“I get that, but what does that mean?”
Alex was laughing. “It’s a puzzle.”
“Yeah, I know that, but—”
“No, not a mystery. I mean literally a puzzle. Isis is the name of a puzzle. It’s in my spare bedroom. I have a puzzle called Isis in my house.” He clapped his hands. “I need to go home.” Then he stopped. He thought about last night and being chased by the BMW through Hammersmith, about the men with guns who had probably been in his home.
Pete said, “What?”
“I need another favour.” Alex smiled. “I need you to get it for me.”
Owl rang Fox. “Cat has lost the rabbit.”
“He’s back at the Hammersmith flat.” Fox let that message sink in, milking the news. He could hear Owl’s rattling breath.
Fox filled the silence: “I’ve got him. He’s going nowhere without me knowing.”
Now Owl spoke. “You made a mess of his apartment and found nothing.”
“I had to know for sure that the item wasn’t there.”
“You spooked him.”
Fox knew there was no point in arguing. It had been the plan. Owl’s tar-filled breathing sounded like the man was building up to something. Fox said, “Give me time. We have some of the bird’s papers but it’s only part of them. She must have done something with her research. It’s out there somewhere, and if we don’t get it, we run the risk of someone finding it.”
“All right,” Owl said. “The longer this goes on, the bigger the risk that the police pick up on us. We’ll give the rabbit a few more days.”
“And if he makes no progress, I end it.”
“No,” Owl said, surprising him.
“No?”
“Change of plan.” Then, unexpectedly, he added an explanation: “I’ve promised Cat. You won’t kill him.”
The call ended and Fox shook his head. The old man was going senile. If he could no longer make the hard decisions then it was time for someone else to do it for him.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“Shit, your place… it’s…”
Pete’s words on the phone stung Alex. It was like he was there, seeing the mess again.
They’d waited until dark so that any reporter hanging around wouldn’t spot him, but he’d failed to mention the break-in, the devastation—although it was nothing like as bad as it had been.
“Yeah, I know.” He hadn’t mentioned it in case Pete didn’t want to go.
“You had a break-in and you didn’t think I needed to know? You arsehole. If I’d known—”
Alex said, “You’re looking for a metal ball the size of your fist. Silver with turquoise-blue rings. It’s in the spare bedroom on the window ledge.”
A few minutes later Pete called back. “I can’t find it.”
“It’s sitting in its open box—a wood-effect cube. By the window. It should be obvious.”
Pete snapped back, “It would be obvious if I saw it. But I haven’t!”
“You’re in the smaller bedroom at the back? On the window ledge.”
“It’s not here.”
Alex ended the call and threw himself on the single mattress in Pete’s spare room. So the burglars must have been back and had taken his Isis puzzle. Did that make sense? Why had they turned over the whole house and left the puzzle and then returned to get it? How did they know?
He heard Pete come back but didn’t get up. The guy was annoyed and there was nothing to say. A short time later he heard Pete go out again and guessed he was off for the night shift.
Alex kept his clothes on to keep warm but sleep wouldn’t come. He fired up Ellen’s old phone and went through everything, checking all the apps in case there were any more notes or clues. When the first strains of morning lightened the night sky, Alex got up and headed for the kitchen and caffeine.
As he waited for the steaming mug to cool, he sat at the kitchen table with the phone and looked at the email again. Then he realized something. It hadn’t updated for a couple of weeks—the last email in the Trash folder was dated the Sunday she’d left his house early. He went into Settings and Mail, Contacts, Calendars, and touched the email account. It was off.
Alex swiped it on.
A moment later the phone pinged with incoming mail. Alex checked it. Thirty emails, all junk, it looked like. He selected each one in turn, just to be sure before deleting them. And then he saw it: an email from someone with the Cairo Museum as the domain. Intriguing.
Not heard from you. Is everything all right?
Yours – Marek
Alex sorted his emails but found no others from Marek at the Cairo Museum. He went back to the new one and stared at it, wondering whether to reply. Wondering what to reply. He could pretend to be Ellen but that didn’t seem right. If he said Ellen was dead that might frighten this guy away before Alex had managed to make proper contact. But then how could he say he was replying on Ellen’s phone?
While he was thinking, an event came up. Ellen’s mum’s birthday. Alex stared at the calendar reminder. Why hadn’t he seen that before? OK, so it was her birthday today, but he should have seen it in the calendar as a scheduled event. Shouldn’t he? Were there any other events he hadn’t seen? The birthday event was in Tasks. Alex went into Organizer then Tools and then selected Tasks. There were two. The birthday reminder and one other.
A message. It had a reminder date of the day before she had died.
A dead chill ran though Alex’s bones. There was no mistaking the meaning of the note. It was a message to him, like a warning from the grave.
Do not trust Pete.
