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closest he could come to a joke.
    ‘Well, while we’re talking about money, I haven’t actually—’
    Ragab cut him off. ‘Please, let me finish. You have been spying on me for over a week now. Spying on me. I think you at least owe me the chance to speak my piece.’
    ‘As you wish,’ said Makana, gesturing for him to continue. For his part, Ragab stood apprehensively, hands clasping and unclasping behind his back.
    ‘The truth is, I understand the work you do, perhaps better than you think. I myself have employed people much like yourself, which perhaps explains why my wife had to reach out beyond the familiar circle of associates to find you.’ Ragab stopped himself from going on. Clearly there was some kind of barbed comment on the tip of his tongue which he felt was best left unsaid.
    ‘Mr Ragab, your wife suspected you of infidelity. There’s nothing particularly remarkable about that. She wanted to know the truth and she has a right to try and find out. She believed you were keeping another woman, perhaps even another wife, and she worried this would have consequences.’
    ‘That is a very liberal, and if I may say so, convenient explanation.’
    ‘In my experience most cases can be resolved amicably. What I bring to the marriage, if you like, is a degree of openness.’
    Ragab smiled again. ‘You missed your calling, sir. You would have made a fine lawyer.’ Pushing his hands into his pockets, Ragab moved towards the window to look out at the river. ‘My wife has a lively imagination. As a young woman she was drawn to a career in the theatre, although I am glad to say that common sense prevailed. Nowadays she is a keen patron of the arts, and knows a good number of artists personally.’
    ‘That must be nice for you both,’ said Makana. It wasn’t that he had anything against the theatre as such, although he had not visited one since his wife was a university student. ‘Frankly, the only thing that interests me at this moment is that girl lying in the clinic and how she got there. I assume that is why you are here.’
    ‘You assume correctly.’ Ragab looked momentarily taken aback. He dropped his head for a moment and stared at the floor.
    ‘So let’s drop all this business of your social credentials. You don’t have to impress me. Why don’t you tell me why you are paying for Karima’s medical care. Is she your daughter?’
    ‘She isn’t, or rather, she wasn’t . . . Karima passed away two hours ago.’
    The image of the creature in the hospital bed came back to him. It was hard not to feel relief for anyone who had suffered so much and yet Makana felt his heart tighten a notch.
    ‘The doctors did everything they could but they were unable to save her.’
    Ragab swayed on his feet and Makana gestured for him to sit. This time Ragab hesitated only for a moment before lowering his frame into the chair. It was a new addition. The carpenter had tried to persuade him to part with the old wicker chair that had been on the awama when he first moved in and had been on its last legs. Makana couldn’t bring himself to throw it away so instead conceded to the purchase of a Louis XIV wooden chair that resembled a throne. It was more comfortable than it looked and had stout carved legs and heavy arms. The carved back was inlaid with mother of pearl. It had been lovingly restored by the carpenter and seemed more suited to the palace of a khedive of old than to Makana’s awama . It wasn’t a Bentley, but still.
    ‘Why did you register her as your daughter at the clinic?’
    There was a long silence. Finally, Ragab stirred. He passed a hand across his face.
    ‘That was necessary for technical reasons. My policy covers members of my family. It is not a big issue, but it avoided certain problems in admitting her. I wanted the best treatment for her and the alternative would have been to leave her to the state medical system, which as I’m sure you know would have been tantamount to a murder