11

Detective Hanash arrived at his office at eight in the morning. None of his men had called the previous night, meaning there were no new developments.

He found all the daily newspapers on his desk. He started scanning the headlines and saw that every single paper had the crime on its front page, with contradictory details, as usual. What perturbed Hanash was that that one paper had printed a photo of the two victims, and gave details about the crime that could have only come from someone closely connected to the investigation. Who had leaked this information to the paper, and for what price? What pissed him off even more was that someone had taken his quote—“Wherever alcohol and debauchery mingle, crime is just around the corner”—without attributing it to him.

He pushed the papers aside and opened the case file in front of him. Except for some interrogation notes and photographs of the victims, it contained nothing new. There was still no mention of what had happened at Hotel Scheherazade. Today, he thought, had to be the decisive day in this investigation. A lot was riding on the testimony of the male victim’s friend, and if he didn’t show up, suspicion of guilt would fall squarely on him.

Hanash was in no hurry to summon his men for nine o’clock. He knew that they had worked several hours of overtime, and they weren’t even on the clock for these extra hours. No doubt Hamid had sent men to investigate Farqash’s alibi concerning where he was during the time of the murders.

At five past nine Hamid opened the door and gave a determined salute.

“Good morning, detective.”

Hanash returned the salute and motioned for him to sit down. He enjoyed the fact that Hamid dressed sharply, in an effort to imitate him. The main difference between their wardrobes was that the detective’s suits were all by famous designers, whereas Hamid wore the most fashionable imitation versions he could find.

“What’s the latest?” asked Hanash, moving the case file aside.

“What’s new is that Farqash’s alibi came back clean, one hundred percent,” he replied, rubbing his hands together. “I sent Bu’u and Miqla to Club Hufra, and several witnesses confirmed that he got there around one in the morning with Warda, the bartender from La Falaise.”

Annoyed, Detective Hanash slapped the back of his chair.

“We haven’t gotten the medical examiner’s report to verify the time of death,” Hamid said regretfully, “but Warda confirmed that Farqash didn’t leave La Falaise all evening, not for a single moment. Then they left together for Ain Diab in a taxi. A doorman who worked on the same street as La Falaise corroborated everything. He said he saw Farqash and Warda hailing a cab around one o’clock.”

“Keep him in temporary detainment anyway,” said Hanash firmly. “Don’t let him out until the twenty-four hours is up. Just in case we need him.”

Hamid also informed Hanash that the male victim’s father had arrived from Madinat al-Qala. Hanash dispatched Bu’u to take him to identify the body before bringing him in for questioning.

There was a knock at Hanash’s office door, and he opened it to find a security guard saluting him.

“A person with a summons is here, sir,” he announced, as if he were reading a news report. “He says his name is Abdel-Jalil Kazar.”

“Bring him straight in,” Hanash replied.

When Abdel-Jalil entered the office, the first thing that struck both Hanash and Hamid were his teary eyes, meaning he knew what had happened. They looked at him closely. He was a clean-cut man in his thirties, and was quite handsome. Hamid requested his national identity card and the summons. Hanash didn’t take his eyes off Abdel-Jalil, readying himself for an interrogation.

“All right,” said Hanash. “You’re crying, so you know what happened.”

Abdel-Jalil nodded.

“Who told you?” asked Hamid.

“I called the factory to tell them I’d be late coming in because of the summons, and the director told me what had happened to Said.”

He could no longer suppress his emotions and burst into tears. Hamid placed the identity card and summons on the desk and exchanged a look with Hanash.

“Where were you yesterday?” the officer asked, in an accusatory tone.

“I was visiting my family in Fez. I just returned this morning.”

“When was the last time you saw your friend?” asked Hanash.

“Sunday evening . . .” Abdel-Jalil’s voice trailed off, and he took a moment to compose himself. “Could I sit down?” he asked.

They didn’t answer.

“You were saying?” Hamid said gruffly. “The last time you saw your friend was Sunday night . . . and?”

“After we finished work we went to go eat at Baaroub’s, like we always do when we get our wages at the end of the month. We ate together, and then around eight we went our separate ways.” He started choking up again. “If I knew what was going to happen, I wouldn’t have left him.”

Hanash interjected: “The girl who was murdered with him, Nezha al-Gharbi—did you know her?”

“I didn’t know her,” he said, shaking his head and wiping away his tears.

Hanash opened up the case file and took out a photo of Nezha. He passed it to Hamid, who then showed it to Abdel-Jalil. They watched him closely as he looked at the photo. He shook his head, verifying he didn’t know her.

“Said was more than a brother to me,” he said, holding back tears. “Who could have done this?”

“After you parted ways, where did you go?” Hanash asked.

“I went to the bus terminal and got a ticket for the midnight bus to Fez.”

“And you went to Fez?” asked Hanash.

“Of course I went to Fez. I nearly always go on the first of the month, after I get my wages, to visit my family and give them what I can to help out. I was going to go on Saturday night, but our weekly day off was postponed until Monday because of all these last-minute orders.”

“So, you traveled to Fez at midnight and then you were with your family?” Hamid asked.

Hanash and Hamid exchanged a curious look.

“What’s your family’s address in Fez?” Hamid demanded.

Abdel-Jalil dictated the address and Hamid scribbled it down in his notebook. Hanash got up, opened the curtains, and stared out into the busy streets. He needed a few moments to think. This young man had thrown him for a loop, as he seemed to be telling the truth. His sadness didn’t look like an act.

Hanash tried a few different ways of getting at the timing of his trip, but his story didn’t change. He returned to his desk chair and sat down, ignoring Abdel-Jalil. He pointed at Hamid, indicating he should continue.

“You said that you took the midnight bus to Fez,” Hamid said, “but you and your friend went separate ways around eight. How did you spend those four hours before you traveled?”

“I went home and slept until eleven thirty, and then headed to the bus terminal.”

“What was your relationship with Said like?”

“He was more than a brother to me, God rest his soul. We told each other everything, and didn’t keep any secrets from one another.”

Hanash lifted his head from the case file that he was pretending to read.

“No secrets, you say. So you knew all about the partying, drinking, sex, and other debauchery?”

“Sir, I follow my faith and carry out all of my religious obligations.”

Hanash stood up, his blood boiling. “Did you kill your friend and the girl with him?” he shouted.

Abdel-Jalil was terrified, and his eyes widened. “You’re accusing the wrong person, sir. I’m not a murderer!”

“Where did you hide the knife that you killed them with?”

“You’re accusing the wrong person!”

Hanash pressed the button to open the door and the security guard appeared instantly.

“Take him to the basement so he can cool down a bit,” he commanded.

Abdel-Jalil was in a state of shock. Hamid ordered him to put his hands up, and he took everything out of his pockets before the guard took him away.

“The most important thing is that we’ve got him,” Hanash said. “We’ll wait on a more comprehensive interrogation when we get the reports from the medical examiner and the forensics unit. But we need to look into his story. Call the police in Fez. Inform them about the nature of this crime and ask them to verify that Abdel-Jalil was with his family when he said he was. I want to know when he arrived and when he left.”

After Hamid exited with his orders, Hanash picked up Abdel-Jalil’s wallet and searched through it. Among a bunch of trivial things he found a bus ticket for Fez, for seat thirteen, with the date and time in question written on it.