Alex took him across the first corridor and into a small side room, probably once a boot room. “Well, more of a coffee room. I don’t think…”
Pete was already opening cupboards and searching for clues. Alex looked in the bin. Empty.
He moved it aside to get at a cupboard door.
“What’s that?” Pete said over Alex’s shoulder. There was a ball of paper in the gap between the last cupboard and wall. Someone probably missed the bin and it just got wedged there.
Alex fished it out and smoothed open the small piece of paper. It looked like it had been torn from a notebook. Four lines were written on it:
The Carnarvon Tablet
Moses?
12, 8 and 40
Tutankhamen
“Ellen’s writing,” Alex said, handing it to Pete to look over.
“What’s the Carnarvon Tablet?”
“It’s about a stela—”
“Simple, remember,” Pete interrupted. “What’s a stela?”
“A stone marker known as a stela. Sometimes to mark a boundary. Sometimes like a plaque. The Carnarvon Tablet was taken from one of the temples. There had originally been two.”
“What happened to the other one?”
“No one knows. Carnarvon’s notes said there were two but these were later changed to one tablet. Anyway, she’s crossed it out. I don’t think—”
Pete wasn’t listening. “So Ellen was trying to find out what was on the other tablet? That’s the research. And maybe the other tablet was gold?”
Alex shrugged. He remembered Pete mentioning treasure when they were in the coffee bar. It didn’t seem likely. “Could have been, but…” For some reason Alex held back. The number twelve; one of the symbols he’d interpreted for Ellen. To him it looked like a surveyor’s measuring device. It was a line with twelve knots, two of which were bigger: the third and seventh. He’d told her it was much more than just a measure. Twelve knots could make up a triangle with sides of three, four and five. The ancient Egyptians thought of it as having magical powers. They called it the golden triangle.
“Well?” Pete had asked him about Moses and the numbers.
“I don’t know what they’re about.”
“But why write Moses? He didn’t have anything to do with… Oh wait, of course he did. He led the Jews out of Egypt, didn’t he?”
Alex wasn’t in the mood for history lessons. He said, “Tutankhamen is obvious. Most of this exhibition is about Carter and Carnarvon’s discovery.”
Pete said, “What else then? Maybe it was a message about some treasure. I keep thinking maybe Ellen was onto where more of King Tut’s wealth was buried.”
“Tutankhamen. Ellen hated the name King Tut.”
“OK, Toot-an-car-mun then. What do you think? Could she have been onto something?”
Alex shrugged again. “Look, Pete, you’ve got to understand what it’s like to be an archaeologist. It’s not Indiana Jones. It’s hardly ever about finding buried treasure. It’s about piecing together the past. It’s like solving part of a puzzle. Archaeologists get a kick out of discovering the tiniest thing.”
Pete asked more questions but Alex’s energy drained away. What had started out as a diversion, a distraction from Ellen’s death, now seemed pointless. There was nothing here of interest. What he really needed was her laptop. That’s where her research would have been. And that had been destroyed in the explosion. However, as they drove back to London in silence, Alex couldn’t help but think he had missed something.
FIVE
Alex took out Topsy for a long walk in Regent’s Park. He’d been tired after the late night and spent the previous day moping about and for the second day had no enthusiasm for work. He’d been through all the photographs he had of Ellen on his phone and laptop. He’d grazed on TV and he’d pulled a few books from the bookcase and browsed them. A well-thumbed paperback entitled The Oxford Dictionary of Ancient Egypt caught his attention. It was in the wrong section, with novels rather than the text books. He tried to recall the last time he’d picked it up. Ellen had given it to him when he’d first helped her. There was a scribbled thanks and a date, two years earlier, inside the front cover.
“Think you can memorize the King List?” she’d challenged as he opened the birthday present. The King List was the accepted chronology of the pharaohs. Accepted because there were alternative versions and disputes, but Alex gave it a go. He’d managed fifty-eight names from the Eighteenth Dynasty—which included Tutankhamen—to the start of the Twenty-first. He wrote down those he could remember now and managed half. He knew he was killing time but opened the book at the chronology section and tried again to learn them. After an hour he’d done pretty well but lost interest. That was when he decided to get out of the flat.
He was sitting on a bench watching kids play football when his mobile rang.
Nadja.
“You don’t want me walk Topsy today, Mr MacLure?” She insisted on calling him by his surname even though he’d protested.
“Sorry, Nadja, I completely forgot the time.”
“I walk her later. If you like?”
Alex looked at Topsy, whose eyes immediately brightened. “I think she’d like that. Thanks. What time suits you?”
“Five all right?”
“That’ll be great.” He was about to end the call when Nadja spoke again. Her voice was different.
“Mr MacLure?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been cleaning …” Of course she had. Was she going to ask for more money? Why mention it? She continued after a hesitation: “I found mobile phone. In your house, I mean.”
“What? Where?” Alex tried to remember if he still had an old phone somewhere. Maybe an old Nokia.
“Spare room. It was behind bedside table.” She sounded a little awkward. “I know you don’t ask me to clean in there much, but it has been while… and… well I had time.”
