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The Mamur Zapt and the Men Behind
Michael Pearce
From the award-winning Michael Pearce comes an engrossing murder mystery set in the Cairo of the 1900s. After a series of attacks on public officials, the Mamur Zapt is called in to investigate.Cairo in the 1900s. While riding home, Fairclough of Customs is shot at from behind. It is the first of many similar attacks – all seemingly aimed at public officials. The Mamur Zapt, British head of Cairo’s secret police, is told to catch the killer – and quickly.His efforts to do so take him into Cairo’s student quarter and out to a remote rural estate. And require him to handle a fading Pasha and a dangerous gypsy girl – whose claims he has to balance against those of his fiery Egyptian mistress.
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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 author’s 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 (#u0c369aeb-4775-52ca-991c-c7ec7739974f)
Title Page (#uf672cb89-61ae-5e16-afa4-1d75d088bfa0)
Copyright (#ufc70d1c3-0a36-5307-81ed-1eb81c5ca185)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_d78fd841-8743-5960-bfe0-2bcf25790226)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_f0cc0de9-a117-5b23-b93b-9c5b9a6d8978)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_24b081fb-ae6a-5893-a3a0-6880089deea2)
Chapter 4 (#ulink_9a326485-cb79-5778-b826-a3dfe93bf407)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Footnote (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Michael Pearce (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 1 (#ulink_8fbedaf4-86ca-5a18-bb49-b95a63cadecc)
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 they’d got me.’
‘What I can’t understand,’ said someone else at the bar, ‘is why anyone would want to get you anyway. I mean, let’s face it, Fairclough, you’re not exactly important, and although everyone else in the Department regards you as a bit of a pig, I wouldn’t have said that feeling ran high enough for them to want to kill you.’
‘Perhaps there’s 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 it’s 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 you’re starting in a sensible place. The bar. We’ve 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 haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘You’re Customs, aren’t you?’
‘What’s 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 that’s all I am. The returns come in from the ports and I put them together in a way that makes sense to Finance. It’s more complicated than it sounds but when you get down to it, that’s 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 I’d like them to stay.’
‘There’s 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 haven’t got round to sending out shooting parties. Yet.’
‘If it’s not work it could be personal.’
‘Something in my personal life, you mean?’ Fairclough reflected, then shook his head. ‘Try as I might, I can’t find anything I’ve 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 can’t say that anything comes to mind.’
‘Well, if it does, you’ll let me know, won’t you?’
‘You bet I will,’ said Fairclough. ‘I don’t want those bastards trying again.’
Owen could get little more out of him. He hadn’t 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 wasn’t 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.
‘It’s a funny business, isn’t 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 don’t 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. ‘You’ll probably think I’m being fanciful,’ he said. ‘But—I think that recently I’ve been followed.’
‘Followed?’
‘Someone behind me. I’ve never seen anyone, mind. I’ve just sensed it. There’s a sort of feeling you have.’ He looked at Owen. ‘You probably think I’ve been imagining things.’
‘No,’ said Owen. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘I thought that myself—thought 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.
‘It’s not so daft,’ said Owen. ‘It makes sense for them to do their homework.’
‘But then—you see, that means they knew what they were doing. Knew it was me, I mean.’
‘Not necessarily.’
