyptians could and should do it on their own. Owen knew exactly where he would stand on the issue of the Germans in the Ministry of the Interior: they shouldn’t be there anyway. Egyptians should be doing the work.

  Mahmoud felt much the same about Mamur Zapts, too, with this addition, that he didn’t believe there should be such a post as Head of the Khedive’s Secret Police at all. The Khedive was among the ramshackle practices of the past that he wished to get rid of. Let alone his Secret Police. And as for the post being held by the representative of an occupying power—well, the British were another of the things he wanted to see an end of.

  Despite this, he and Owen got on fairly well. Indeed, a slightly surprising friendship had developed between them. They were men of a similar type, cats who walked by themselves; and perhaps the difficulty each found in making close friends among their fellows had made them readier to reach across the British–Egyptian divide.

  Owen welcomed his involvement now. At least the case would be properly handled. He picked up his pen and wrote to him, expressing his pleasure and offering his help if needed. He was fairly confident, though, that it would not be drawn upon. On criminal investigation, as on other things, Mahmoud believed that Egypt did not require foreign assistance.

  ***

  This damned internment business was taking all his time. The lists kept piling up on his desk. He hadn’t realized there were so many Germans in Egypt! Come to think of it, he didn’t believe there were so many. This name, for instance: Abu Ali ‘Arrami. That didn’t sound very German. Where did he live? Near the Mosque Sayidna Hussein. Right in the middle of the bazaar area. There wasn’t a German within miles!

  He summoned Nikos.

  ‘This list is a load of old bollocks!’ he said. He pointed to the name accusingly.

  Nikos looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ he said. Nikos, Copt bureaucrat that he was, always defended lists. He felt a protectiveness towards them that normal people reserved for their children. ‘He might be a German who’s converted to the Muslim religion and taken on a Muslim name. Or he might be an Arab who’s taken on German nationality, to escape seizure for debt, for instance.’