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of respectability. The carpenter had even thrown in an old wardrobe he had found cluttering up his yard, so now Makana had somewhere to hang his clothes instead of the odd nail hammered into the wall. They climbed to the upper deck where the roof had been fixed and the flimsy walls reinforced and linked together to form a structure that could hold at bay the cold wind that blew off the river in winter. Large double doors now separated the main office area from the open deck at the rear, which remained open most of the time. Cupboards and filing cabinets had taken the place of cardboard boxes for storing his archives and his files. And there was a new set of chairs along with the old one and the battered old sofa pushed against the wall which he often slept on. The window frames had been restored to working order and the glass replaced. The overall effect had a marvellous impact on his humour and the simple act of sitting in his big chair and contemplating the changes tended to improve his mood.
    ‘Mr Ragab,’ he ushered his guest, ‘please take a seat.’
    There was something inherently awkward about Magdy Ragab. A creature of routine, it was possible he was uncomfortable in surroundings that were not familiar. In any case, he seemed not to register Makana’s words or perhaps did not feel inclined to sit. Either way, he remained standing in the middle of the room, fidgeting with his hands behind his back, eyes fixed on the distant bridge, where a procession of stick figures, now burnt silhouettes against the light of the setting sun, were making their way home alongside a slow-moving slurry of vehicles of every shape and size.
    ‘You know who I am?’
    ‘Yes, Mr Ragab, I know who you are.’
    ‘Of course you do.’ Ragab rolled his shoulders as if trying to shake off his skin. Makana went on. The fact that the man felt ill at ease was perhaps not so surprising seeing as he was talking to someone who had been investigating him for the last week.
    ‘You are a highly respected lawyer. You have your own practice which employs three other lawyers, all junior to yourself, along with about a dozen administrative staff. You started out in criminal cases but now specialise in corporate law. You have a very good list of clients, within some of the top companies in the country. Bankers, industrialists, businessmen of one kind or another. You have contacts in the upper echelons of the military, as well as a good number of politicians and a few television personalities. They trust you because you work hard. You have a reputation for thoroughness and efficiency. You work long hours and you rarely take a full day off. You live alone with your wife Awatif, who is your second cousin on your mother’s side. You have no children . . .’
    Ragab nodded his approval. ‘I inherited the practice from my uncle, on my mother’s side. He was also the one who gave me the Bentley. It’s a nineteen seventy-three model and still going strong. They used to make cars to last.’
    Makana reached for his Cleopatras. Ragab watched him closely.
    ‘You have done a thorough job,’ Ragab went on. ‘My wife warned me that you were a rather strange character of dubious background, and that I should have nothing further to do with you, and frankly . . .’ He paused to allow his eyes to flicker quickly around his surroundings. ‘I have to say this is a rather more unconventional setting than I had expected.’
    ‘It grows on you,’ said Makana, blowing out a match.
    ‘I have no intention of letting it do so. I came here because my wife confronted me. She accused me of having deceived her and asked for a divorce. Of course she did not mean this seriously. To a woman of her age and social standing divorce would make no sense. Still, I understand that her pride was hurt. When I asked her how she had learned of these things she told me about you. I came to see where my money had gone.’ Ragab allowed himself a smile, presumably because this was the