drink. Which was exactly what a bunch of Welsh Fusiliers had been doing until they had spotted at the next café a group of the Duke of Cornwall’s Light. Relations between the regiments were not cordial, a matter, apparently, of the condition in which the DCLI had once left some barracks when the Welsh were due to move in, and merry banter was exchanged. As the evening wore on, and more drink was consumed, the banter became less merry. Remarks were made which, the Welsh considered, reflected on their nation (‘Couldn’t kick a ball near the posts, never mind through them’) and they had risen to defend theirs and their country’s honour. In the ensuing fracas a surprising number of bottles had been broken and a considerable amount of furniture damaged; so, too, had been a considerable number of soldiers.
The police had been summoned and a constable had indeed arrived but had wisely confined himself to the role of a spectator. When he saw Owen he fell in – behind him – with considerable relief.
Owen had no great desire to get involved in a brawl either. He doubted very much if the contestants were in a condition in which they could respond to the voice of command, much less a civilian voice of command; and then what would he do? He advanced slowly down the street towards them.
The fighting seemed, fortunately, to have reached a slight lull. Those still on their feet paused for a moment, breathing heavily. They were just about to resume, however, when a voice came sharply from the other end of the street: ‘Stop that at once!’
The combatants looked up, surprised.
A slight, smartly dressed man came out of the darkness towards them.
‘Stop that at once! Stand apart!’
‘Blimey!’ said one of the soldiers incredulously. ‘A Gyppie!’
‘Bloody hell!’
“Ere,’ said another voice, ‘what do you think you’re doing? Ordering us around?’
‘He needs bloody straightening out.’
‘He bloody does!’
They began to move towards him.
Owen, in a fury now, and forgetting himself, started forward.
‘Cut that out! None of that! Get back! Get back at once!’
‘Christ!’ said one of the soldiers. ‘Here’s another one!’
‘He’s bloody British, though.’
‘I am bloody British,’ snapped Owen, ‘and tomorrow morning I’ll have you bloody lot on jankers. I’ll have you bloody running round and round the parade ground until your bloody balls drop off –’
‘He speaks a bit like an officer,’ said one of the men doubtfully.
‘What’s he in civvies for?’
‘Must be off duty.’
‘– and drop on the ground and lie there till they fry – ‘raged Owen.
The men, impressed, stopped fighting.
‘That was lovely!’ said one of the Welshmen. ‘A bit poetic!’
A group of men in uniform suddenly appeared at the end of the street.
‘Christ!’ said one of the soldiers. ‘We’re for it! It’s the jelly-babies!’
‘What’s going on?’ shouted a voice that was vaguely familiar.
The Military Police came down the street.
‘What’s going on?’
Owen recognized the voice now. It was Shearer.
‘These men have been disturbing the peace,’ said the Egyptian.
‘Oh, have they? We’ll soon see about that! Get their names, sergeant!’
‘I would like a copy, please,’ said the Egyptian.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It would save me having to do it for myself.’
‘I’m handling them,’ said Shearer. ‘It’s no concern of yours.’
‘I’m afraid it is,’ said the Egyptian.
‘Oh?’ said Shearer. ‘And who the hell are you?’
‘Can I introduce you?’ said Owen, stepping forward. ‘Mr Mahmoud El Zaki, Captain Shearer. Mr El Zaki is a member of the Parquet and is, presumably, the officer investigating this case.’
If so, it would be very speedy. In Egypt the police had no powers of investigation. They merely reported a case of suspected crime to the Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice, the Parquet, which then assigned one of its lawyers to conduct the investigation.
‘There is no case,’ said Shearer. ‘It’s an internal matter for the Army.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said the Egyptian. ‘Since the incident has been formally reported a file will have been already opened.’
‘I suggest you close it, then.’
‘That will not be possible.’
Shearer looked at Owen.
‘I’m afraid he’s right. Once the process has been formally initiated it rolls on until it’s formally closed.’
‘How do I go about getting it formally closed?’
‘A request has to go in from the administration. Get your people to contact Paul Trevelyan.’
Shearer made a note of the name.
‘He’s the chap who was chairing the meeting this morning,’ said Owen.
Shearer frowned.
‘Meanwhile,’ said Owen, pointedly, ‘you are obliged to cooperate with the Parquet.’
‘The names, please,’ said the Egyptian.
Shearer gave in with an ill grace.
‘Give him a copy when you’ve finished,’ he said to the sergeant. ‘You lot,’ he said, turning on the soldiers, ‘had better get back to barracks. You’re a bloody disgrace. I’ll deal with you in the morning.’
‘Better send them separately,’ advised Owen. ‘Otherwise they’ll start fighting again.’
‘They’d better bloody not! You’re right, though, it’s best to make sure. You lot,’ he said to the DCLI, ‘get started. Sergeant, take half your men and go with them. You shower,’ he said to the Fusiliers, ‘start in ten minutes. Corporal, see they don’t cause any more trouble.’
‘The list, sir,’ said the sergeant, giving it to the Egyptian. He did not normally reckon to say ‘sir’ to Egyptians but this situation seemed a bit complicated, and then there was the other funny bloke standing by whom Shearer seemed to listen to.
‘Thank you.’ The Egyptian hesitated. ‘Are you not going to take the names of witnesses?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘You spoke of Army legal processes.’
‘Not necessary, I think,’ said Shearer.
The Egyptian raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. He took out a notebook and went over to the owner of the Fusiliers’ cafe.
‘Will you want to talk to me?’ asked Owen.
‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said the Egyptian, over his shoulder.
Shearer frowned.
‘I don’t think that’s right,’ he objected. ‘You ought not to be called on to give evidence against our own people. It puts you in an awkward position.’
‘Ah!’ said Owen. ‘I’m used to that!’
Shearer hesitated and then, as the Egyptian did not appear to be disposed to go