Selected Detective
CODE 46966

The phone rings when Ben-Roi enters his study, which he could have refused, with blurred vision from two cans of beer he had drunk on his way to the police station, not to mention the unbearable melancholy feeling he had always experienced after visiting the Gaulish tombs. He picked up the receiving machine and cursed anyone at the end of the line.

“Ken.”

“Detective Ben-Ro-eye?”

“Ben-Roi,” this Israeli correction while pouting. Who is this maniac?

“forgive me. I'm Inspector Yusuf Khalifa of the Egyptian Police Force. I got your name from Central Police headquarters.” Ben-Roi said nothing.

“Halo?”

“Ken?”

“You understand English, Mr Ben-Roi?”

“Ata medaber lit?”

“Sorry?”

“Do you speak Hebrew?”

“I can't.”

“So it looks like I have to speak in English. What do you want?” Khalifa exhaled her cigarette smoke. He had just spoken to the man for less than fifteen seconds and already disliked him.

“I'm dealing with a case involving an Israeli citizen,” Paparann, trying to keep his voice civilized. “Kasus killing.” Ben-Roi moves the phone handle to his left hand and, with his right hand, pulls the waist bottle from his pocket.

“So?”

“The victim was a woman named Hannah Schlegel. He was killed in 1990.” Ben-Roi grunts. “And you just finished it now?”

“No, no, you misunderstood. We were investigating the case at the time. A man has been sentenced. But now there is new evidence and we then re-investigate the case.”

Ben-Roi opens the bottle cap and gulps it down a few times.

“You punished the wrong person?” It's more an accusation than a question. Complaints about professional incompetence. Khalifa gritted her teeth.

“This is what I'm investigating.” Ben-Roi sipped again.

“So, what do you want from me?”

“I'm trying to get how you say it yes.., a little information about the victim's background. Her work, family, friends, interests, anything that can help us find her murder motive.”

“Dan?”

“Sorry?”

“Why did you call me?”

“Oh so. Well, the victim had been living in...” Khalifa glanced at the archive again in front of her, “Ohr ha-Chaim street. Number four-six, flat four. I was told that this address was inside..., how did you say it?... Your station surveillance area.” Ben-Roi retreated backwards and, raising his free hand, began to feel his temple. Goddamnit! This was the last thing he needed, trapped into the investigation along with a stone-headed person. Amateurs, almost all of them.

Damn amateur.he shouldn't have picked up that phone.

“At the moment I'm busy,” he replied ketus. “Can you call back?”

“Later?”

“Next week.”

“I'm afraid this can't linger,” said Khalifa, feeling an attitude of refusal to accept the case.

“Perhaps one of your colleagues can help me?” Someone a little more professional, he said inwardly. Someone who is a little proud of his work. “Or maybe I should talk to your boss,”.

However, he had a feeling that he could not easily get rid of this person. Why didn't the phone keep ringing?

“Inspector Ben-Roi?” khalifa's voice was heard again.

“Yes, yes,” said Ben-Roi, grumbling, swallowing the last gulp from the bottle and closing it back. “Alright, give me his name and address again.” He grabbed a pen and began to write what Khalifa said about Schlegel.

“And when was he killed?”

“Ten march 1990. I can send a note of this case if it can help you.”

“No need,” said Ben-Roi, realizing that the more information he had the more work he had to do. A few phone calls, a short visit to the woman's previous address may be all she's prepared to do. And if that's not enough, well, that's the Arab's problem. He is the one who has to keep moving forward.

“One thing you should know,” Khalifa continues.

“The one we suspect the most in this case is someone named Piet Jansen. Any link you can find between this man and Hannah Schlegel would be very useful. That...”

“Ya, yes, I know,” said Ben-Roi. “Piet hansen.”

“Jansen,” said Khalifa, no longer hesitating to cover up the taste of resentment in her voice. “J ... A ... N ... S ... e ... N. Clear?”

Ben-Roi's hands clenched tightly. “Ya, obviously,” grunts.

Khalifa smoked her cigarette angrily, sucking it all the way to the butts before she threw it into the ashtray in front of her.

“You will definitely need my contact details.”

“I think yes,” Ben-Roi replied while bristling. Khalifa gave it to him.

“Nomormu?” Ben-Roi gave me his e-mail address.

“No mobile phone?”

“Nothing,” said this Israelite, glancing at his Noki at the table.

Khalifa knew once this person was lying, but saw nothing of urgent importance. so lightly he said he would appreciate if Ben-Roi could respond as much as possible to this case as important and immediate.

“Sure,” says the Israeli.

Then silent, the path between them will crack with antipathy. Then Ben-Roi says it's all work he has to do. Khalifa thanked him, stiffly, and the two men were just about to lower their phone.

“One question!” Khalifa's voice echoed back on that path. Damn it, thought Ben-Roi.

“What?” Khalifa glanced at the archives that were in front of her.

“There's something I don't understand. On the victim's arm there is something... how do you say it .. tatter?”

“Tato?”

“Quickly once.” Khalifa looked at the black-and-white photograph from the front arm of the dead woman and pulled it out, lifting it in front of her.

“There are numbers. 4-6-9-6-6. With a triangle in front of him. Is this some kind of Jewish ritual?” Ben-Roi squeezes back in his chair, shaking his head. Arab cocky antisemite.

“That's the concentration camp number. Nazis tattooed the arms of Jewish prisoners during the Holocaust. Although, since you strongly do not believe that the holocaust ever actually happened, it may not help you much. Anything else?” Khalifa looked at the photo before her.

“There again?” Repeat Ben-Roi, harder.

“No,” says Khalifa. “No more.”

“Later I contact.” phone connection was cut off. Khalifa continued to look at the photo.His eyes grew to see the five digits on the woman's skin like a bunch of insects emerging from a triangular mound of ant hill, then put down the photo and picked up Jansen's gun. He also observed the gun for a while, with his frowning eyebrows, before he put the gun down again, picked up the pen and, on the little book by the side of the phone, put it on, writing “Nazi” and “holocaust”, underlining it with a double black line.