Free The Night of the Dog by Michael Pearce Page B

him that he’d not said quite the right thing, for he looked at Zeinab uneasily afterwards. Mahmoud stood a little in awe of Zeinab. It was partly her social position, partly her father, the formidable Nuri Pasha. Mahmoud detested everything that Nuri stood for: the old, near-feudal Egypt, with its hereditary great landlords, of whom Nuri was one; court-based politics, in which Nuri was adept; the power of the old order to block and frustrate all attempts at reform. But although he looked down on Nuri he also looked up at him, and because of that Nuri had a unique ability to touch Mahmoud on the raw. Something of all that had rubbed off on Zeinab, although Zeinab was Nuri’s daughter only by a slave girl, a well-known courtesan, who had had mind enough of her own to refuse to join Nuri’s harem. That was another thing which made Mahmoud uneasy, for modern and emancipated though he was, he could not completely shake off the attitudes and sexual constraints of the old, Islamic society. He even felt slightly awkward sitting out with her in a public place having coffee.
    Zeinab added to his unease by opening her handbag, taking out the three small bottles of perfume and dropping them deliberately on the floor. She summoned a waiter to clear them away.
    “Presumably you’ve done some background checking?” said Owen.
    Mahmoud turned back to him with relief.
    “Yes,” he said. “I had my people check out the three scentmakers. One of them, the first one we saw, I think we can rule out straight away. He’s not very strong physically, suffers from some sort of debilitating illness, hardly ever goes out. The fat one doesn’t go out much either but in principle we can’t rule him out. The third one could do it physically and gets out far more. He’s very active in his local church, attends services there at all hours, mortifies himself, fasts, that sort of thing.”
    “A zealot?‘’
    “Devout.” Like Nikos, Mahmoud did not wish to be pushed into too firm religious characterization.
    “Politically active?” Owen pressed.
    “Not so far as I am aware.”
    “I’m looking for motive.”
    “That’s the problem. I can’t find one. That applies to them all. As far as I can tell, they have all three led blameless lives, had no criminal connection, kept themselves to themselves and as separate from Moslems as they could, and had no occasion to even meet a Zikr, let alone enter into a relationship with one which might lead them to want to kill him. They, and Zoser particularly, don’t seem to have had much personal life at all.”
    “They sound very dull,” said Zeinab.
    “What church does he go to?” asked Owen. “Zoser, I mean. You said he went to a local church.”
    “The Mar Girgis—Church of St. George.”
    “By the Tunisian Bazaar?”
    “Yes. You know it?”
    “I know someone who goes to it,” said Owen.
    Mahmoud shrugged.
    “Nothing special about it. Very Orthodox, a bit fundamentalist. Zoser’s quite well known there. He’s not one of the elders, he’s not rich enough for that, or educated enough. He’s just there at all the services.”
    “With his wife?”
    “With his wife.” He looked at Owen. “I was wondering—” he said tentatively.
    “Yes?” said Owen.
    “What were you wondering?” asked Zeinab.
    “If you would like to go to church next Sunday,” Mahmoud said, looking at Owen, “with Miss Postlethwaite.”
    “Why her?” asked Zeinab.
    “She’s the only one who could make a positive identification,” Mahmoud explained. “She’s important.”
    “I can see that,” said Zeinab.
    “It would be difficult in a church,” said Owen. “The women are kept separate from the men.”
    “She could see him, though he wouldn’t be able to see her. That might be an advantage.”
    “Why do you have to go?” Zeinab asked Owen.
    “She would have to be escorted,” said Mahmoud.
    “Couldn’t you do that?”
    No, Mahmoud couldn’t. He knew that and so did she. It would have to be