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

by Murray Bailey

  They sat in silence for a while. Then she stood and said, “We should have a drink.” As he started to rise, she put a hand on his arm. “Just rest a while. You’ve had a shock. My grandmother always made a sweet cup of tea at times like these. You stay here and I’ll sort us out a cuppa.”

  He watched her in the kitchen, find the kettle, fill it and begin to sort through the mess on the floor. She replaced the drawers and put things away—not in the right places, but he was beyond caring.

  They stopped tidying. At a quick glance, the flat looked presentable, but Alex could still sense the violation, as though the walls had memory. The latch on the window was broken, but it closed with the semblance of security.

  He left the house by the back door and retraced his route through the backyards. Vanessa was already in the car when he arrived. She three-point turned to avoid driving past Alex’s house and made her way back to Putney. Close to Hammersmith, she visibly tensed.

  Alex asked. “What’s up?”

  “I think we’re being followed.”

  He swung around and looked through the rear window. It was too dark to see anything except halogen headlights right behind them.

  “It’s a BMW,” she said. “I don’t know where we picked it up, but it’s been the same distance behind for ages.”

  “But—”

  “You know on the way to the restaurant, I went through a light on amber? He went through on red. He jumped the lights! I’m sure it’s the same car. I slowed just now and there he is, keeping the same distance behind.”

  “How well do you know the back streets around here? Think we can lose him?”

  “Let’s try.”

  At the Hammersmith gyratory, Alex pointed down the King Street. She took it still driving as though nothing was up. Once around the corner of the first right turn, she pressed her foot to the floor. Alex watched as the BMW came into sight, now forty yards back.

  He lurched forward as Vanessa slammed on the brakes and skidded right at a T-junction. She accelerated, braked and swung left into a quiet residential street. When the BMW rounded the corner, they were fifty yards ahead.

  Vanessa switched left and right through the maze of streets, but gradually the BMW closed the gap.

  Then, when Vanessa braked to take a corner, the little car lurched as the BMW bumped it.

  Vanessa screamed.

  As they entered the next street, Vanessa hesitated, her hands visibly shaking.

  “Go!” Alex yelled. “Drive, don’t think!”

  She reacted, but the rear window was now ablaze with the BMW’s full beam. They took three more corners and each time there was a jolt as the BMW rear-ended them.

  “Tell you what,” Alex said, “let’s slow it down for a while, because we’re not going to shake them like this. I know where we are, take the next left and slow to a stop just before the next road on the right. Keep the engine running.”

  Vanessa complied and the BMW pulled back. When she stopped, the BMW stopped. The headlights dipped. Alex leaned forward so he could watch through the side mirror. Vanessa stared at hers. Two men got out.

  When she spoke, her voice trembled. “You know this isn’t the press, don’t you?”

  Alex said nothing.

  “Oh my God they’ve got guns!”

  “Go!” Alex shouted. “Right then immediately left.”

  The Smart car’s tyres squealed as she slammed her foot down. They slid through the first turn and then the second.

  “Now right again.” Alex pointed to a car park entrance. “In there.”

  Vanessa took it, bumping over a concrete strip separating the entrance lane from the exit. The lane curved into a dark well before opening up into the orange glow of a multi-storey. On Alex’s instruction, she stopped and cut the engine.

  They sat in silence, barely breathing, their eyes fixed on the entrance. Alex cracked open the window. Immediately they heard a car accelerate past.

  In the dim light he saw her look over and he responded with a whisper: “Maybe.”

  After forty minutes, Vanessa started up the car and reversed to the road. A car approached fast, but the lights weren’t halogens. It wasn’t a BMW.

  When she spoke, her voice was still tremulous. “I should avoid Hammersmith, shouldn’t I?”

  She took them west. It was a long detour to the next bridge over the Thames at Mortlake. Shortly after, she picked up the South Circular and passed close by to where they had picnicked in Richmond Park.

