it. If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. Piss off and become an archaeologist or whatever it is you always wanted to do and leave me to get on with the job of catching criminals. Real criminals, not imaginary ones.'
Forgetting he was wearing a wig, he reached up and vigorously scratched the top of his scalp, dislodging the hairpiece, which slipped halfway down his forehead. With a furious growl he ripped it off altogether and threw it across the room, stomping back to his desk and sitting down, breathing heavily.
'Just drop it, Khalifa,' he said, his voice weary suddenly, subdued. 'Do you understand me? For everybody's sake. Mohammed Gemal murdered Hannah Schlegel, Jansen died accidentally, and there's no link between the two. I am not re-opening the case.'
His eyes flicked up and then down again, refusing to hold Khalifa's stare.
'Now, there's some hawagaya at the Winter Palace who thinks her jewellery's been stolen and I want you to go and look into it. Forget Jansen and do some proper police work for once in your life.'
He shuffled a pile of papers in front of him, jaw clenched. Khalifa realized it was pointless continuing the argument. He stood and moved towards the door.
'The keys,' growled Hassani. 'I'm not having you nosing around Jansen's house behind my back.'
Khalifa turned, removed Jansen's keys from his pocket and threw them across the room to Hassani, who caught them one-handed.
'Don't cross me on this one, Khalifa. Do you understand? Not on this one.'
The detective paused, then opened the door and strode out into the corridor.
J ERUSALEM
Layla could never pass through the Old City's Damascus Gate, with its imposing, twin-towered arch, grime-blackened flagstones and crush of beggars and fruit sellers, without recalling the first time she had come here with her parents, when she was five.
'Look, Layla,' her father had said proudly, squatting beside her and stroking her waist-length black hair. 'Al-Quds! The most beautiful city in the world. Our city. See how bright the stone looks in the morning sunshine; smell the za'atar and the newly baked bread, listen to the call of the muezzin and the cry of the tamar Hindi sellers. Remember these things, Layla, keep them inside you. Because if the Israelis have their way we will all be driven out and al-Quds will become no more than a place we read about in history books.'
Layla had thrown an arm protectively around his neck.
'I won't let them, Daddy!' she had cried. 'I'll fight them. I'm not scared.'
Her father had laughed and, sweeping her up into his arms, pulled her tightly to his breast, which was flat and hard, like marble.
'My little warrior! Layla the Invincible! Oh what a daughter I have been given!'
The three of them had walked right the way around the outside of the city, following the line of the walls, which at the time had struck her as immeasurably huge and threatening, a great tidal wave of stone rearing overhead, and had then passed through the Damascus Gate into the bustling labyrinth of streets beyond. They had drunk Coca-cola at a small roadside cafe, her father puffing on a shisha pipe and talking animatedly with a group of old men, before wandering down al-Wad Road towards the Haram al-Sharif, stopping every now and then so he could point out a bakery where he had eaten cakes as a child, a square where he had played football, an old fig tree growing out of a wall whose fruit he had used to pick.
'Not to eat,' he had explained. 'It was way too hard and bitter. We used to throw them at each other. I got hit right on the nose once. You should have heard the crack! There was blood everywhere!'
He had burst out laughing at the memory, and Layla had laughed too, told him how funny she thought it was, even though the story had horrified her, the thought of her father being hurt. She had loved him so much, so wanted to please him, show that she was not weak or afraid, but strong like him – rave, a true Palestinian.
From the
Forgetting he was wearing a wig, he reached up and vigorously scratched the top of his scalp, dislodging the hairpiece, which slipped halfway down his forehead. With a furious growl he ripped it off altogether and threw it across the room, stomping back to his desk and sitting down, breathing heavily.
'Just drop it, Khalifa,' he said, his voice weary suddenly, subdued. 'Do you understand me? For everybody's sake. Mohammed Gemal murdered Hannah Schlegel, Jansen died accidentally, and there's no link between the two. I am not re-opening the case.'
His eyes flicked up and then down again, refusing to hold Khalifa's stare.
'Now, there's some hawagaya at the Winter Palace who thinks her jewellery's been stolen and I want you to go and look into it. Forget Jansen and do some proper police work for once in your life.'
He shuffled a pile of papers in front of him, jaw clenched. Khalifa realized it was pointless continuing the argument. He stood and moved towards the door.
'The keys,' growled Hassani. 'I'm not having you nosing around Jansen's house behind my back.'
Khalifa turned, removed Jansen's keys from his pocket and threw them across the room to Hassani, who caught them one-handed.
'Don't cross me on this one, Khalifa. Do you understand? Not on this one.'
The detective paused, then opened the door and strode out into the corridor.
J ERUSALEM
Layla could never pass through the Old City's Damascus Gate, with its imposing, twin-towered arch, grime-blackened flagstones and crush of beggars and fruit sellers, without recalling the first time she had come here with her parents, when she was five.
'Look, Layla,' her father had said proudly, squatting beside her and stroking her waist-length black hair. 'Al-Quds! The most beautiful city in the world. Our city. See how bright the stone looks in the morning sunshine; smell the za'atar and the newly baked bread, listen to the call of the muezzin and the cry of the tamar Hindi sellers. Remember these things, Layla, keep them inside you. Because if the Israelis have their way we will all be driven out and al-Quds will become no more than a place we read about in history books.'
Layla had thrown an arm protectively around his neck.
'I won't let them, Daddy!' she had cried. 'I'll fight them. I'm not scared.'
Her father had laughed and, sweeping her up into his arms, pulled her tightly to his breast, which was flat and hard, like marble.
'My little warrior! Layla the Invincible! Oh what a daughter I have been given!'
The three of them had walked right the way around the outside of the city, following the line of the walls, which at the time had struck her as immeasurably huge and threatening, a great tidal wave of stone rearing overhead, and had then passed through the Damascus Gate into the bustling labyrinth of streets beyond. They had drunk Coca-cola at a small roadside cafe, her father puffing on a shisha pipe and talking animatedly with a group of old men, before wandering down al-Wad Road towards the Haram al-Sharif, stopping every now and then so he could point out a bakery where he had eaten cakes as a child, a square where he had played football, an old fig tree growing out of a wall whose fruit he had used to pick.
'Not to eat,' he had explained. 'It was way too hard and bitter. We used to throw them at each other. I got hit right on the nose once. You should have heard the crack! There was blood everywhere!'
He had burst out laughing at the memory, and Layla had laughed too, told him how funny she thought it was, even though the story had horrified her, the thought of her father being hurt. She had loved him so much, so wanted to please him, show that she was not weak or afraid, but strong like him – rave, a true Palestinian.
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