The Mingrelian Conspiracy. Michael Pearce

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СКАЧАТЬ soldiers. ‘We’re for it! It’s the jelly-babies!’

      ‘What’s going on?’ shouted a voice that was vaguely familiar.

      The Military Police came down the street.

      ‘What’s going on?’

      Owen recognized the voice now. It was Shearer.

      ‘These men have been disturbing the peace,’ said the Egyptian.

      ‘Oh, have they? We’ll soon see about that! Get their names, sergeant!’

      ‘I would like a copy, please,’ said the Egyptian.

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘It would save me having to do it for myself.’

      ‘I’m handling them,’ said Shearer. ‘It’s no concern of yours.’

      ‘I’m afraid it is,’ said the Egyptian.

      ‘Oh?’ said Shearer. ‘And who the hell are you?’

      ‘Can I introduce you?’ said Owen, stepping forward. ‘Mr Mahmoud El Zaki, Captain Shearer. Mr El Zaki is a member of the Parquet and is, presumably, the officer investigating this case.’

      If so, it would be very speedy. In Egypt the police had no powers of investigation. They merely reported a case of suspected crime to the Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice, the Parquet, which then assigned one of its lawyers to conduct the investigation.

      ‘There is no case,’ said Shearer. ‘It’s an internal matter for the Army.’

      ‘I’m afraid not,’ said the Egyptian. ‘Since the incident has been formally reported a file will have been already opened.’

      ‘I suggest you close it, then.’

      ‘That will not be possible.’

      Shearer looked at Owen.

      ‘I’m afraid he’s right. Once the process has been formally initiated it rolls on until it’s formally closed.’

      ‘How do I go about getting it formally closed?’

      ‘A request has to go in from the administration. Get your people to contact Paul Trevelyan.’

      Shearer made a note of the name.

      ‘He’s the chap who was chairing the meeting this morning,’ said Owen.

      Shearer frowned.

      ‘Meanwhile,’ said Owen, pointedly, ‘you are obliged to cooperate with the Parquet.’

      ‘The names, please,’ said the Egyptian.

      Shearer gave in with an ill grace.

      ‘Give him a copy when you’ve finished,’ he said to the sergeant. ‘You lot,’ he said, turning on the soldiers, ‘had better get back to barracks. You’re a bloody disgrace. I’ll deal with you in the morning.’

      ‘Better send them separately,’ advised Owen. ‘Otherwise they’ll start fighting again.’

      ‘They’d better bloody not! You’re right, though, it’s best to make sure. You lot,’ he said to the DCLI, ‘get started. Sergeant, take half your men and go with them. You shower,’ he said to the Fusiliers, ‘start in ten minutes. Corporal, see they don’t cause any more trouble.’

      ‘The list, sir,’ said the sergeant, giving it to the Egyptian. He did not normally reckon to say ‘sir’ to Egyptians but this situation seemed a bit complicated, and then there was the other funny bloke standing by whom Shearer seemed to listen to.

      ‘Thank you.’ The Egyptian hesitated. ‘Are you not going to take the names of witnesses?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘You spoke of Army legal processes.’

      ‘Not necessary, I think,’ said Shearer.

      The Egyptian raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. He took out a notebook and went over to the owner of the Fusiliers’ cafe.

      ‘Will you want to talk to me?’ asked Owen.

      ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said the Egyptian, over his shoulder.

      Shearer frowned.

      ‘I don’t think that’s right,’ he objected. ‘You ought not to be called on to give evidence against our own people. It puts you in an awkward position.’

      ‘Ah!’ said Owen. ‘I’m used to that!’

      Shearer hesitated and then, as the Egyptian did not appear to be disposed to go at once to Owen, which was what Shearer half expected, said good night and went after the departed DC LI.

      Owen found himself standing next to the Fusiliers.

      ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said one of them, recognizing a countryman. ‘Where are you from?’

      ‘Machen.’

      ‘Are you, indeed, sir? I’m from Caerphilly.’

      ‘And I’m from Llanbradach, sir,’ put in another of the Fusiliers.

      ‘I know it well,’ said Owen.

      ‘And I know Machen, sir. My aunt is Mrs Roberts, of the Post Office, sir.’

      ‘Mrs Roberts?’ It was a hundred years since Owen had been in Wales. But vague memories of his childhood began to stir. ‘I remember her, I think. How is she?’

      ‘Not very well, sir. She’s getting on a bit now. She’s more or less given up the Post Office. She leaves it mostly to Blodwen now.’

      ‘Blodwen?’

      ‘Her daughter, sir. You remember her?’

      ‘I think I do. A tiny little thing?’

      ‘Not so tiny, now, sir.’

      ‘She’s married, sir,’ said another of the Fusiliers.

      ‘Heavens! Well, it was a while ago. I left for India when I was eighteen.’

      ‘We thought you’d been in the Army, sir. It was the way you spoke.’

      The corporal came up.

      ‘All right, you lot,’ he said. ‘On your way!’

      ‘Sorry about the bother, sir,’ said one of the Fusiliers as they left. Those English bastards called us Welsh bastards!’

      ‘Well, there’s no need for you to rise like a fish!’

      ‘No, sir.’ They sounded, however, unconvinced.

      ‘Nice fishing at Machen, sir!’ one of them СКАЧАТЬ