  In Putney, she didn’t park outside the flat. It seemed a sensible precaution.

  Inside, she opened another bottle of red and gulped down a large glass. They sat in the semi-darkness, the room illuminated by a street light close by. Neither spoke for a long while.

  Vanessa said, “Something just struck me. Your friend left you the clue. It seems she wanted you to know what her research was about.”

  “Yes, and I’ve learned it seems to be something to do with Exodus and maybe Lord Carnarvon.”

  “OK, but what’s the biggest mystery here?”

  He thought for a moment. Maybe the wine was fogging his thinking? Then he had it: “The ceremonial block.”

  “OK, go with this for a moment. What if she left you her research and Exodus and Carnarvon are just a minor part. What if she wants you to know about the block?” She rubbed her forehead as if thinking. “Yes! And what if this other gang know that. Maybe they were searching your flat for her research.”

  Alex shook his head. “Maybe, but that gets us no closer.”

  She grinned like a schoolgirl. “Or maybe it does. Maybe the clue wasn’t about the phone. Or maybe it was part of it. Maybe there’s another clue.”

  It seemed to make sense, although he couldn’t begin to think where another clue might be. Again they sat in silence and he found his mind drifting until it was unfocused.

  The wine bottle was empty. Vanessa stretched. “Oh boy, I’ve had too much to drive again tonight. I’ll sleep on the sofa. Would that be OK?”

  Alex said, “No. You take the bed and I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  She fetched a blanket from a cupboard and handed it to him. “You’re sure?”

  “Sure.” With all the adrenaline gone and then more wine, he felt he could sleep anywhere.

  While she was in the bathroom getting ready, he stripped down to his boxer shorts, moved cushions to create a pillow and settled down.

  When she came back, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Sleep well then.”

  He watched her retreat to the bedroom. She didn’t close the door and he heard her settle into the bed. Within minutes her breathing changed.

  Images drifted though his mind. He was talking to Detective Dixit one moment and the next they were walking through Highclere Castle. Then it wasn’t Dixit who was with him in his dream. It was Vanessa. He felt like he was giving her a guided tour. When he showed her Carnarvon’s secret turret cupboard, she smiled her crooked, cute smile. She leaned in and whispered something he couldn’t quite hear. He could smell her musk. And then, without warning, she was there. Really there. She was standing close to the sofa, framed by the street-lit window and had nothing on but one of his shirts. Only one button kept it together.

  “Vanessa?” he said, half asleep.

  She placed a finger on his lips.

  He started to pull himself up, but she leaned down. Her mouth met his.

  Her kisses were soft at first and then more hungry. Her perfume and the touch of her skin sent such a charge through his body that he shook. She tugged away the blanket and he pulled her down, fumbling and then finally ripping off the shirt.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  When he woke up, they were on the floor. During the night they must have improvised with the sofa cushions creating a makeshift bed.

  It was early and his neck ached from being at an odd angle. Vanessa was still asleep so he carefully slipped from under her arm. A little groggy with tiredness and the after-effect of the wine, but still tin
gling with the excitement of a new relationship, he went into the bathroom, flicked the lock shut and turned on the shower. Vanessa had left her handbag on the table beside the bath. He moved it so that it wouldn’t get splashed, pulled back the shower curtain and stepped over the edge of the bath.

  He started with the shower on cold, like he always did, a jolt to stimulate the body and brain first thing in the morning. After the first shock, he turned up the temperature and enjoyed the hot torrent as it pummelled first his head and then his shoulders. He felt the fuzz of a hangover being washed away.

  As he rubbed shampoo into his hair there was a knock on the bathroom door and he heard Vanessa call something.

  He turned to say “One minute” and slipped, put his hand on the curtain before realizing it wouldn’t take his weight and grabbed for the towel rail. The towel pulled off and knocked some things to the floor, including Vanessa’s handbag.

  She knocked again, urgent this time.

