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

by Murray Bailey

  Pete looked back at the TV and started to play the game.

  Alex said, “I think you’re avoiding the police. What’s going on, Pete?”

  The question hung in the air.

  Alex stepped in front of the screen.

  “Hey!”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Sorry, what were you saying? What’s going on about what? I’m so tired, I could sleep for a week.”

  “I asked why you’re avoiding the police? Shit, Pete. Are you somehow involved?”

  “What? No!” Pete shook his head vigorously and gripped Alex’s arm. “Sit down, I have to explain.”

  They sat in the armchairs, not opposite each other but at about ninety degrees. Their knees almost touched. Pete leaned forward. “I work as a security guard for an investment management firm in Canary Wharf. They take security very seriously, of course, not just of the premises but in recruitment. Background checks—you know, CRB stuff to make sure there’s no criminal record.”

  “OK.” Alex wasn’t sure where this was going.

  “I have a record. It was a long time ago.” Pete told Alex a story about being fired and getting so angry he wanted revenge. He broke into the firm’s office and was arrested and charged with breaking and entry with the intent to do criminal damage. “I served eighteen months in juvie. It’s enough to stop you working most places these days. The whole security thing has blown up big time. So it works both ways. I get paid a lot of money to be a night security guard.”

  Alex finished his tea, which was now cold. “I still don’t get it.”

  “I changed my name. Change your name and they can’t trace you. Can you believe it? All those checks and they are useless if someone changes their name and doesn’t admit to it on the forms. The CRB doesn’t cross reference deed poll data or credit data. It all relies on trust and stupidity. That’s why I can’t get involved with the police. If they start digging, like they are doing with you, then I’m stuffed. Up shit creek without a paddle.”

  They sat in silence for a while, neither meeting the other’s gaze.

  Finally, Alex said, “Two new rules. I’m not doing you a big favour, I’m doing you a massive favour. I don’t mention you to the police and I can stay here as long as I want.”

  “OK. And the second one?”

  “You buy a spare duvet.”

  By midday, Alex decided he needed air and lunch. He left the house wearing wraparound sunglasses and a gabardine coat of Pete’s he found in the wardrobe. From his holdall he pulled a book he’d brought from home: The Oxford History of Ancient Egypt. He stuck it in a pocket, turned up the collar of the coat and headed out.

  He walked south towards Putney Bridge, stopping at a corner shop to buy a chicken salad sandwich.

  By the time he reached the bridge over the Thames, he was feeling overdressed. For November, it was a warm day, and the coat aided his disguise but had been a bad choice for the weather.

  The road and bridge were clogged with traffic and pedestrians. On the far side of the bridge was a lane down to the water. Only a few people strolled or jogged here. He ambled along the embankment towards the ridged concrete slipway outside the main rowing clubs. Cars lined the edge with a few gaps for rowers to carry their boats from the boathouses to the water. The boathouses had open doors and he surmised that the rowers were out on the river.

  He sat and leaned against a post. Lumpy concrete prompted him to remove his coat and sit on it. He soon settled. The Thames was sage-green-brown and the tide was midway and going out. A rower in a bright orange scull laboured against the current. A woman walked past him, down to the water’s edge and began to feed the ducks. Alex pulled out his book and began flicking through, trying to decide what to read. He had already made many pencil notes and turned page corners.

  A honk from the swan made him look up. The woman squealed and backed away as a swan pecked at her empty bag.

  Alex reacted quickly, fished in his coat pocket, found the sandwich, broke off a piece of bread and tossed it close to one of the ducks. When it had gobbled down this morsel, he threw another piece into the water. It sped away on the tide with the swan giving chase.

  “Thanks,” the woman called. For a moment he thought she was going to come over and talk to him, but she turned and walked away.

  Alex picked up his book and flicked to the contents page. After the list of contributors and before the introduction was a handwritten series of numbers.

