And so she had been taken away, and Kamal had staged the cremation of some poor nameless beggar who’d been stabbed in a back alley. Mr Turner had spoken with him briefly the next day to arrange transportation of the ashes back to England, and that had been that.
“Khara! ” he picked up his terminal’s keyboard and slammed it back down on the desk. “Ibin himaar!”
Because that hadn’t been that at all. What he’d been promised would be straight forward was now turning out to be anything but. And the worst part was that it wasn’t Mr Turner, or indeed anyone else, who had made things difficult.
He only had himself to blame. He had been left to cover the details of her ‘escape’ from the Museum. As far as he knew, she was in perfect physical health. He’d requested the doctored CCTV footage, and hours later it had been delivered to him. Watching it back, he even fancied, for a moment, that it was her running from the Museum, and not some computer generated model. It was, he knew, indistinguishable from real life. Even a trained expert couldn’t tell it was a fake. He knew, because he’d given it to one in his own department.
Usher syndrome !
How could he not have known, when it was even on her online profile page?
He leant back in his uncomfortable chair and looked at the ceiling. He followed a small crack from where it started next to a hanging light all the way across to where it met the wall. The crack had been repaired barely five years ago. And yet there it was again, as large as ever. Possibly even bigger. It had probably been repaired five years before that, too. He snorted in mild amusement, though it was far from funny.
Even if he managed to get out of his present situation, even if the powers that be accepted the CCTV footage over her husband’s testimony and her medical records, five years from now would some crucial piece of evidence be uncovered that would make the string of lies unravel? Would his best efforts barely cover things up, leaving the truth just under the surface, ready for someone to find? Would Mr Turner give it up? What would he do if he were in his place?
How long would it be before more people started poking their noses into the investigation? Into his affairs?
There was only one certainty: whoever was behind it all wouldn’t be there to protect him. He would be on his own. He already was on his own.
It hadn’t, he decided, been worth it at all.
George stuffed his wash bag into his suitcase and grimaced as he forced the zip shut. Behind him, Ben looked out of the window and shook his head.
“Martín seems to be an OK person. I think he is as genuinely bemused as we are.”
George threw his suitcase to the floor and gave the bathroom a quick scan. Satisfied he had gathered everything, he returned to the main room and checked under the bed; socks had a nasty habit of rolling under beds, as he knew from his travelling for work. It was more a force of habit than anything else, though, as socks couldn’t be further from his mind.
“But with all this talk of cover ups, I don’t know where to begin,” Ben continued. “And in any case, it doesn’t really help, does it?”
George got to his feet and checked the cupboard for suits, despite the fact that he hadn’t brought any suits to Cairo.
“It’s actually a shame Martín has to leave so soon. I have enough space in my flat for both of you. We could lock heads and give this some serious thought.” He looked at the Englishman, who was now checking every drawer of a chest of drawers he had obviously not used either during his stay. “Besides which, I owe you a drink from last time you were here.”
George stopped and looked at him. Last time they’d been in Egypt, he had been with Gail, and they had gotten obscenely drunk in a bar. George knew his friend well enough to understand he didn’t lack tact; he knew what he was trying to do. He forced a smile and nodded slowly.
“I’ll stay a while,” was all he managed to say. Being in Egypt brought back painful memories, but he was dreading returning to their empty house in Southampton even more.
Ben was about to answer when there was a knock at the door.
“Martín?” he asked George.
George looked puzzled. “It shouldn’t be, his flight is in an hour, he’ll be late if he’s still here!” He walked over to the door and opened it.
To his total surprise, Captain Kamal stood in front of him. Looking nervously left and right down the hotel corridors, he forced his way into the room.
“Sorry, Mr Turner,” he said in his strongly accented English. “Please close the door.” As he said this he closed the door himself, leaving George standing in the entrance with his hand clasping an imaginary door handle.
“What do you want, Captain Kamal?” George said, deliberately saying the Captain’s name to identify him, to warn Ben not to speak. If he recognised his voice, who knew what might happen next.
Ben looked startled, but then surprised George completely with a voice he’d never heard before. Heavily accented, he somehow didn’t even sound Egyptian. “Salaam, Captain. My name is Ahmed Mohammed Naser. I am a family friend of the Mr Turner.”
They shook hands, Kamal somewhat reluctantly.
“Mr Turner will be staying with my family for some time while Mrs Turner’s murder is investigated. It is much, much, cheaper than the hotel for such a long stay,” he smiled weakly.
Kamal pushed past Ben and pulled a chair out from under a small round table in front of the window. Sitting down, he leant forward and placed his elbows on his legs, clasping his hands out in front of him.
“We need to talk,” he said, matter-of-factly.
George hesitated. “The Embassy have advised me not to without them being present,” he said, thinking on his feet. He and Ben simply hadn’t thought of what would happen if they came face to face with Kamal. They hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“That’s not why I am here,” Kamal brushed the matter aside with the back of his left hand and put his right hand inside his pocket. Fishing out a packet of cigarettes he lit one and offered the pack around.
George thought to mention that the hotel, unlike most of Cairo, was non-smoking. He managed to bite his lip instead.
Kamal put the pack of cigarettes back in his pocket and looked around for an ashtray. Ben saw an empty glass beside the bed, but didn’t move to pick it up. Following his eyes, Kamal reached for the glass and tapped his cigarette into it anxiously.
“Why are you here then, Captain?” George asked.
Kamal flicked his eyes between the two men before taking a deep drag. “Because I have something very important to tell you, Mr Turner.” As he spoke he exhaled, and the thick, pungent smoke filled the room. “Alone,” he stared up at Ben.
Ben was about to protest; the last thing he wanted was to leave his friend with this corrupt, possibly dangerous man. But George raised his hand to stop him.
He hesitated, trying to remember the name Ben had made up for himself. Abdul? He decided to play it safe. “It doesn’t matter if he leaves or not, whatever you tell me, I’ll tell him anyway.”
Kamal seemed to weigh the options up for a moment, and then shrugged impassively.
“Those aren’t your wife’s ashes,” he said bluntly, nodding towards the urn standing on a desk behind Ben.
George jumped and took a step towards the policeman. “What do you mean they’re not Gail’s ashes? Where are Gail’s ashes?”
“There aren’t any. There are no ashes of your wife.”
“But I was at the cremation! I was given the urn containing her ashes! How can you dare come here and tell me that this isn’t my wife?” George was within a couple of feet of where Kamal was sitting, and the policeman instinctively leant back to defend himself.