Map of the Dead: A mystery thriller that's a page turner

by Murray Bailey

  Map of the Dead

  Secret messages aren’t just for the ancient Egyptians but may still lead you to the gold.

  Can You Solve The Puzzle?

  www.mapofthedead.co.uk

  Also by Murray Bailey

  Singapore 52

  I Dare You

  Map of the Dead

  Murray Bailey

  Heritage Books

  First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Heritage Books

  2

  copyright © Murray Bailey 2016

  The moral right of Murray Bailey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  e-book ISBN 978-0-9955108-3-8

  Heritage Books, Truro, Cornwall

  For Nicole, Annabelle, Alexander and Harry.

  For your love and laughter.

  The First

  ONE

  Neither Alex nor her dad were happy with Ellen cycling to and from the exhibition. Especially not at night. Naturally, Alex had focused on probabilities. He’d said something like: You are eleven times more likely to be killed cycling than in a car—mile for mile. Although three-quarters of bike accidents are urban, half of fatalities are rural. So you are three times more likely to be killed cycling in the countryside.

  What about cycling in the countryside at night? Winding roads, no street lights, speeding cars and no expectation of meeting a cyclist. There are no available statistics, but you are almost guaranteed to be hit by a car.

  According to Ellen’s dad anyway.

  When she was a schoolkid, her dad’s friend had been flattened by a truck. At least they guessed it was a truck from the extensive damage. He’d been cycling home in the dark, with lights. The truck driver hadn’t stopped. No one was ever arrested for it. One day a loving father of two, the next day roadkill. No doubt that’s when Ellen’s dad formed his view.

  A car came around the corner ahead, its lights dazzling Ellen. She instinctively swerved towards the verge. Mud and gravel spun under her tyres but she managed to brake and stop. Her hands were trembling as she started again. Only a mile to go to the village and her rented bungalow. She’d text her dad as soon as she got in, to stop him worrying.

  The whole journey from Highclere Castle to the village was less than two miles as the crow flies. A little further by winding road.

  It hadn’t been an issue until recently, until the British Museum had put on the Egyptian exhibition. Now she had to wait until the exhibition closed before she could continue with her research. And it was November, so the sun had set by late afternoon. After midnight in the Hampshire countryside, no moon in sight, it was pitch-black.

  Eventually the lights of Old Bramsclere gave the oak trees ahead a ghostly orange outline. Almost home. She relaxed. Thoughts of the latest discoveries began to supplant her fear of cycling in the dark.

  Working with the researcher from Berlin had been the major breakthrough, realizing that their investigations were linked. Serendipitous synergy, he’d called it. Showing off his use of English probably. But the sum of their combined research was definitely greater than the independent parts. She hadn’t heard from him tonight, which was unusual. Lately he’d become more cautious about what he put in emails.

  “It’s too sensitive,” he’d said. “We should both be careful.” And then last week he’d been convinced that someone was following him. Was he just paranoid? Did their finding really have such dramatic implications? Maybe.

  She’d followed his instruction at the weekend, storing all the sensitive stuff in a secure place. She’d planned to tell her best friend but at the last moment decided against it.

  “We need all the proof before we publish,” Marek had warned her. “The evidence of the murder isn’t enough. This is huge and the only way to protect ourselves is to issue the full story all at once. That way, killing us won’t stop the truth getting out.” He was such a dramatist! Maybe their discovery wasn’t that big. Maybe Marek was just believing his own hype.

  Ellen propped her bike beside the rear door and put the key in the door. Odd, the door wasn’t locked. Perhaps, in her haste, she’d forgotten to lock it. After all, she was exhausted. Late nights, lots of caffeine, and a thousand thoughts whizzing around your head weren’t conducive to sleep. She put the key in the lock and double-checked it for security. She glanced at the kitchen clock. Almost 2am. She’d take a sleeping pill tonight. A good night’s sleep and maybe, providing Marek was available, they could finish the translation and solve the final clue.

  “Hide it,” Marek had emailed.

  “If anyone finds out, I’ll be in trouble,” Ellen had replied.

  “You’ll be in more trouble if we lose it. Let’s not take any risks.”

  She pulled her notebook and laptop from her backpack and put them on the dining room table. She used that room as an office. It had once been a single-bed bungalow. Now there was a small bedroom in the loft. Her room. The downstairs bedroom was Pete’s aunt’s. He looked after the place while she was in the Canaries for her health. Apparently she planned to return but after six months had decided to rent out the little room.

  Ellen texted her dad, popped two sleeping pills and was asleep within thirty minutes of climbing into bed.

  Did something wake her? She looked at her phone: 9:45. Her mind was groggy from sleep or maybe the tablets. She turned over and closed her eyes again.

  A noise downstairs made her sit up. Pete? What was he doing here? He usually came over at weekends, sometimes stayed over in his aunt’s room.