  35613028811407104521

  His initial reaction was annoyance that someone else had written in his book. He studied the pen strokes and decided it was probably Ellen’s writing. Twenty numbers with no immediately obvious pattern or relevance. Why would she write in his book and what did they mean?

  A movement behind made him jump.

  “Hey!” Instinctively Alex started to stand and turn. Before he was halfway up, a hand pressed on his shoulder and kept him down.

  The man growled, “Don’t move a muscle.” His accent was thick East London. Dan’t moov a massle.

  Alex froze.

  The man said, “Time to talk, sonny.”

  Alex strained his neck, twisting to see the man gripping his shoulder. He expected to see the same guy from yesterday: the guy with the 62 on his baseball cap. It wasn’t. This guy was clean-shaven, bigger, heavier set. He wore a leather jacket and blue-mirrored, aviator glasses.

  “You’re from the papers… a reporter, right?” Alex said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. “I’ve nothing to say.”

  Aviator snorted. “I’ll gut you like a fish. Now cut the crap and start talking!”

  Alex’s sweatshirt was tugged and he stood. Something pricked his side. He glanced down and saw a blade.

  “Er… you aren’t with the press?” he stammered. “Who are you?”

  “Don’t mess around with me, MacLure. I think you know all about the research. All about what your little friend found. Perhaps you need a little reminder.”

  What was this guy saying? How did he know about Ellen’s research? “Wait—what do you know?”

  Aviator pushed the blade deeper and Alex flinched as the point met flesh.

  “OK! OK,” Alex said. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  “Where is it?”

  Alex took a long breath. “Ah, you’ve heard the news about things being stolen from Highclere. You think I know where it is. Well…”

  “Shut up! Where is it—the item?”

  “What item?” Alex’s mind was spinning. What was this guy talking about? He wasn’t interested in all the stolen stuff, just a single item. He must know what’s been taken and think something was missing. Was that it?

  Aviator moved his hand from Alex’s shoulder and placed it on the left side of his head. Before Alex could pull away, the man’s other hand was on the other side of his head, the handle of the knife pressed against his temple. The guy squeezed.

  A jolt of pain burst through Alex’s skull and he yelled. Between ragged breaths he said, “I don’t know anything.”

  “Bullshit!” Aviator squeezed again.

  For a moment things went black. Alex lost all sensation and then Aviator pulled him backwards.

  Blinking tears from his eyes, Alex tried to regain his senses, quell the ringing in his head. After a few staggering steps he was spun and thrust against a wall.

  They were in the gap between two of the boathouses, like a wide alley, shaded and hidden from a view of the bridge—and help.

  Aviator punched him in the ribs and Alex doubled over with a cough.

  “I really don’t…”

  “Bullshit!” the guy tapped the side of Alex’s head with the butt of his knife. Not a heavy blow, but enough to make the light blink out for a moment and hurt like hell.

  “Where is it?” Aviator asked again.

  Alex couldn’t think with this guy pressed against him, threatening. The thug wanted information that he didn’t have. How could he…? The man hit him again with the k
nife, harder this time, and Alex crumpled to the floor.

  His vision honed in on a broken bottle—could he slash the guy and get away? It seemed the only option.

  “Hey, what’s going on here?” A woman’s voice snapped Alex’s attention away from the bottle. The duck-feeding woman was standing at the entrance to the gap between the boathouses.

  “Shove off, bitch, and mind yer own business!” Aviator snarled.

  “I’m calling the police.” The woman held up her phone threatening to use it.

  The thug had his back to Alex and brandished the knife at her. “Drop the phone and fuck off outta here, lady, before it’s too late.”

  Alex snatched up the bottle. As he started to rise, he realized Aviator was also making a move.

  “Run!” he shouted, but it was too late. He saw the phone fly out of her hand as Aviator bulldozed forward.

  THIRTEEN

  The man lurched sideways and staggered. He gripped his shoulder and Alex saw a dark patch appear beneath his fingers. Then the fingers turned red.

