Free The Golden Scales by Parker Bilal Page A

employed to keep an eye on Mr Adil. Often, I won’t see him for days. He comes and goes as he pleases and it is not my place to ask him where he spends the night.’
    ‘Then what made you call Mr Gaber?’
    ‘That,’ she said, pointing to a large glass bowl by the door. It was another one of those curious objects which seemed to strike people with too much money on their hands as a good opportunity to unload some more of it. Adil Romario probably paid somebody to clutter up the place with things like this.
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘Well, Mr Adil always leaves his car keys in it. If he is home I have to be careful not to make too much noise, in case he is sleeping.’
    Makana recalled from Gaber’s file that Adil drove a silver SUV, a Cherokee Jeep.
    ‘So sometimes he is here but you don’t actually see him, is that right?’ The woman nodded. Makana went on, ‘You noticed the keys were missing on Thursday. When was the last time you actually saw him?’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe a week before that.’
    ‘A week? How about the last time you saw the keys in that bowl?’
    ‘Two or three days before that.’
    Which meant that Adil Romario could have been missing for nearly two weeks now.
    ‘Tell me about his friends.’
    ‘Oh, I have nothing to do with that side of his life.’
    Makana stared at her. ‘I am here to try and help him.’
    ‘That’s fine, but I am not paid to see things.’ Then she touched a hand to the knot that held the scarf tied at the back of her head and nodded towards something in the next room. ‘I think he keeps their names in a book over there.’
    The slim black address book rested on the desk in the study as if it had been placed there for him to find.
    ‘Did Mr Gaber telephone to tell you I would be visiting?’
    ‘No . . . Mr Gaber came by.’
    So Gaber had set the stage for him. The apartment, even this book carefully placed on the desk for the detective to find. Makana sat down. He felt like an actor following directions. When he glanced up he saw the housekeeper still hovering in the doorway, obviously worried he might steal one of the carpets or something.
    ‘Could you get me some coffee?’ He didn’t really want coffee, but he needed some breathing space. Reluctantly, she turned away and clumped noisily down the hall, every step a thump of protest. Makana flipped through the address book and dropped it on the desk. It could take him a week to follow up on every contact. Next he tried the drawers. Three of them down the right side of the desk. The top one was locked. He reached into his jacket and produced a slim, sturdy knife which had served him well on occasion. Opening it, he eased the blade into place and slid the tip under the lock mechanism on the drawer. He levered it up far enough for the lock to free itself. It was a disappointing haul. The drawer slid open to reveal nothing inside but a heap of old bills. Water. Electricity. A new television. Under these sat a leather-bound Quran. Putting this to one side, he scrabbled about at the back of the drawer where something was rattling about. His fingers found a handful of small shells. As he turned them over a few grains of sand fell out into his palm. Seashells with soft, fading whorls on their smooth surfaces. He slipped one of these into his pocket and was about to close the drawer when his eye fell on the Quran. He flicked through its pages, only to discover that half of them were glued together. The sacred book fell open to reveal that the centre had been hollowed out. It contained a thick bundle of banknotes. Adil Romario obviously didn’t trust his housekeeper entirely. When she came back, she saw the heap of money. She set the cup down with such a thump that the coffee spilled over the side and stained the saucer. Her eyes went to the drawer.
    ‘How did that happen?’
    ‘I used a little too much force,’ he smiled. ‘I thought it was jammed.’
    ‘You can’t just break people’s furniture.’
    The coffee