that,’ the woman conceded.
‘It got into my stew,’ said another of the women, ‘even though I had the lid on.’
Owen accepted the drink gratefully. The women, as was often the case in the villages, were very chatty. None of them wore veils and no one was particularly abashed at speaking to a man, even a white man. It was the men, thought Owen, who insisted on the forms, so jealous of their wives’ honour were they.
Or perhaps it wasn’t their wives’ honour but their own. That, he thought, was certainly so in the case of those brothers they’d locked up.
Actually, he was uneasy about that. He would have to release them soon. He couldn’t hold them forever. That was one of the things he wanted to talk to Mahmoud about. He rather hoped that by now Mahmoud was getting somewhere with his investigations. If he was closing in on someone, especially if, as Owen suspected, the person was one of the brothers, it would make it easier to hold them and to prevent the family of the murdered man from taking the law into their own hands.
Mahmoud emerged from one of the pilgrim’s houses, saw Owen and came across to greet him. The women, suddenly self-conscious, picked up their pitchers and went off.
Mahmoud sat down on the parapet of the wall and helped himself to some water.
‘Getting anywhere?’ asked Owen.
‘No. I’ve just about been through all the houses now and no one’s seen or heard anything. No one was out on the night Ibrahim was killed, nor knows anyone else who was out. Well, I can believe that. Once it gets dark, everyone in the village stays at home. But these days, when the nights are hot, they sit outside; and don’t tell me that no one, no one in the entire village, saw or heard anything!’
‘What might they have heard or seen?’
‘Someone going out to the Tree. People at the Tree, talking. They
were
talking, we know that from the goatherd.’
‘It’s some way from the village, though. And it was dark.’
‘I need to know who it was that met Ibrahim that night,’ said Mahmoud, frustrated.
‘Have you gone through the other village yet, Tel-el-Hasan? Someone might have seen people leaving that.’
‘The brothers, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got Asif helping me. He’s been through the village.’
‘Without any luck?’
‘The same thing as here. Villagers,’ said Mahmoud, ‘will tell you nothing. Not if you’re from outside.’
He put the bucket back into the recess.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’m increasingly coming to think that the answer doesn’t lie here anyway.’
----
Chapter 7
« ^ »
Not here?’ said Owen, taken aback.
‘Oh, here—the village—is something to do with it. It’s where it happened. But it’s not here that the meaning lies.’
‘The meaning?’
‘I see a lot of killings,’ said Mahmoud. ‘This one has a meaning. The body was put on the line to make a point.’
‘What kind of point?’
‘I don’t know. But I’m beginning to wonder whether it might not be more to do with the railway than it is with the village.’
‘You’re abandoning the idea of it being a revenge killing?’
‘Revenge might be part of it.’
‘I don’t see how revenge could be part of something else. Isn’t it complete in itself?’
Mahmoud was silent. Overhead, in the palms, the doves gurgled contentedly.
‘As I see it,’ he said at last, ‘Ibrahim crops up in two contexts. One of them is the village and there are things here that might have led to his death. But I cannot see why they should have led to his body being placed on the line. That part of it must be explained by something else. And it seems to me that we might find the explanation in the other context in which he crops up: the railway.’
‘His body was found there, certainly. Does that count as cropping up?’
‘He worked there.’
‘But that is incidental, surely?’
‘Is it? I have asked myself if it might not be—if I could find any connection between Ibrahim’s
‘It got into my stew,’ said another of the women, ‘even though I had the lid on.’
Owen accepted the drink gratefully. The women, as was often the case in the villages, were very chatty. None of them wore veils and no one was particularly abashed at speaking to a man, even a white man. It was the men, thought Owen, who insisted on the forms, so jealous of their wives’ honour were they.
Or perhaps it wasn’t their wives’ honour but their own. That, he thought, was certainly so in the case of those brothers they’d locked up.
Actually, he was uneasy about that. He would have to release them soon. He couldn’t hold them forever. That was one of the things he wanted to talk to Mahmoud about. He rather hoped that by now Mahmoud was getting somewhere with his investigations. If he was closing in on someone, especially if, as Owen suspected, the person was one of the brothers, it would make it easier to hold them and to prevent the family of the murdered man from taking the law into their own hands.
Mahmoud emerged from one of the pilgrim’s houses, saw Owen and came across to greet him. The women, suddenly self-conscious, picked up their pitchers and went off.
Mahmoud sat down on the parapet of the wall and helped himself to some water.
‘Getting anywhere?’ asked Owen.
‘No. I’ve just about been through all the houses now and no one’s seen or heard anything. No one was out on the night Ibrahim was killed, nor knows anyone else who was out. Well, I can believe that. Once it gets dark, everyone in the village stays at home. But these days, when the nights are hot, they sit outside; and don’t tell me that no one, no one in the entire village, saw or heard anything!’
‘What might they have heard or seen?’
‘Someone going out to the Tree. People at the Tree, talking. They
were
talking, we know that from the goatherd.’
‘It’s some way from the village, though. And it was dark.’
‘I need to know who it was that met Ibrahim that night,’ said Mahmoud, frustrated.
‘Have you gone through the other village yet, Tel-el-Hasan? Someone might have seen people leaving that.’
‘The brothers, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got Asif helping me. He’s been through the village.’
‘Without any luck?’
‘The same thing as here. Villagers,’ said Mahmoud, ‘will tell you nothing. Not if you’re from outside.’
He put the bucket back into the recess.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’m increasingly coming to think that the answer doesn’t lie here anyway.’
----
Chapter 7
« ^ »
Not here?’ said Owen, taken aback.
‘Oh, here—the village—is something to do with it. It’s where it happened. But it’s not here that the meaning lies.’
‘The meaning?’
‘I see a lot of killings,’ said Mahmoud. ‘This one has a meaning. The body was put on the line to make a point.’
‘What kind of point?’
‘I don’t know. But I’m beginning to wonder whether it might not be more to do with the railway than it is with the village.’
‘You’re abandoning the idea of it being a revenge killing?’
‘Revenge might be part of it.’
‘I don’t see how revenge could be part of something else. Isn’t it complete in itself?’
Mahmoud was silent. Overhead, in the palms, the doves gurgled contentedly.
‘As I see it,’ he said at last, ‘Ibrahim crops up in two contexts. One of them is the village and there are things here that might have led to his death. But I cannot see why they should have led to his body being placed on the line. That part of it must be explained by something else. And it seems to me that we might find the explanation in the other context in which he crops up: the railway.’
‘His body was found there, certainly. Does that count as cropping up?’
‘He worked there.’
‘But that is incidental, surely?’
‘Is it? I have asked myself if it might not be—if I could find any connection between Ibrahim’s
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