  “One minute.” He climbed out of the bath and bent down for Vanessa’s handbag. A few things had tumbled out and he replaced her purse and a laminated card. Then he stopped. His veins froze.

  She knocked again. “Alex?”

  He held the card and studied it—an ID card with her photo. But the name was different. She’d told him her name was Vanessa Reece. The name on the card was Rebecca Vance.

  He wrapped the towel around his waist and unlocked the door.

  Vanessa glanced at Alex, the ID, the handbag open on the floor, and then looked back at him.

  She snapped, “You’ve been through my bag!”

  “Who is this?”

  “How dare you go through my things?”

  “Who are you?”

  She quietened then and her anger melted. After a beat, she said, “My name really is Vanessa.”

  He waved the card at her like damning evidence. “So who is Rebecca? Why have this ID?”

  “Alex, I…” Her eyes went from side to side as though searching for a script to provide the right words.

  “So you’ve been lying to me, haven’t you?”

  Her eyes stopped their flicker and fixed on his. Her face became calmer. “It’s not like that.” She stepped back from the door. “Let’s get dressed and have a cup of tea and I’ll explain everything.”

  Ten minutes later they were sitting in the lounge facing one another. Vanessa held a mug in both hands almost as if praying with it.

  Alex said, “So?”

  She looked up from the mug. “Rebecca Vance is my pen name. I’m a writer—freelance. If I had told you what I did, you wouldn’t have trusted me.” She paused, took a sip and added, “I wanted to tell you. I just hadn’t found the right moment.”

  “Tell me one thing. When I met you on the embankment, was that by chance?”

  She said nothing.

  Alex shook his head and started to rise.

  “No, it wasn’t,” she said quietly. “I followed you there.”

  “And the incident with the thug—the fight—that was a set-up, right?”

  “No!” She put down her mug and looked at him with earnest eyes. “That was for real. I have no idea who he was or what he wanted. I was as scared as you, remember? You have to believe me.”

  “Actually, I don’t!” He sighed and looked out of the window. “In fact, I don’t know why I’m sitting here giving you this chance.”

  “But you are and that says a lot. Alex, look at me.”

  He looked into her eyes. They seemed genuine.

  She said, “Yes, I’m a writer and yes I was following you, but since I’ve got to know you I’ve realized there’s a much better story. Probably two. One is the story of Ellen’s research and what you’ve found. That doesn’t deserve to be in some stuffy specialist magazine. With your celebrity, with the crime at Highclere, the whole King Tut thing, this is mainstream—certainly Sunday papers. Maybe even a book.”

  “And the second?”

  “The human interest angle—about you—about Ellen. Wouldn’t you like to set the record straight?”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know.” It was all he could think to say.

  “I’d like to find out.”

  Alex stood and walked around the room. He could hear the sounds from the street. His own thoughts seemed less distinct.

  She said, “Give me a chance.”

  Eventually, he said, “I need time.”

  “I’ll give you time. Search for my work—under my pen name—see the sort of thing I write. I’ll start writing something on you, but I won’t publish it, because I want us to work on it together. I want you to be happy with it.”

  He said, “Maybe. I should find somewhere else to stay no matter what.”

  “That’s really not—”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Look. I’m going up to York to a hen party and then the wedding. Let’s get together when I get back. OK?”

  “Sure,” he said with little conviction.

  Alex opened the door for her to leave. There was a moment of awkwardness as she said goodbye and he closed the door with her still looking at him. He stared at the back of the door, a cascade of thoughts running through his mind. After a while he realized he was just staring at the paintwork that needed touching up.

  He picked up his phone and rang Pete.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Alex said, “Pete, I need your help.”

  “Why am I not surprised? You’ve fallen out with that tart, I’m sure. What, did she find out about the real you?”

  “Yeah, something like that. Are you in? Can I come over?”

  Thirty minutes later, Alex was standing on his doorstep.

