The Hidden by Jo Chumas Read Free Book Online Page B

over, she replaced the telephone in the cradle and went to get changed. Two days had passed since her meeting with Professor Langham. He hadn’t telephoned with any news of work or any more information that could help the police. Perhaps Langham really couldn’t remember anything of any interest about Azi’s mood and activity in the weeks before his death.
    She thought about her husband. Would he be angry with her if he could see her longingly finger the lovely red satin dress her aunt Saiza had bought for her when she had first arrived in Cairo? She shivered. Azi had loved her in that dress, thinking its fiery colour a complement to her pale skin and black hair. The fit was perfect too, beautifully tailored to accentuate the emerging curves of a young lady. Tonight she would wear her hair up, the way Azi had liked it. Tonight she would go out for him, make a big effort to sparkle. At school she had worn starched shirts and simple ankle-length wool skirts and black boots. The nuns had taught the girls how to make their own uniforms, for economy’s sake as much for the grace of God. God, Aimee had been told, had no time for vanity. Simplicity was the first rule of presentation.
    Yet Maman had given birth to her in a robe made of gold thread, her aunt had told her. That birthing robe was a symbol ofher heritage, a symbol of the royal blood that coursed through her veins.
    Stained with the blood of new royalty, the golden robe had been passed down through the generations. Aimee had been born straight into the arms of her aunt Saiza, and her tiny, misshapen slippery body had been washed with coconut oil. From gold thread to starched shirts and invisibility, the road didn’t make sense. It was hardly a normal trajectory.
    A little while later, Aimee was in the car with Sophie. Their driver, Sophie’s dragoman—employed by the Continental Hotel where Sophie had a private suite, paid for by Tony Sedgewick—knew the whereabouts of Zaky Achmed’s house. It was at the end of a wide lane, away from the main souk of al-Qadima, a fashionable residential area with lovely old houses.
    Sophie tapped the window of the car, and the driver stopped. Aimee stepped out onto the pavement, and rang the doorbell while Sophie instructed the dragoman on the hour he should return.
    A small pretty woman opened the door and introduced herself as Achmed’s sister. She led the way up some stairs and along a maze of corridors to a large room at the rear of the house, atmospherically lit with fashionable lamps and tables of thick honey-coloured candles.
    The room opened onto a large balcony filled with men and women deep in conversation. The room smelt of spice, leather brogues, and floral perfume laced with musk. The scent of Shalimar by Guerlain, liberally applied by the ladies, tickled Aimee’s nose. She overheard a group of women speaking Turkish, others speaking French. Laughter. Shouting. Jazz. Snake-hipped boys with greasy faces carried trays of delicacies. Sophie whispered to Aimee that she had spotted the friend of a friend who disappeared. Achmed, fetched by his sister, emerged from a crowd of animated intellectuals.
    “Madame Ibrahim, I’m so glad you came. Your aunt has told me so much about you.”
    Aimee smiled and extended her hand. Achmed was a short rotund man of about thirty with dark tightly curled hair receding past his ears. His brown eyes gazed kindly at her. His mouth was full and downturned. Dressed in an immaculate pale suit and tie, he clutched a small silver cigarette case.
    “I knew your husband, Madame. I’m so terribly sorry for what happened.”
    Aimee examined him carefully before she said anything.
    “I am not sure if my husband mentioned you,” she said. “It is possible, but as you can imagine—”
    He bowed amiably and put up his hand. “Please, it’s quite all right. It’s such a sad day that we meet in these circumstances. I have been away, teaching at a country school in the Delta. Perhaps that’s