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sentence.’
    ‘So you lied to get her admitted.’
    Ragab blinked. He didn’t like being accused of lying. ‘The director of the hospital is aware of the details.’
    ‘A theatre lover perhaps? Happy to bend the rules for an old and loyal client?’
    ‘Something like that.’ The faint suggestion of a smile flickered around Ragab’s lips. Amused perhaps at the ease with which the world arranged itself around his needs. ‘You don’t like me. I can tell.’
    ‘What difference does it make?’
    ‘None, maybe. Perhaps it could be an advantage.’
    ‘Did Karima kill herself?’
    ‘That’s why I wish to employ your services.’
    ‘You want to employ me?’
    ‘You seem surprised. I don’t believe in letting sentiment cloud one’s decisions. You clearly know your job. For an entire week I was unaware that I was being observed. And your past reputation is well documented.’ Ragab nodded beyond Makana at the array of newspaper clippings pinned to the wall above the desk, most of them written by Sami Barakat. ‘I checked up on you and made a few calls. Apart from that I consider myself a good judge of men, Mr Makana. I believe you will do your utmost to pursue this matter to a conclusion. Contrary to popular belief, money does not buy commitment. It buys obedience, devotion to the source of the money, but not to the task in hand. Commitment is a commodity one cannot buy for love or money.’
    ‘I’m honoured,’ murmured Makana, inhaling smoke deep into his lungs.
    ‘There is another reason, which, once I have explained the outlines of the case to you, I am sure will lead you to the same conclusion.’
    ‘You have my attention.’
    Ragab’s big hands had stopped gripping the arms of the chair. As he spoke he appeared to be more at ease.
    ‘Most of the people I employ for surveillance or investigative work have a history. That is to say they are usually retired from the police or intelligence services. This has advantages, of course, because they can draw on old contacts for information from within. But in this case, I believe that could be the source of a conflict of interests.’
    Makana stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Is this connected to your relationship to the girl?’
    ‘Eighteen years ago I was appointed to defend a young man in court. His name was Musab Muhamed Khayr.’ Ragab brought his fingertips together in a steeple and lowered his chin in concentration. ‘He was a delinquent, a petty criminal charged with selling contraband, mostly cigarettes and alcohol smuggled from Libya. I found him to be not only an unpleasant man to deal with, petty and violent, but also untrustworthy. I hardly believed a word he told me. Still, despite my feelings about him personally, or my disapproval of his actions, I had been entrusted with his defence and this was what I carried out to the best of my abilities.’
    Makana noted an air of old-fashioned righteousness about Ragab. A man resigned to the fact that chivalry was dead, that the world was full of people lacking in moral fibre. It was a hard burden to bear, but he was doing his best.
    ‘What happened?’ asked Makana.
    ‘Musab was sentenced to five years. It was a harsh sentence, especially for his wife, but he did not help himself by being impertinent towards the judge who naturally took a disliking to him. The smuggling of alcohol is regarded with some severity by many in the judiciary.’
    ‘He was expecting you to get him off the charges?’
    ‘Exactly, he thought he would not go to prison. It astonishes me sometimes how people allow themselves to be deluded in this way.’
    ‘It’s an astonishing world.’
    ‘Yes.’ Ragab nodded solemnly. ‘Anyway, as the case came to a close I discovered that Musab’s wife Nagat was living in quite sordid conditions. She occupied a room not fit for a cat, above a garage in Imbaba. I went to visit her in the course of my preparations for the trial. She had just discovered she was pregnant. Her husband didn’t even