Alex’s mind was spinning. Nadja didn’t know Ellen was dead. She’d cleaned the spare room and found a phone. It must have been Ellen’s. Who else could it belong to?
He was already standing and heading back. Topsy bounded beside him—as well as any twelve-year-old cocker spaniel can bound that is.
“OK, just leave it on the coffee table. And see you later.”
“Five o’clock,” she confirmed.
The phone was an Apple model, the one before last. It was white. Ellen used to have one of those, didn’t she? It had to be hers. She’d been the only one to stay in the room for over a year. But then again it was an old model. Could it have been there longer?
It switched on. It was charged. How long did a battery last if unused? He had no idea, but surely not a long time. Not a year. It had to be Ellen’s.
He tried some numbers that might be Ellen’s passcode. Obvious ones: the month and year of her birth; the day and month; her age and house number; her age and number of the house where she was born. None worked.
He tried his birthday. Wrong.
That was five attempts. He stopped. A message had warned him that the phone would be locked for a minute. How many tries before it locked for good? There had been a case where the FBI had obtained a warrant to force Apple to unlock a phone. They could have cracked it themselves but too many attempts caused the phone to wipe its contents.
He googled it.
Ten.
Four numbers with ten alternatives each meant ten thousand alternative combinations. He put the phone down. He wouldn’t try again until he was pretty sure he had the right number.
In his enthusiasm to check out the phone, he’d overlooked his answer machine. The display flashed three messages.
There was one from his mother “Just checking in” and two from Aysha Milwanee of The Sunday Times. Her first message asked him to call her. Her second explained that she would like an interview. The Sunday Times—there was part of him excited by the thought of being in such a prestigious paper but, at the same time, a gnawing in his stoma
ch, a distrust of the press he couldn’t explain. He googled Aysha Milwanee and saw that she was attractive, in a bookish sort of way, and an investigative journalist rather than a gossip merchant.
He dialled the number she had left.
“Aysha Milwanee.” Her voice had a businesslike but approachable lilt.
“Alex MacLure, returning your call. You said you wanted to interview me. What about?”
She introduced herself before saying, “It’s mostly about your friend Ellen Champion. I understand she was pretty exceptional. I thought I could write a human interest piece about her life.”
“And the accident?”
“And the gas explosion, yes.”
Alex thought for a moment.
Aysha added, “I can’t guarantee it’ll be worthy of publication, but I’ve spoken to her family and other people who worked at the museum. It won’t take long, just a bit of depth from your perspective. Wouldn’t you like to celebrate her life?”
He acquiesced. What harm could it do?
Milwanee said, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
When Alex put the phone down he looked at the white phone on the coffee table. Should he tell Pete? He’d promised to report if he’d found anything of Ellen’s. But then Pete had said he’d ask the police whether they’d found anything at the house.
He sent a text.
Hi, Pete. Did the police find anything?
After five minutes he stopped willing his phone to ping with a message and made himself a cup of coffee. It was another half an hour before the doorbell rang and the reporter was at his door. She was pretty, but not as good-looking as her photograph, and she smiled apologetically, her teeth brilliant white against her dark skin. When she leaned in to shake his hand, he smelled a delicious floral perfume.
For a moment they stood a little awkwardly, until she looked around and said, “Where shall we sit?”
He indicated the dining table and sat at an angle across from her. With deliberate movements, as though preparing herself, getting into the right frame of mind, she took a digital recorder from her handbag, placed it on the table and then took out a notebook and pen. She looked into his eyes.
After pleasantries she said, “Let’s start with you deciding to change career. You were working as the financial controller at Shelley’s Recruitment Agency and you just left.”
“I gave up being an accountant to study archaeology full-time. I’m doing a PhD in Archaeology—ancient Egyptian studies.”
“At…?”
“Macquarie University in Australia. My specific area of interest is before the First Dynasty.” He began to give details, names and dates but she wasn’t interested.
“Nice if you can afford it. Not many people can just give up work.”
“I won the lottery.”
She smiled and raised her eyebrows, not believing him.
He said, “No, really. I could pay off my mortgage and do what I wanted. I was always good with numbers, but that’s not the same as accountancy. It was a means to an end. So when I could, I quit.”
“Everyone’s dream.” She smiled disarmingly. “So, back to Egypt. You were particularly interested in Tutankhamen?”
“Not really.” He shrugged but then felt a lump in his throat. “That was Ellen’s area of research.”
“OK, let’s talk about Ellen. You were close, right?”
He tried to respond but couldn’t for a moment. He blinked as his eyes prickled.
“Sorry, that was insensitive of me,” Milwanee said. She pushed her hair back and smiled encouragingly. “Let’s talk about you again for a bit.” She opened a notebook. “You made the papers five years ago. A woman had her handbag snatched at Warwick tube station. You intervened, tackled the thief and got the lady her bag back. ‘Have-a-go Warrior of Warwick Avenue’.” She looked up from her notes. “That was you, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. That’s what The Sun called me.”
“And you declined to give interviews. Why was that?”