  Pete looked at him with suspicion and then past him down the stairwell. “I hope no one followed you here!”

  “The guys who followed me before. The one who attacked me by the river. They’re all dead. I’m not scared of them anymore. It’s a bunch of other guys I’m worried about now. They’re probably the ones who killed the other guys.” Alex removed his beanie to show his dyed hair. “And I’ve got a disguise.”

  “And the press?”

  Alex nodded. “It’s OK, no one has followed me.”

  “You look weird. The hair I mean.”

  “No change there then. Can I come in?”

  Pete moved inside and Alex followed, dropping his bag on the floor.

  Pete said, “So what’s happened now?”

  They stood in the lounge and Alex told him about Vanessa, about how she was actually a reporter. Freelance or not, she was still a reporter. She earned her living as a writer and he was her subject.

  “Oh great,” Pete moaned. “Shit, she met me. At least she doesn’t know where I live.” He looked inquisitively at Alex.

  “I haven’t told her. Anyway, why are you so paranoid? She won’t connect you to your old conviction. Your job’s safe.”

  Pete visibly relaxed. “So what progress have you made with Ellen’s research?”

  Alex told him about going to Oxford and the mystery about missing documents from Tutankhamen’s tomb, how it was connected to Exodus and the uncertainty surrounding Lord Carnarvon’s death.

  “Shit! It’s big then.” Pete went through to the kitchen. “Cup of tea?” he asked, and then, as the kettle boiled, shouted, “So where do you go from here?”

  Alex said, “I have no idea.”

  Pete returned with two steaming mugs of tea. “But where’s Ellen’s research if it wasn’t in her briefcase?”

  Alex shrugged and then pulled out his book. “The only clue was in here. These numbers.” He opened the book and showed his friend.

  “Any idea what they mean?”

  “Yes. Isis is the key. I converted Isis into 1515—numbers not letters—and it was the code for Ellen’s phone. What I didn’t finish telling you before was Ellen wasn’t just interested in Lord Carnarvon’s death but also missing artefacts from when he and Carter found Tutankhamen’s tomb.”

  Pete looked excited. “Missing
artefacts? Like the missing one from Highclere Castle?”

  “What? How did you know about that?” Alex glared. Suddenly his head throbbed from too much wine the night before.

  Pete held up his hands. “Hey, steady. Now who’s getting paranoid? It’s in the papers. That’s how I know. They found the stolen stuff with the guys who were murdered in West Ham. A funny block was missing. I think they called it the mummy stone.”

  Alex shook his head and explained what the ceremonial block was.

  “There you go then,” Pete said. “Missing artefacts.”

  Alex sank into an armchair and nursed the mug. He thought about what Vanessa had said: Maybe the clue wasn’t about the phone.

  “Scary about that other gang then,” Pete said.

  “What?”

  “The people responsible for the triple murder. Executions, for Christ’s sake. They’re saying serious organized crime.”

  “Yeah, I suspect it was them who chased us last night.”

  Pete looked shocked. “What?”

  “Last night we had a car chase like something out of the movies. Only it wasn’t good. The guys had some sort of sub-machine guns.”

  “Shit man!”

  Pete was talking but Alex’s mind was back in his home, seeing the devastation. The way everything seemed turned upside down and inside out. He pictured the spare room and how he’d picked up the puzzle that he’d bought for Ellen. A wave of sadness washed over him. The room had almost been like a shrine to his friend. All he had was the book she’d given him and the phone he’d found. The only other thing to remind him of her was the puzzle. At least he still had that.

  “What?” Pete said. “What are you thinking about? You’ve been miles away, haven’t heard a thing I’ve said.”

  “Oh my God!” Alex said. He stood but suddenly felt lightheaded. The room spun. “Oh my God!” he said again.

  “What, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Isis is the key.”

  Pete looked expectant, said nothing.

  “My God, Isis is the key!”