  She could hear him in the kitchen. He’d be making himself breakfast. Ellen’s stomach rumbled. She’d been so engrossed that she’d not eaten a meal last night. The thought of bacon and eggs made her get up. She pulled on her dressing gown and started down the steep stairs. Hopefully the grogginess would go after food and some strong coffee, she thought as she steadied herself with the banister.

  She turned in the hall and saw Pete silhouetted against the dining room window.

  “Hello,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  The figure straightened. Her back brain registered that he was taller than Pete, but it hadn’t told her front brain yet. The man was standing by her laptop. Her papers were on the floor.

  “Pete, what the hell?”

  The man stepped forward. The front brain got the message: not Pete!

  She breathed in, tried to sound confident.

  “What the hell are you doing? Get out. Get out!”

  He raised his hands. “Sorry. I didn’t think anyone was in. I was just—”

  “Get out!” She realized she sounded hysterical.

  The back door was open.

  She backed away, giving him a clear route to the exit.

  She was about to say “I’ll call the police!’’ when he stepped forward again and she saw intent in his eyes. Ellen spun. Within three strides she was up the stairs. Her heartbeat was pounding in her head. Phone! Get the phone and call the police.

  She scrambled up, sensed him close behind. At the top she kicked wildly, made contact, heard him grunt and a thud. She dived but not for the phone. She had a cricket bat under the bed, a gift from her dad worried about her sleep
ing in a house on her own. Her slick fingers closed around the handle. It slid out and she jerked upright ready to use it.

  The stranger grabbed her and was saying something. The tone was threatening but she couldn’t hear. Her mind screamed panic.

  Fight.

  She twisted and turned, threw herself into him, pushed, scratched and then something hit her on the side of the head. The room blurred and darkened. She scrabbled more, lashing out as her legs seemed to give way. And then she was floating—a weird sensation after the fight. It lasted less than a second. Then something hit her again.

  The man stood at the top of the steep staircase. Crazy bitch. The girl lay crumpled at the bottom. He picked up the cricket bat, descended and poked her. She didn’t move. He waited a second and then whacked her on the thigh. Still no movement, except the judder from the force. He reached down and checked her neck for a pulse. Shit! No pulse, and her neck looked broken.

  The man stepped over her and dialled on his phone.

  “She’s fucking dead.”

  “What?”

  “The house wasn’t empty. The girl was upstairs. Came down and went fucking nuts. Like that cartoon character. Spinning and spitting and lashing out. The fucking dusty devil, that’s what she was like.”

  “Tasmanian Devil.”

  “Yeah that. Crazy cow. Anyway, she fell, broke her fucking neck. Stupid bitch.”

  “OK, we’ll deal with that in a minute. You get the evidence?”

  “I searched everywhere. I’ve got a pile of notes, a notebook and a laptop. Laptop’s password protected, of course, but I don’t think the notes help much.”

  “What about the girl. Did you get her to talk?”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling you. She just went ballistic. Totally nuts. I never got a chance to get her to say anything.”

  The line was quiet for a moment. The house was quiet except for a ticking: hot water in pipes, the heating maybe coming on.

  Eventually the other guy spoke. “What’s the risk?”

  He looked around. The question was about evidence that he’d been there. The risk the police would know it’d been foul play. The risk he’d be traced through DNA.

  “We fought. She scratched me. Yes, it’s high risk. The boss is gonna do his nut.”

  “OK, bring the laptop, notes and stuff. Destroy the rest. And Lemmy…”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t fuck that up too.”

  TWO

  Alex MacLure bounded down the steps outside the British Museum. It was mid-afternoon on a bright, feel-good day. He nodded to Eddie in the box by the gate.

  The old guy waved back. “See you tomorrow?” he called through the glass.

  Alex grinned. Before he’d started his new life he’d hated routine. Not now. The difference was that now he was in control. He could do his research at home some days—if he wanted—and yet here he was at the museum. Truth was, he didn’t do nine to five; he varied his hours based on how he felt. He could arrive when the gates first opened, flash his ID card and be let in with the staff. And, on a good run, he might stay until closing, which was 8pm at this time of year. Yes, his new life as a researcher, out of the rat-race, was fantastic.

  There was a large gaggle of Japanese teenagers by the railing. Mostly dressed in black, they seemed uncertain about whether the museum was open to the public. Or maybe they were just waiting for someone, a teacher or guide perhaps. A couple sat on a bench enjoying the sun. A man in a blue suit strolled in his direction on the opposite side of the street. Maybe he’d also finished early for the day. Or maybe he took a detour through Bloomsbury to avoid the rush-rush of city life.

  Alex could relate to that. A short walk from Oxford Street and yet it was an oasis of calm. Regency and early Victorian buildings, five storeys tall, would have crowded any other street. Here they were majestic, simply majestic.

  Alex could have jumped on the Central line tube at Tottenham Court Road but he didn’t. He had all the time in the world. And why go in a sardine can through the Victorian sewers of London? Well, unless it was chucking it down. In the two months he’d been coming to the museum it’d only rained heavily twice. And on those days he’d timed his journeys to avoid the worst of the crush.

