The Men Behind by Michael Pearce Read Free Book Online

Egypt was probably wise.
    Something in Mohammed Bishari’s voice warned Owen to pay attention. He was asking now about Fairclough’s private life, whether there was anyone in it who might bear him a grudge.
    Fairclough didn’t think so.
    “Servants?” asked Mohammed Bishari casually. “Servants in the past?”
    Again Fairclough didn’t think so.
    “Someone you’ve dismissed?”
    Fairclough thought hard.
    “I’ve only had three servants all the time I’ve been here,” he said. “There’s Ali—he’s my cook, and I’ve had him ever since I came. He was Hetherington’s cook and he passed him on to me when he went to Juba, because Ali didn’t want to go down there. I’ve had one or two house-boys. Abdul, that’s the one I’ve got now, I’ve had for a couple of years.”
    “Eighteen months,” said Mohammed Bishari.
    “Well,
he’s
all right. No grudge there.”
    “Before him?”
    “Ibrahim? Well, I did sack him. Beggar was at the drink. I marked the bottle and caught him red-handed. But that kind of thing happens all the time. You don’t bear grudges. Not to the extent of killing, anyway.”
    “You didn’t beat him?”
    “Kicked his ass occasionally. Have you talked to him? He doesn’t say I did, does he?” Fairclough looked at Mohammed Bishari indignantly.
    “He does say you did, as a matter of fact,” said Mohammed Bishari. “But they all say that and I didn’t necessarily believe him.”
    “Well, I bloody didn’t,” said Fairclough. “I don’t believe in that sort of thing. Ask Ali.”
    “We have. On the whole he confirms what you say.” Fairclough snorted.
    “However,” said Mohammed Bishari, “Ibrahim also told us something else, which, admittedly after a considerable time, Ali also confirmed. While Ibrahim was with you, he undertook various errands for you. He used to fetch women, for example.”
    Fairclough flushed and looked at his shoes. “Needs of the flesh,” he muttered.
    “Quite so. We don’t need to go into that. Nor where he got the women. However, on one occasion there was some difficulty. A woman had come to you while her husband was away. When he got back, neighbors told him. He came round to see you.”
    “He was about off his rocker,” said Fairclough. “Foaming at the mouth, that sort of thing. He had a bloody great knife. It took three of us to hold him—Ali, Ibrahim and me.”
    “You gave him some money. Quite a lot.”
    “Poor beggar!” said Fairclough.
    “In fact, you gave him too much. Because when he had cooled down he realized that you were worth more than his wife was. He divorced her and kept coming back to you.”
    “Only once or twice. His wife came back too. Separately, I mean, after he’d got rid of her.”
    “You paid her too?”
    “Nothing much. Either of them.”
    “Enough for it to matter. Enough, after a while, to make you say you were going to stop it.”
    “Couldn’t go on forever,” said Fairclough.
    “You refused to pay any more?”
    “That’s right,” Fairclough looked at him incredulously. “You’re not saying that old Abdul—!”
    “He might be considered to have a grudge.”
    “Yes, but old Abdul—!”
    “He came for you with a knife.”
    “Yes, but that’s different. Anyway, it had all blown over.”
    “You had just stopped giving him money,” Mohammed Bishari pointed out.
    “Yes, but—” Fairclough looked at Mohammed Bishari and shook his head. “I just don’t believe it,” he said.
    Neither did Owen. Nor, he suspected, did Bishari. The Parquet man, however, went on with his questions, continuing on the same line. Were there other men who might have a similar grievance? Fairclough thought not. In fact, he was pretty sure. But Ibrahim had been on other errands for him, surely? Well, yes, that was true. But he didn’t think husbands were involved.
    As the probing continued, Fairclough became more and more uncomfortable.
    “Doesn’t look too good, does it?” he said suddenly. “All these women.