nothing.”
“What did you tell them?” asked Daniel.
“Just what you told me. That there’d been a crime nearby. None of them knows anything that can help you.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll need to talk to them.”
“Suit yourself.”
The dining room was an airy blue rectangle furnished with half a dozen circular tables, five of them empty. The ceiling was white and edged with crown moldings. French doors led out to a patio that served as pecking grounds for dozens of pigeons. Their clucks and thrums could be heard through the glass. Each table was surrounded by folding chairs and covered with an aquamarine tablecloth. Arabic music played from a portable radio. A long table at the center of the room bore plates of pastry and fruit, glasses of orange juice. A brass samovar on a wheeled cart hissed coffee-flavoured steam. Next to it stood Zia Hajab, solemn-faced, a white apron fastened over his work clothes, holding a cup under the spout.
Baldwin walked Daniel to a table by the window where the other two doctors and the Swiss nurse, Catherine Hauser, were seated together eating breakfast. After making the introductions, the administrator sat down with them. Before Baldwin’s rump had settled on the chair, Hajab moved in quickly to serve him, filling his plate with dates and apples, pouring steaming coffee into his cup, punctuating the activity with obsequious bows.
No invitation to sit was offered Daniel and he remained standing. Three faces stared up at him. He needed to speak to each individually, and breaking up their klatch made him feel intrusive. He took Catherine Hauser first, drawing her to a table at the far end of the room, carrying her coffee cup for her and setting it down in front of her.
She thanked him and smiled, a plump, elderly woman dressed in a shapeless, colourless smock. Gray-haired and blue-eyed, with the same kind of parchment skin he’d seen on the older nuns at the Convent of Notre Dame de Sion. As he looked at her, coins of color rose on each cheek. She seemed friendly and cooperative but was sure she’d heard or seen nothing. What had happened? she wanted to know. A crime, he said, smiled, and ushered her back to her table.
The Canadian, Carter, he would have pegged for one of the Scandinavian backpackers who traipsed through the city each summerbig-framed and heavy-featured, with curly blond hair, narrow gray eyes, and a full ginger beard. He was in his early thirties and wore old-fashioned round gold-framed glasses. His hair was shaggy and longish and, like the rest of him, seemed carelessly assembled. His white coat was wrinkled and he wore it over a blue work shirt and faded jeans. Slow-talking and deliberate, he appeared to be lost in his own world, though he did express normal curiosity about the crime.
Daniel answered his questions with vague generalities and asked, “You attended the seminar with Dr. Darousha?”
“Sure did.”
“Did you see patients afterwards?”
“No,” said Carter. “Wally went back by himself. I was off-shift, so I took a cab into East Jerusalem and had dinner. At the Dallas Restaurant.” He chuckled and added: “Fillet steak, chips, three bottles of Heineken.” Another chuckle.
“Something amusing, Dr. Carter?”
Carter shook his head, ran his fingers through his beard, and smiled.
“Not really. Just that this sounds like one of those cop shows back homewhere were you on the night and all that.”
“I suppose it does,” said Daniel, writing. “What time did you arrive back at the hospital?”
“Must have been close to ten-thirty.”
“What did you do when you arrived?”
“Went to my room, read medical journals until they put me to sleep, and popped off.”
“What time was that?”
“I really couldn’t tell you. This was fairly boring stuff so it could have been as early as eleven. When was this crime committed?”
“That hasn’t been established yet. Did you hear or see anything at all that was out of the
“What did you tell them?” asked Daniel.
“Just what you told me. That there’d been a crime nearby. None of them knows anything that can help you.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll need to talk to them.”
“Suit yourself.”
The dining room was an airy blue rectangle furnished with half a dozen circular tables, five of them empty. The ceiling was white and edged with crown moldings. French doors led out to a patio that served as pecking grounds for dozens of pigeons. Their clucks and thrums could be heard through the glass. Each table was surrounded by folding chairs and covered with an aquamarine tablecloth. Arabic music played from a portable radio. A long table at the center of the room bore plates of pastry and fruit, glasses of orange juice. A brass samovar on a wheeled cart hissed coffee-flavoured steam. Next to it stood Zia Hajab, solemn-faced, a white apron fastened over his work clothes, holding a cup under the spout.
Baldwin walked Daniel to a table by the window where the other two doctors and the Swiss nurse, Catherine Hauser, were seated together eating breakfast. After making the introductions, the administrator sat down with them. Before Baldwin’s rump had settled on the chair, Hajab moved in quickly to serve him, filling his plate with dates and apples, pouring steaming coffee into his cup, punctuating the activity with obsequious bows.
No invitation to sit was offered Daniel and he remained standing. Three faces stared up at him. He needed to speak to each individually, and breaking up their klatch made him feel intrusive. He took Catherine Hauser first, drawing her to a table at the far end of the room, carrying her coffee cup for her and setting it down in front of her.
She thanked him and smiled, a plump, elderly woman dressed in a shapeless, colourless smock. Gray-haired and blue-eyed, with the same kind of parchment skin he’d seen on the older nuns at the Convent of Notre Dame de Sion. As he looked at her, coins of color rose on each cheek. She seemed friendly and cooperative but was sure she’d heard or seen nothing. What had happened? she wanted to know. A crime, he said, smiled, and ushered her back to her table.
The Canadian, Carter, he would have pegged for one of the Scandinavian backpackers who traipsed through the city each summerbig-framed and heavy-featured, with curly blond hair, narrow gray eyes, and a full ginger beard. He was in his early thirties and wore old-fashioned round gold-framed glasses. His hair was shaggy and longish and, like the rest of him, seemed carelessly assembled. His white coat was wrinkled and he wore it over a blue work shirt and faded jeans. Slow-talking and deliberate, he appeared to be lost in his own world, though he did express normal curiosity about the crime.
Daniel answered his questions with vague generalities and asked, “You attended the seminar with Dr. Darousha?”
“Sure did.”
“Did you see patients afterwards?”
“No,” said Carter. “Wally went back by himself. I was off-shift, so I took a cab into East Jerusalem and had dinner. At the Dallas Restaurant.” He chuckled and added: “Fillet steak, chips, three bottles of Heineken.” Another chuckle.
“Something amusing, Dr. Carter?”
Carter shook his head, ran his fingers through his beard, and smiled.
“Not really. Just that this sounds like one of those cop shows back homewhere were you on the night and all that.”
“I suppose it does,” said Daniel, writing. “What time did you arrive back at the hospital?”
“Must have been close to ten-thirty.”
“What did you do when you arrived?”
“Went to my room, read medical journals until they put me to sleep, and popped off.”
“What time was that?”
“I really couldn’t tell you. This was fairly boring stuff so it could have been as early as eleven. When was this crime committed?”
“That hasn’t been established yet. Did you hear or see anything at all that was out of the
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