The Mamur Zapt and the Camel of Destruction. Michael Pearce

it?’

      Owen, as Mamur Zapt, or what in England would be known as Head of the Political Branch, did not reckon to concern himself with routine crime, if this was a crime.

      ‘We don’t know there is anything special about it. It’s just that there’s been a reaction to it. A political reaction.’

      ‘Ah! Well, isn’t that something for you to bother yourself about, not me? I mean, if it’s just a heart attack–’

      ‘They’re saying it isn’t.’

      ‘Who are they?’

      ‘Ali Maher, Abdul Filmi, Al-Nukrashi. And others.’

      Owen could understand now. The names were those of prominent politicians. Only one formally belonged to the new Nationalist Party but the others were Nationalist in sympathy and always ready to make the most of any issue which might embarrass the Government.

      ‘But surely the post-mortem–’

      ‘There isn’t going to be one. Unless someone says otherwise. A doctor has signed the certificate in the normal way. Natural causes.’

      ‘They why–’

      ‘Ali Maher says it’s a fix.’

      ‘What do the family say?’

      ‘They want to get on with it. You’ll have to move fast. The body’s being buried this evening.’

      That was not unusual. Speed was necessary in the heat.

      ‘You want me to order a post-mortem?’

      Paul hesitated.

      ‘I want you to take a look at things. Order one only if you think it’s really necessary. We don’t want this to get bigger than it needs to. That would be playing into Ali Maher’s hands.’

      Owen, representing the British Administration, went to give his condolences. The family were surprised – they had always known Osman Fingari to be important but hadn’t realized he was that important – but flattered.

      ‘We knew he’d been doing well in the last year, of course.’

      ‘He’s had the house altered a lot.’

      ‘The mandar’ah! New marble entirely.’

      ‘And not the cheapest!’

      ‘Oh, he’s done well, all right. But then, he’s had to work for it.’

      ‘Yes, never home till late at night.’

      ‘Of course, it took its toll.’

      ‘Well, yes, that was it, of course, wasn’t it. In the end he paid the price.’

      ‘You could say he sacrificed himself for his work.’

      ‘Much appreciated,’ said Owen. ‘Much appreciated.’

      They were in the funeral pavilion, which had been erected in the street in front of the house, greatly to the surprise of traffic which had intended to pass by. The tent was crowded, mostly with men in the stiff collar and dark suit and little red pot-like hat, the tarboosh, of the Egyptian civil servant.

      ‘Would it be possible to pay my respects?’ Owen asked one of the relatives.

      ‘Of course!’

      They pushed their way out of the tent. The street was equally crowded. Apart from onlookers, and as the average Cairene was a great believer in onlooking there were plenty of them, those more intimately involved in the funeral procession were beginning to assemble. There were the blind men, the boys, and the Fikis to chant the suras. There were men with banners and men with torches, for this was evidently going to be a funeral in the old style.

      The relative led Owen into the house. From one of the upper floors came the sound of wailing. Owen thought at first that it was the paid mourners but then a door opened and some black-clad women filed down the stairs. The wailing continued up above and he realized that it came from the women of the family.

      He followed the relative up the stairs. Outside a door two Fikis were squatting reciting passages from the Koran. The relative pushed open the door and led Owen in.

      The body lay in a bier with a rich cashmere shawl draped over it.

      Owen advanced and bowed his head. He stood like that for a moment or two and then touched the relative on the arm.

      ‘May I look one last time on the face of someone who was dear to me?’

      ‘Of course!’

      But, as he bent over the body, there was really no need to look; the smell by itself was sufficient.

      ‘It was straightforward,’ said Owen, ‘if you set aside nearly causing a riot, antagonizing the Ulama, provoking the Kadi, irritating the Khedive and raising uproar in the National Assembly. Not to mention upsetting a rather nice old couple still in a state of shock after losing their son.’

      ‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Paul. ‘The others I can live with.’

      ‘And was it worth it, I ask myself? So he did take poison; where does that get us? Does it matter if he took poison? That’s his business, isn’t it?’

      ‘Well, not entirely. Why did he take poison? That’s the question they’re asking.’

      ‘How do I know? Girlfriend, boyfriend, personal problems, fit of depression, overwork – yes, and while we’re on that subject, can I just mention that I was up all last night trying to get the quarter to calm down.’

      ‘You poor chap! And can I just mention that I myself was up half the night trying to sort out something that was much bigger.’

      ‘What was that?’

      ‘The stupidity of bankers.’

      ‘Heavens, you’ll never be able to do anything about that. My bank manager – never mind my bank manager, what about this chap commiting suicide, what are we going to do about him? And, incidentally–’ a ray of hope gleamed– ‘why am I doing anything about it at all? It’s nothing to do with me. Suicides, murders – that’s the Parquet’s business, surely?’

      In Egypt responsibility for investigating a suspected crime did not lie with the police but with the Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice, the Parquet, as it was known.

      ‘The Parquet will have to be involved, certainly. It’s a crime, of sorts, and they’ll have to be notified. They’ll check on the circumstances, etc., etc., and make a fine pig’s ear of it, no doubt, but their part of it really is straightforward. No, no, they can be left to get on with that bit. It’s the other bit–’

      ‘What other bit?’ asked Owen. ‘It sounds as if it’s just a question of managing the Assembly and that’s something you and the Old Man can do, surely? You’re doing it all the time!’

      Paul did not reply at once. Owen hoped he was having second thoughts. He wasn’t.

      ‘I think you’d better stay with it, Gareth,’ he said.

      ‘Doing what?’

      ‘Asking yourself why Osman Fingari committed suicide. And why Ali Maher and Co. are so interested.’

      There was, then, going to be not one investigation but two. This was, actually, nothing out of the ordinary, for Egypt was a country of parallel processes. There was, for example, not one legal system but four, each with its own courts. Knowledgeable criminals played off one court against another. If they were very knowledgeable, or rich enough to afford a good lawyer, they could often escape conviction altogether.

      A similar parallelity could be observed in Government, though here there were only two Governments and not four. One, the formal one, was that of the Khedive; the other, the real one, was that of the British, who had come into Egypt twenty years before to help