The Mamur Zapt and the Men Behind

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

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First published 1991

Copyright © Michael Pearce 1991

Michael Pearce asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008259440

Ebook Edition © JULY 2017 ISBN: 9780007483037

Version: 2017-09-12

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Footnote

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Michael Pearce

About the Publisher

Riding home from work on the back of his donkey one lunch-time, Fairclough of the Customs Department was shot at by two men. The shots were fired from a distance and missed, and the only damage from the incident resulted when the frightened donkey careered into a fruit-stall nearby and deposited both fruit and Fairclough on top of the stall-holder, who, since it was lunch-time, was sleeping peacefully under the stall.

Fairclough held court afterwards in the bar of the Sporting Club, which was where Owen caught up with him.

‘It was ghastly,’ he declared, drinking deeply from his tumbler. ‘There were squashed tomatoes everywhere. Mind you, they saved my life. It looked like blood, you see. All over him, all over me. They must have thought they’d got me.’

‘What I can’t understand,’ said someone else at the bar, ‘is why anyone would want to get you anyway. I mean, let’s face it, Fairclough, you’re not exactly important, and although everyone else in the Department regards you as a bit of a pig, I wouldn’t have said that feeling ran high enough for them to want to kill you.’

‘Perhaps there’s a woman in the case,’ suggested someone.

Fairclough, who was a lifelong bachelor, snorted and peered into his tumbler.

‘Unlikely,’ said someone else. ‘The only female he lets get anywhere near him is that damned donkey of his.’

‘Perhaps it’s an animal lover. After all, it is a very small donkey and a very large Fairclough. Perhaps after years of witnessing this unequal combat somebody has decided to take sides.’

‘Miss Crispley, perhaps?’ suggested someone.

There was a general laugh. Then someone noticed Owen.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘On the job already? I see you’re starting in a sensible place. The bar. We’ve got a suspect for you. Miss Crispley, of the Mission.’

‘Thank you,’ said Owen. ‘Or shall I begin with the donkey?’

Beyond what he had told everyone in the bar, Fairclough had little information to give. He always rode home for lunch on his little donkey and he always went that way. Both he and his donkey were creatures of habit. Yes, that would have made it easy for anyone who wanted to attack him.

‘Though why in the hell anyone should want to do that,’ he said, aggrieved, ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

‘You’re Customs, aren’t you?’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’ said Fairclough touchily.

Customs was one of the lowest ranking of the Departments and its members were sensitive on the issue.

‘I wondered if it could be a question of wanting to settle old scores?’

‘Look,’ said Fairclough, rosy with heat and indignation and, no doubt, drink, ‘all I am is a book-keeper. A high-level one perhaps, but basically that’s all I am. The returns come in from the ports and I put them together in a way that makes sense to Finance. It’s more complicated than it sounds but when you get down to it, that’s all it is. I have nothing,’ said Fairclough with emphasis, ‘absolutely nothing to do with the front end of the business. Smugglers are just a row of figures to me. And that,’ said Fairclough, ‘is the way I’d like them to stay.’

‘There’s been no recent row of figures of any particular significance?’

‘Not to do with smuggling, no. From the point of view of Finance, yes. There always is. But even those bastards haven’t got round to sending out shooting parties. Yet.’