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First published 1991
Copyright © Michael Pearce 1991
Michael Pearce asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008259440
Ebook Edition © JULY 2017 ISBN: 9780007483037
Version: 2017-09-12
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Footnote
Keep Reading
About the Author
Also by Michael Pearce
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1
Riding home from work on the back of his donkey one lunch-time, Fairclough of the Customs Department was shot at by two men. The shots were fired from a distance and missed, and the only damage from the incident resulted when the frightened donkey careered into a fruit-stall nearby and deposited both fruit and Fairclough on top of the stall-holder, who, since it was lunch-time, was sleeping peacefully under the stall.
Fairclough held court afterwards in the bar of the Sporting Club, which was where Owen caught up with him.
It was ghastly, he declared, drinking deeply from his tumbler. There were squashed tomatoes everywhere. Mind you, they saved my life. It looked like blood, you see. All over him, all over me. They must have thought theyd got me.
What I cant understand, said someone else at the bar, is why anyone would want to get you anyway. I mean, lets face it, Fairclough, youre not exactly important, and although everyone else in the Department regards you as a bit of a pig, I wouldnt have said that feeling ran high enough for them to want to kill you.
Perhaps theres a woman in the case, suggested someone.
Fairclough, who was a lifelong bachelor, snorted and peered into his tumbler.
Unlikely, said someone else. The only female he lets get anywhere near him is that damned donkey of his.
Perhaps its an animal lover. After all, it is a very small donkey and a very large Fairclough. Perhaps after years of witnessing this unequal combat somebody has decided to take sides.
Miss Crispley, perhaps? suggested someone.
There was a general laugh. Then someone noticed Owen.
Hello, he said. On the job already? I see youre starting in a sensible place. The bar. Weve got a suspect for you. Miss Crispley, of the Mission.
Thank you, said Owen. Or shall I begin with the donkey?
Beyond what he had told everyone in the bar, Fairclough had little information to give. He always rode home for lunch on his little donkey and he always went that way. Both he and his donkey were creatures of habit. Yes, that would have made it easy for anyone who wanted to attack him.
Though why in the hell anyone should want to do that, he said, aggrieved, I havent the faintest idea.
Youre Customs, arent you?
Whats that got to do with it? said Fairclough touchily.
Customs was one of the lowest ranking of the Departments and its members were sensitive on the issue.
I wondered if it could be a question of wanting to settle old scores?
Look, said Fairclough, rosy with heat and indignation and, no doubt, drink, all I am is a book-keeper. A high-level one perhaps, but basically thats all I am. The returns come in from the ports and I put them together in a way that makes sense to Finance. Its more complicated than it sounds but when you get down to it, thats all it is. I have nothing, said Fairclough with emphasis, absolutely nothing to do with the front end of the business. Smugglers are just a row of figures to me. And that, said Fairclough, is the way Id like them to stay.
Theres been no recent row of figures of any particular significance?
Not to do with smuggling, no. From the point of view of Finance, yes. There always is. But even those bastards havent got round to sending out shooting parties. Yet.
If its not work it could be personal.
Something in my personal life, you mean? Fairclough reflected, then shook his head. Try as I might, I cant find anything Ive done bad enough for anyone to want to shoot me.
Women?
No, said Fairclough shortly.
Others?
Owen was trying to find a way of referring to any other preferences Fairclough might have.
Bridge, said Fairclough.
What? said Owen, startled.
Bridge. I play a lot of bridge. And, of course, feelings sometimes run high. But, said Fairclough, weighing the matter, not as high as that.
Oh, good.
Fairclough went on thinking.
No, he said at last, shaking his head. No, I cant say that anything comes to mind.
Well, if it does, youll let me know, wont you?
You bet I will, said Fairclough. I dont want those bastards trying again.
Owen could get little more out of him. He hadnt even seen the men who had fired the shots. That piece of information had come from a passing water-carrier, who had seen two men step out from behind a stationary arabeah, fire the shots and then duck back in again. It had all happened so quickly that the water-carrier had barely had time to notice anything. He wasnt even sure whether the men were dressed in Western-style clothes or in galabeahs.
I just heard the bangs, said Fairclough, and then the bloody donkey was bucking all over the place.
He cast a longing glance in the direction of the bar.
Owen took the hint.
OK, he said. Thanks.
Fairclough got up. At the last minute he was reluctant to go.
Its a funny business, isnt it? he said. Why would anyone want to kill me?
It might be simply a mistake, of course.
Mistaken identity, you mean?