  If you drew an east–west line on a map of London, starting at the museum, you’d be just south of Alex’s house after one and a half miles. About thirty New York blocks. But London wasn’t built like that. Most roads weren’t straight and there was no direct route. By foot, the journey was closer to three miles. Less than an hour, if he wanted it to be that is.

  He walked west, chose a road north for a hundred yards and then headed west again. For variety, each day’s zigzag was different. Each day he’d find something different along the route.

  With the sun in his face he found himself thinking about archery. A new hobby only two weeks in. It’d replaced Lindy Hop dancing, which hadn’t been for him. Sally, the archery instructor, said he had a good eye and a strong arm. Maybe she’d been flirting a little. Maybe it was just an honest observation. He had scored the highest of all the students at both lessons so far. And he did go to the gym three times a week, so he was undoubtedly fit.

  His route twisted and turned: west, north and then west again. He’d reached the edge of Marylebone Village and it was like stepping through a curtain. The air was cleaner, the sky even more blue.

  Upmarket cafés and restaurants were everywhere. He found a trendy-looking place and was surprised by the reasonable price of the food. Not that he needed to worry about the price. Not really.

  There were a cluster of tables on the pavement outside. Without thinking, he looked at his reflection in the window. Girls commented on his smile and nice blue eyes. He wasn’t bad looking. Maybe just a bit shy. Which was pretty dumb for a thirty-five-year-old, he realized. Perhaps tonight he’d ask Sally for a coffee after archery. Nothing to lose, everything to gain. That was his new philosophy.

  “What yuh ’avin?” a waiter said in a soft Jamaican accent. His name badge read: Sammie.

  “The sumac grilled chicken, please. And a Sanpellegrino limonata.”

  Alex sat at a table outside and a moment later had a glass of sparking lemon.

  He thought about his research, trying to obtain conclusive evidence of who the pre-dynastic pharaohs were. Kings of Egypt dead for five thousand years with little beside tantalizing clues.

  “Penny fer ’em?” Sammie said as he put a plate of grilled chicken with pitta and dips on the table.

  Alex began to explain. A few words in and Sammie held up a hand. He leaned in close and whispered.

  “Man, yuh need fi get lay.” You need to get laid.

  Alex nodded. “You’re probably right.”

  Sammie chuckled and patted Alex on the back. “Enjoy di food, man.”

  Parked five cars before the café was a white van. Behind the white van, a man in a blue suit was looking in a shop window. He watched the waiter deliver a plate of food to MacLure’s table, laugh and retreat inside. The man in the blue suit used his phone.

  “Fox,” he said, using his call-sign. “The rabbit has stopped and ordered food. You have plenty of time. At least another half an hour.”

  Forty minutes later, Alex was outside his flat: a Georgian red-brick in a suburb called Maida Vale. Not a trendy street, not yet, but give it another five years… perhaps. Although he’d thought that five years ago when he’d bought it. The house price wave had been moving west from the affluent area around Warwick Avenue. But it had petered out to a ripple.

  Like most of the properties it had been split into four flats. There were six concrete steps to the communal front door. As he ascended he could hear his house phone ringing. It stopped.

  He opened the door to his apartment. Topsy, his twelve-year-old cocker spaniel cross, would be excited to see him.

  “Topsy?”

  It was unusual for her not to be at the door as he entered. He headed for his bedroom in case she was asleep. No.<
br />
  Back in the lounge, he heard a scrabbling at the back door.

  “Topsy?”

  More scrabbling.

  The dog was in the garden. The dog flap was closed.

  Locked.

  Somehow, Topsy had knocked the latch and locked herself out. He flicked it aside and she pushed through and into his arms.

  “Daft dog,” he said, rubbing her head.

  The latch hadn’t failed before, but he guessed there was a first time for everything. He’d take a look at it later.

  The TV was already on: a chat show. He left it on all day because Topsy liked it and seemed to think it was company.

  Alex sat on the sofa, switching on the news. Topsy jumped onto his lap and looked at him with her liquid brown eyes. He shot the breeze with her for a few minutes, describing his day and asking about hers. She’d had a walk with Nadja, a young woman who cleaned his flat once a week as well as walking Topsy each day. They’d been to a park. She’d sniffed some familiar and some new places. At least, that’s what he imagined she’d said.

  The home phone jingled. He just managed to reach it.

  “Hello?”

  “Have you heard the news?” It was his mother. Her strong Scottish accent had an edge. She wasn’t a sentimental woman but her tone said that something bad had happened.

  He waited a beat. “I’m watching the news now.”

  “I don’t mean on the TV.”

  “What news, Mum?”

  “About Ellen? About the accident?”

  “What accident?” He felt his throat constrict. Topsy looked at him with concern.

  “Ellen’s house. There’s been an explosion.”

  Alex couldn’t speak. He waited for his mother to continue.