“Personal reasons.” He looked at her and saw that she knew. After a moment, he said, “Because of my father.”
“You didn’t want the press—us—raking up the dirt? Was that it?”
“Not really dirt… I guess the thought of all my personal life laid bare for all to see was too uncomfortable.”
Milwanee said, “He’d just committed suicide.”
“That’s right. It was a difficult time.”
“But now?”
“It’s in the past. I’m over it. I just ask that you don’t go into details, don’t mention the investigation into his tax affairs and embezzlement.”
Milwanee smiled sympathetically. “It’s not the story. Your father was an accountant and you entered the accountancy profession. Would I be right in saying it’s connected?”
“With the naivety of youth, I thought it would be an interesting career. It was also a nod to the old man—to his innocence, I guess.”
“So, Egyptology. Is it all right if we go back to Ellen…?” She hesitated, as if to judge if it was all right before continuing. “Was it Ellen who got you interested?”
Alex nodded. Milwanee waited for him to speak.
He said, “She was really smart. There’s an object in the ancient Egypt exhibition at the British Museum—a granite ball…” He made a fist. “A little smaller than this. It was found in a shaft in Khufu’s pyramid. As soon as she saw it she knew it was like a ball bearing. She worked out they used the granite balls to help move the huge blocks. You know there’s over two million blocks of limestone and granite each weighing about two and a half tons in the Great Pyramid?”
Milwanee raised her eyebrows.
“So that was her theory of the granite ball,” he said, “and it was published in Nature.”
“Was she your girlfriend?”
Alex was taken aback by the question. He instinctively held up his hands as though warding off the question.
“OK. OK. I understand, but it’s about Ellen and it’s not using any of your comments. I need to understand your relationship.” Milwanee’s voice was soft and her eyes did show care.
After a pause, Alex said, “We were just friends. No, that’s not fair. She was my best friend. She had her issues, but like I said, she was very smart. She had an eidetic memory.”
“Photographic?”
“Not quite the same. She could recall things, especially images, after a few exposures, but…”
“Yes?” When Alex didn’t immediately answer she leaned forward a fraction. He could smell her sweet perfume. “You were going to explain.”
“It seemed to come at a cost. She was bipolar and could suffer deep depressions. She could also be irrationally paranoid. That’s why…” He stopped but then breathed in the perfume again and thought, What the hell? “That’s why we ended it… being a couple, I mean. It was a long time ago, just after we left uni. But, like I said, we remained best friends and I tried to help her.”
He leaned back and wondered why he had just been quite so open with this stranger.
Milwanee must have noticed, and she also leaned back. “Cute dog,” she said, as if spotting Topsy for the first time. She was curled up on the rug by the radiator, half asleep, half watching the proceedings.
Alex’s phone pinged. A text from Pete.
“Excuse me,” he said, reading it.
Don’t speak to anyone!
Alex replied:
Why?
Police. Reporters. Stay low.
“Everything OK?” Milwanee asked.
Alex texted:
Why?!
Ellen’s death suspicious!
The room blurred for a moment. Alex looked at the reporter. She smiled attractively.
“What’s this really been about?” he asked.
She leaned in. “About Ellen Champion.”
He said, “I hope that helps your article.”
She looked dumbfounded. “Is the interview over?”
“I’
m sorry, something’s come up.” He became aware of his heart pulsing in his neck. Could she see it?
She produced a fake beatific smile and suddenly the alluring veneer was gone. “Was that text about Ellen’s death?”
Alex stood and took a step towards the door. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
She smiled sweetly again, “One last question?”
He looked at her suspiciously but didn’t say no.
She said, “Were you involved in Ellen’s murder?”
SIX
It didn’t take long for Alex to find news about Ellen. The BBC had a top story on their news app:
Gas explosion: Police treat woman’s death as suspicious
Police are treating the death of Ellen Champion, whose body was found at a house near Newbury, as suspicious.
Post-mortem tests to determine cause of death are due later.
Det. Supt Charles Wardby, of Thames Valley Police, said there were significant discrepancies with the initial belief that the death was caused by a gas explosion at the property where Miss Champion lived.
He urged anyone who had met with Miss Champion in the past few weeks for either personal or professional reasons, to get in contact.
Miss Champion, 34, worked for the British Museum but had been based at Highclere Castle where she was carrying out research.
He called Pete. The phone rang for a while before it was answered.
Alex said, “I can’t believe it. The police think she was murdered, for God’s sake!”
When Pete spoke, he sounded ill-tempered. “They’re just suspicious. It doesn’t mean—”
“Have the police contacted you?”
“Yes. Just a short interview.” Alex heard Pete take a long breath. “I’m sorry, mate, I’m tired. I work nights. Did I tell you that? Anyway, sorry, I’m half awake—was working till 6:30 this morning.”
Alex said, “No, I didn’t know.”
“It’s OK.” He sounded less grumpy now. “Anyway, I don’t think we should mention we’ve been in touch. Cops can be funny about things like that. They find connections and they follow them. Before you know it you’re a suspect.”
Map of the Dead: A mystery thriller that's a page turner Page 3
