A Cold Touch of Ice. Michael Pearce

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      ‘No. The reverse. In fact, we made a joke of it. “There is Fahmy,” we said, “with all his worries about his nephew; and there is Sidi with not a care in the world!”’

      ‘You see, Hamdan, if it was not money, then it must have been something else. A grudge, perhaps, someone who felt that Sidi had done them a wrong.’

      ‘But no one could feel like that!’ cried the shopkeeper. ‘Not about Sidi! He was not like that. He was generous, Mahmoud, kind. Mahmoud, you do not know – because he would not speak of it, or let us speak of it – the things he has done for people round here. The Koran entreats us to charity, but – I have said it to the Sheik himself – there are few Muslims who have given as much as he!’

      ‘But a man with a grudge does not look at the all, he remembers only the one thing.’

      ‘Mahmoud. I –’ The shopkeeper stopped. ‘Mahmoud, I really cannot believe it!’

      ‘You look for the reasonable, Hamdan. But the attack on Sidi was not reasonable.’

      ‘Mahmoud, I am sure this must be some criminal. Perhaps he was surprised and so ran away without taking the money –’

      ‘He was not surprised. If he had been, someone would have told us. And, besides, Hamdan –’

      ‘Mahmoud?’

      ‘I do not think this was a professional criminal.’

      ‘Why not, Mahmoud?’

      Mahmoud hesitated.

      ‘Hamdan, I do not wish to add to your distress –’

      ‘Mahmoud, please!’

      ‘Sidi was strangled.’

      ‘I do not understand, Mahmoud.’

      ‘He was strangled, not garotted. I am sorry, Hamdan.’

      The shopkeeper held up his hand.

      ‘Please, Mahmoud. Why does that make a difference?’

      ‘Usually, when a professional wishes to kill, he garottes. At least, in Cairo. It is quicker. Strangling is slow, and it requires much strength. There is more risk of the victim breaking free. I am sorry to have to tell you these things, but they are things I know from my work. Add that to the fact that no money was taken and you will see why I do not think it was a professional criminal.’

      There was a long silence.

      ‘It must be some madman!’

      ‘That is possible. Although, again, I do not think so. For madmen do not usually plan, and this was planned. The killer knew, I think, that Sidi would be passing at that time and stationed himself where he could first kill and then escape.’

      The shopkeeper was silent again. Then he said:

      ‘Mahmoud, you say that the killer knew that Sidi would be passing at that time?’

      ‘That is so.’

      ‘Then he must have known how Sidi spent his evenings – he must have known about us.’

      ‘That is so, I’m afraid.’

      ‘Many people knew about us. But they knew about us only if they lived in this neighbourhood.’

      ‘That is so.’

      The shopkeeper shook his head.

      ‘I find that hard to believe, Mahmoud. We are not like that.’

      Since Sidi Morelli had been an Italian national, the Italian Consulate had asked to be kept informed. Politically wise, Mahmoud took the precaution of asking Owen to go with him to the meeting.

      ‘So,’ said the consular official eventually, ‘you haven’t got very far.’

      ‘It takes time,’ said Mahmoud.

      ‘I appreciate that. However, in the present circumstances, with the war on, I think it would be unfortunate if it took too much time. My country might feel that the investigation was not being taken seriously.’

      ‘It is being taken seriously,’ said Mahmoud.

      ‘I am sure. And the presence of the Mamur Zapt is a helpful guarantee of that. In the circumstances. But the Consul would feel more comfortable if he could see some progress.’

      ‘It is still very early objected –’ Owen.

      ‘Yes. But, you see, my country feels that if speedy action is not taken, there could be other attacks.’

      ‘Well, that is always true –’

      ‘But especially true in this case, don’t you think?’

      ‘You are afraid that there might be other attacks on Italian nationals?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘There is no reason as yet to suppose that the attack on Signor Morelli was made because of his nationality,’ said Mahmoud.

      ‘I am glad to hear it. But then, what was it made for? It appears,’ said the official, glancing down at his notes, ‘that he was not robbed?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Perhaps your inquiries have turned up some other possible motive?’

      ‘Not so far.’

      ‘Then how can Mr Zaki be sure that the attack was not because he was an Italian?’

      ‘Signor Morelli was a very respected figure in the local community,’ said Owen.

      ‘I am glad to hear it. However, don’t you think that makes it even more likely that he was attacked because of his nationality? He was an Italian whom everyone knew.’

      The Consulate was in the Ismailiya so Owen called in afterwards to see Zeinab. A little unexpectedly, for Nuri seldom called on his daughter, her father was there. This didn’t matter, since Nuri regarded himself as largely free from the strict conventions of Egyptian society and didn’t mind Owen seeing his daughter alone. He knew about their relationship and, indeed, regarded it as entirely normal. Ordinarily Owen got along with him very well. This morning, though, he sensed a slight coolness in Nuri’s greeting.

      He wondered if he had come at the wrong time, and after a moment or two made to go.

      ‘No, no,’ protested Nuri. ‘I am just on my way.’

      He picked up his tarboosh and made for the door. At the last moment he turned and said to Zeinab: ‘You will think about what I said, my dear, won’t you?’

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