The Face in the Cemetery. Michael Pearce

music.’

      ‘Lieder?’

      Schneider looked at his wife.

      ‘Sometimes,’ she said. ‘Brahms, I think, often.’

      ‘I suppose there will have to be an investigation?’ said Schneider. ‘Or won’t you bother?’

      ‘There will certainly be an investigation,’ said Owen. ‘But that will be conducted by the mamur. Neither Mr McPhee nor I do that sort of thing.’

      ‘Not down here, at any rate,’ said McPhee.

      Schneider looked at Owen curiously.

      ‘I thought you did do that sort of thing,’ he said.

      ‘Only if there’s a political side to it,’ said Owen.

      The role of Mamur Zapt was roughly equivalent to that of the Head of the Political Branch of the CID. Only in Egypt, of course, there wasn’t a CID. The nearest equivalent to that was the Parquet, the Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice. The Parquet, though, was Egyptian and the British Administration, which in effect ran Egypt at that time, kept it at arm’s length from anything political.

      ‘You wouldn’t call this political?’ said Schneider.

      ‘Not at the moment, no.’

      ‘I thought that was the reason why you were here … ?’

      ‘That’s quite different. The two are completely separate. From the point of view of the law, murder is a civil crime and will be treated as such; that is, investigated by the civil authorities.’

      Mrs Schneider flinched.

      ‘I suppose it must be murder,’ she said. ‘Only, hearing it said like that –’

      ‘Of course it’s murder,’ said her husband impatiently. ‘What else could it be?’

      ‘I just thought that, well, you know, when I first heard about it, and heard that it was poison, well, I thought –’

      ‘What the hell did you think?’ said Schneider.

      ‘That it might be suicide.’

      ‘How could it be suicide? She was bandaged, wasn’t she? And in the pit. Did you think she walked there?’

      ‘Well …’

      ‘Suicide!’

      From somewhere out beyond the immediate houses, in the direction of the house they had just left, came the sound of a mourning ululation starting up.

      Mrs Schneider flinched again.

      ‘It doesn’t seem right,’ she said. ‘Not for her.’

      ‘It’s the family,’ said Schneider. ‘You wouldn’t have thought they’d have cared enough to bother.’

      Owen knew now what it was that had been nagging at him.

      ‘I heard some shots,’ he said to Schneider, as they were walking back out to the truck.

      ‘Oh, yes?’

      ‘The mamur said it was your ghaffir.’

      ‘Very probably,’ said Schneider.

      ‘What would he be shooting at? The mamur said brigands.’

      ‘We do have them. Not as often as he claims, however. I think sometimes he just blazes off into the cane.’

      ‘That’s a service rifle he’s got.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I was surprised. Ghaffirs don’t usually have that sort of gun.’

      ‘They’ve all been issued with them round here.’

      ‘Not just your ghaffir?’

      ‘No, all of them. We had to get one especially so that our ghaffir wouldn’t feel out of it.’

      ‘Whose bright idea was this?’ demanded Owen.

      ‘The Ministry’s. We had an inspector down a few months ago.’

      ‘Well, I think it’s crazy. Putting guns like this in the hands of untrained people like –’

      ‘Oh, they’re trained, all right. Musketry courses, drill, mock exercises, the lot.’

      ‘Ghaffirs?’ said Owen incredulously.

      It didn’t square at all with the picture he had of the usual Egyptian village watchman, who was normally much more like Shakespeare’s Dogberry.

      ‘Yes. It’s the new policy of the Ministry, apparently.’

      ‘Well, I still think it’s bloody crazy.’

      Schneider shrugged.

      ‘Maybe you’re just out of date,’ he suggested.

      Maybe he was, thought Owen, as he drove back to Minya in one of the company trucks, lent for the occasion.

      But now it nagged at him even more.

      Trucks were still new in Egypt and it was the first time he had ridden in one. He wasn’t sure that he liked it. The sensation of speed was disturbing and it was very bumpy. Once they had left the cane behind them they were driving across open desert. There was no real road and they were thrown about heavily. He and McPhee both put their sun helmets on to protect their heads when they hit the roof. What with the unfamiliar motion, the constant jolting and the fumes from the engine, he began to feel more than a little queasy. He saw that McPhee’s face was looking increasingly strained, too.

      Still, it certainly got you there quickly. He glanced at his watch. At this rate they would soon get to Minya and with any luck would be able to catch the afternoon boat.

      ‘Have you got them all now?’ asked the mamur.

      ‘I think so.’

      ‘Except for her, of course.’

      ‘Ought we to have something in writing?’ asked McPhee.

      ‘To say she’s dead?’

      ‘If we don’t, she’ll stay on a list somewhere and that could cause endless trouble.’

      Owen looked at the mamur.

      ‘Will you be sending in a report?’

      ‘Report?’ said the mamur, as if it was the last thing that would occur to him.

      ‘She’s a foreigner. You have to file a report.’

      The mamur looked very unhappy.

      ‘Certainly, certainly,’ he muttered.

      Owen guessed there was no certainty at all.

      ‘When you do, I’d like to be sent a copy.’

      ‘Of course!’ said the mamur, even more unhappily.

      The party was already assembled on the landing stage. Some had bags, some had cases. A little group of spectators watched curiously.

      ‘That it?’ asked Owen, as he went down on to the landing stage.

      A police sergeant came forward and saluted smartly.

      ‘That’s it, Effendi,’ he said.

      A woman suddenly broke away from the group, rushed up to Owen and held out her hands.

      ‘Take me!’ she said frantically, waving her hands in front of him. ‘Take me!’

      ‘You’re not German, are you?’

      ‘I’m married to one. That’s him, there. You can’t take him and not take me. He’s my husband!’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ said Owen. ‘We’re only taking Germans.’