Maybe.
Fairclough brightened.
That could be it, he said. That could well be it.
Privately Owen doubted whether it was possible to mistake Fairclough for anyone else. The image of a second pink little man in the habit of riding home on a donkey rose unbidden to his mind. He put it down firmly.
Even Fairclough, after a moment, began to have his doubts.
I dont think it could be that, you know, he said worriedly.
Why not?
I think they knew what they were doing.
What makes you say that?
Fairclough hesitated. Youll probably think Im being fanciful, he said. ButI think that recently Ive been followed.
Followed?
Someone behind me. Ive never seen anyone, mind. Ive just sensed it. Theres a sort of feeling you have. He looked at Owen. You probably think Ive been imagining things.
No, said Owen. No, I dont.
I thought that myselfthought I was imagining it. So I took no notice. Told myself not to be so bloody daft. But then, this shooting His voice tailed away.
Its not so daft, said Owen. It makes sense for them to do their homework.
But thenyou see, that means they knew what they were doing. Knew it was me, I mean.
Not necessarily.
And then, said Fairclough, taking no notice, this following business
Yes?
There have been other cases, havent there? Recently, I mean. Theres been a lot of talk.
I wouldnt believe everything you hear.
You see, that would explain it. The shooting, I mean. It might not be anything to do with me. Not personally, I mean. If it waswell, you know.
No, said Owen, I dont.
If it was something to do with, well, the present, wellsituation.
Theres no evidence of that, said Owen, no evidence at all.
I had to reassure the poor little devil, he explained.
Yes, said Garvin doubtfully. The trouble is we actually want them to be a bit scared, dont we? So that theyll take precautions.
Garvin was Commandant of the Cairo Police, a big man in every sense: big in terms of physical presencehe towered over Owen, who was himself a six-footer, big in reputation with the Egyptianshe had been in the country a long time and was known in the underworld to have a special eye, big in standing with the Consul-General.
They were at the Consul-Generals now. It was a reception for a delegation of businessmen newly out from London to which the Consul-General seemed to be attaching a lot of importance. Owen could see him now at the far end of the room deep in conversation with two of its members, both perspiring profoundly in their dark suits.
At any rate no one would be able to say he wasnt talking to Englishmen, Owen thought. The current joke in the bar ran something like this: Have you been to one of the CGs receptions lately?Oh no. You see, Im not an Egyptian.
Gorst, the man who had recently replaced Cromer as Consul-General, was deeply unpopular with the expatriate British community. Although he had in fact served in Egypt before and was familiar with the country and its ways, he was something of a new broom, put in by the new Liberal Government in London specifically to liberalize the British regime in Egypt and to improve relations with the Khedive, Egypts hereditary ruler.
Cromer had in fact been the man who had ruled Egypt and for thirty years successive Khedives and their Prime Ministers had been forced to submit to his iron will. His regime had been by no means a bad one. Under him Egypts desperate economic problems, which had brought the British to Egypt in the first place to make sure they recovered their loans, had been largely resolved and he had introduced many much-needed reforms.
But after thirty years the Egyptians were beginning to feel that they would like to solve their problems themselves. The new Liberal Government in London was more sympathetic to nationalism than the previous Conservative Government had been, and Cromers heavy-handed approach had not commended itself. One of their first acts had been to replace him.
Anyone following Cromer would have had a difficult time. Gorst, with his new brief and new ways of doing things, soon ran into trouble. He was thought to be too pliable, too soft, too keen on the Egyptians. Personally, Owen thought he was all right. It was just that, new in the job, he lacked Cromers certainty, with the result that scruple and circumspection was easily misinterpreted as weakness.
As now.
There was something of a political crisis. The old Government had fallen. With all its faults it had been a good one. Its leader, however, had been a Copt. In a country where the bulk of the population was Muslim, a Christian Prime Minister could be only a temporary phenomenon.
So Patros had fallen. But who was going to take his place? Among the veteran politicians the jockeying was intense. Factions at court combined and recombined, lobbied and blocked. The Khedive could not make up his mindhad not been able to make up his mind for six weeks now.
Cant you get the stupid idiot to get a move on? Owen had complained earlier in the evening to one of the Consul-Generals aides.
Were trying to. The trouble is we can only suggest. Hes the one who has to actually make the appointment. Its his big moment and hes savouring every instant of it.
Well, its making things bloody difficult.
Because as the days went by it wasnt only the tame politicians at court who began to manœuvre. In the political vacuum created by the interregnum other political forces began to stir.