  “Run!” Alex shouted as he realized he’d heard a gunshot.

  The woman stood with wide eyes, her empty hand still in the air.

  He grabbed her hand and tugged her down the alley, away from the river, away from where he guessed the gunman was. As they reached the bottom, where the sheds met a thirty-foot wall, he looked back. Aviator was on his feet and heading towards them.

  Alex pulled the woman into the space behind the shed on their left. She also glanced back and seemed to get it. They had to get away, make the most of the chance they’d been given.

  The space had scattered debris: bits of rope, a buoy, planks of wood and a broken oar. They reached the daylight at the far side and saw Aviator enter the space behind them.

  “Keep going,” Alex urged her as the woman slowed. “He’s right behind.”

  They squeezed between the next two sheds and suddenly they were in the open. Alex looked past the woman. Aviator wasn’t there. Where was he?

  A ping against the wood beside him snapped his attention back. Someone was firing at them! Had the shooter been firing at him all along and hit Aviator by mistake?

  Just as Alex ducked back into the shadowy space between the shed and wall, Aviator appeared just twenty yards away. He was still holding his shoulder but he was grinning. Alex hesitated: confront the injured guy or dodge the bullets? A moment later, the decision was made for him. The woman was running towards the ramp, ducking her head as she went. Alex sprinted after her, copying the style as though it reduced the target area.

  They reached the road together and he breathed for the first time. Her face was pale and she was shaking. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she said breathlessly, and crossed the road.

  Alex saw Aviator halfway up the ramp and decided not to wait any longer.

  “This way,” the woman said on the opposite side. She led him into an alley that came out in a yard. He chased after her as she crossed the yard out onto another road. Fifty paces later she was between buildings again and then stopped as they met a brick wall. She stopped and put her hands on her knees, regaining her breath.

  Alex looked back, fearing their pursuer would be at the entrance at any moment. “We’re trapped,” he said between gulps for air. “We’ve got to go back.”

  “No, this way,” she said, and pushed an industrial refuse cart to the wall. She scrambled on top and disappeared over the wall before Alex could say a word. He followed and found they were in a backyard. She walked calmly to a green door, opened it and walked in. Inside, Alex saw it was a fire exit. She closed the door and jammed a bar in the opening handle.

  Alex stared at her. “How did you…?”

  “Not yet,” she said, leading him to a staircase. “Let’s make sure we we’re safe first.”

  On the first landing was a door leading to a toilet. Beside the room was a window. The view from the window was of the backyard and the alley beyond the wall. There was no one in the alley: no Aviator and no one with a gun.

  “I’m Vanessa,” she said. “What the hell was that about? Who was that guy? Why did he attack you?”

  Alex wiped sweat from his forehead. “And who was shooting at us?”

  “What?”

  “Someone was firing at us… or him. Anyway, he was hit.”

  Vanessa had her mouth open in shock.

  Alex touched her arm. “Are you OK?”

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe someone was shooting at us. I thought I heard something but dismissed it as a starter’s pistol—you get them all the time for the rowers. So that’s why that guy fell over. I thought he’d just slipped.” She took long calming breaths as Alex kept his hand on her arm. “I’m OK. I’m OK,” she said eventually.

  They looked out of the window again to confirm no one was there. She smiled weakly. “Come on, let’s go downstairs. I’ll introduce you to Simon.”

  Simon turned out to be the owner of the café they were in. They came in through the back door, and after Vanessa quickly glanced around, they sat at a table. It was busy with people queued up at a sandwich bar placing orders and it had ten tables, mostly occupied.

  “One minute,” Alex heard someone with an accent say. A man in a blue pinafore appeared and Vanessa stood to give him a hug.

  “Simon. My cousin,” Vanessa said, by way of an introduction.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Simon said, shaking Alex’s hand. “And you are?”

  “Alex.”

  Simon looked at Vanessa and raised his eyebrows. She gave him a playful punch. “Away with you. You have customers to serve. And when you have a moment, we’ll have… two teas with two sugars. Is that all right?”

  Alex nodded. When she sat down again, he looked at her properly for the first time. Maybe mid-twenties, with brown hair and dark eyes. She was good-looking in a sort of Mediterranean or Middle Eastern way. “I’m Alex,” he said, offering his hand with a smile.

  She took it. “We’ve established that already.” Then she looked serious. “But what you haven’t told me is what the hell is actually going on, and shouldn’t we be calling the police?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t know what’s going on. It’s complicated…” He saw she wasn’t accepting that and added, “But you are right about the police.”

  Simon returned with two mugs of tea and Alex waited until he’d retreated before dialling DI Jackson’s number.

  The inspector was unavailable and he was put through to DC Dixit. After Alex had recounted what had happened on the Putney embankment, Dixit asked for a detailed description of the assailant. He also wanted to know the precise locations of the attack and the bullet hole in the shed.

  “Now drink your tea. It’ll help,” Vanessa said when he rang off.

  After a few sips, he felt his heart rate slowing. He still checked out everyone who came into the café, but he was starting to relax.

  She was watching him, a slight smile on her lips. “Better?” she asked. “Maybe you should eat something as well.”

  Then he remembered the sandwich he’d brought for lunch. “Damn, my book!”

  “Your book?”

  “My coat is on the embankment... I have a sandwich in a pocket. But I’m more concerned about the book I had with me. I dropped it when I was grabbed.” He thought for a moment. “It’s got sentimental value but I can’t face going down there. They may still be around. They’re probably out there right now looking for me. We’d probably recognize the guy with the aviator glasses again, but there was the shooter. We have no idea what he looks like. And maybe there are more.”

  “I’m intrigued about the book. What is it?”

  Alex told her and she got up. “Just a minute,” she said, and went behind the sandwich bar. When she returned she said, “Simon will send one of his staff to try and find it for you.”

  After a second cup of tea Alex began to tell Vanessa about the past week. She laughed softly at one point and he stopped. “What’s so fu
nny?”

  “I had a sense we’d met before,” she said. “But we haven’t, have we? I’ve seen your picture online. You were the Have-a-go Hero suspected of fraud. Is it true?”

  “A hero? I don’t think so. Anyway, you’re a hero for stepping in earlier. My attacker had a weapon, whereas all I did was stop someone who snatched a woman’s handbag. The press love to exaggerate.”

  “And the fraud bit?”

  “It’s rubbish. Pure conjecture. The reporter connected a problem with my previous employer to me leaving—and coming into money.” She raised her eyebrows at that, so he explained: “I won a chunk on the lottery. Meant I could stop being an accountant and do something more interesting.”

  “Which is?”

  “Archaeology—or more specifically ancient Egypt. And that’s really what the story is about. That’s why the police are interested in me. That and the recent burglary at Highclere you must have heard about.

  She nodded thoughtfully. “So that guy… do you think he was one of the burglars?”

  “Maybe. He seemed to think I knew something about an item.”

  “And do you?”

  “I have no idea what he was talking about. If he was one of the Highclere burglars, why didn’t he know…?” And then Alex realized something. The news reports hadn’t mentioned what was taken, so if it was something specific, this guy was definitely involved. “You know,” he said, “I think the aviator-guy was definitely one of the burglars and they were after something specific. It was something they didn’t find.”

  “But you don’t know what?”

  Just then a young man came to their table. He held out a folded gabardine coat with a book perched on top. The man also handed him a broken pair of sunglasses. “If these are yours, I’m afraid you won’t be wearing them again.”

  Alex took them with thanks, stuck the glasses in a pocket of the coat and placed the book on the table.

  “You’re smiling,” she said.

  He opened the book at the contents page. “I don’t really know what’s going on,” he said. “I don’t know what Aviator was looking for at the Highclere Castle exhibition. But I do know one thing.” He pointed to the twenty numbers that Ellen had written in the book.