Pete had been very strange when Alex had first turned up after the meeting with the police. He’d said he’d been interviewed by the police but they never mentioned him. And Pete didn’t want them to know where he lived. He also virtually blackmailed Alex with the rent into his bank account. What had he said? Don’t mention me being involved. It looks bad for both of us. Worse for you because of the money.
So they had never interviewed him. They didn’t know he existed. Pete said he was concerned about his history, about losing his job. But was he really? What did he have to hide? Was he somehow involved? Ellen didn’t trust him and she was warning Alex not to trust him.
Damn, he should have known there was something wrong. Pete had hinted at something between him and Ellen. Alex should have known it wasn’t true.
And then there was the research. It had been Pete’s idea to find out what Ellen had been doing. He kept mentioning treasure. God! It was so clear now. The guy thought Ellen had discovered something valuable and wanted it for himself.
Alex went into the lounge, located Pete’s laptop and switched it on.
Password required.
Pete was probably one of those people who used the same password for everything. Alex had seen his lazy swipe of the keyboard: qwerty. He hit the keys and was in. Internet Explorer was open. Alex looked at the history. For the past few days, Pete had mainly searched for information about the ceremonial block. Then last night he had been on the Isis puzzle website and had checked forums for hints about how to unlock the puzzle.
There was only one conclusion: Pete had the Isis puzzle.
Alex began to search the apartment, starting with Pete’s bedroom. After two hours of looking, first randomly and then methodically checking every possible site, he sank down at the kitchen table again.
Where would Pete hide it? He thought over and over. He got up again and prowled around the flat. In Pete’s bedroom he found a loose skirting board, but there was just the wall behind it. In the bathroom he unscrewed the side panel. Here there was nothing but cobwebs and dust debris from when the bathroom had been constructed.
Where would I hide it? If it’s here, it’ll be inside something. No new inspiration came and he found himself thinking: What had Vanessa said? People hide valuables in tins in the cupboards. Like food. In the fridge or freezer.
The kitchen had a single unit fridge with a freezer compartment.
The fridge wasn’t well stocked—the usual minimalist guy-things, including a four-pack of beer bottles. He opened the freezer compartment door.
Embedded in excessive frost was a box of fish and frozen mixed vegetables. He pulled them out. Behind were some burgers that looked like they’d been there since the last ice age and, next to them, a packet of peas. Only, the packet was more of a large lump than Alex would have expected. He pulled it out. Heavy.
Inside, surrounded by peas, was the Isis puzzle.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Alex was waiting for Pete when he returned home. He sat in the lounge, glared at the guy and held the Isis puzzle as though he was about to draw back his arm and throw it.
“You bastard!”
Pete glanced at the puzzle and then took a step back towards the door. Alex stood and leapt forward. He placed his hand on the door just as Pete grabbed the handle. Then he stepped between Pete and the door and pushed him into the room.
“You’re going nowhere, pal,” Alex snarled. “Not until you’ve told me what’s going on.”
Pete said, “I didn’t wreck your flat!”
“You were looking for the Isis.”
“Yes, but, honestly, it was in the spare bedroom. It was where you said it’d be. I was in and out quickly.”
Alex stepped forward until Pete backed into the chair and sat down. Alex glared down at him. “So you took the puzzle. Did you open it?”
Pete shook his head. “I couldn’t work it out.” He then tried to look encouraging. ”How about you? Can you open it?”
“Of course.”
With the puzzle in his hands, Alex turned his back so that his friend couldn’t see what he was doing. After a couple of minutes he turned back and held out his hands, a semi-sphere in each one. In the centre, like a bisected fruit missing a large stone, was a hollow space.
Alex said, “There’s nothing inside.”
Pete blinked rapidly. “You’re joking?”
“What was in it, Pete?”
“I don’t know. I honestly didn’t know how to get it open!”
Alex glared again. “I don’t believe you!”
“It’s the God’s honest truth!”
Alex snatched up the Isis puzzle and reassembled it in one smooth motion. He continued to glare. “You really didn’t find anything, did you?’
“No.”
“Damn! All that effort and there’s nothing in the bloody thing. Mustn’t be the clue I thought it was.”
Alex spun around and marched away, picked up his bag from the spare room and headed for the door. As he left he said, “Pete, I never, ever want to see you again. Is that understood?”
TWENTY-NINE
Two hours earlier in Pete’s flat, Alex had waited for the Isis to warm-up enough to handle comfortably. He’d solved the puzzle and opened it up. Inside had been a slip of paper like something out of a fortune cookie, only pink. On it was written: PAD140
He was sure Pete didn’t know how to open the ball. He was certain Pete hadn’t seen the note. It was clear that Pete wasn’t to be trusted, however, and so the strategy formed in Alex’s mind: He would make Pete believe there was no clue—that the trail had ended.
While he waited, Alex went through his emails again looking for Marek while waiting for Pete to return home. This time he searched for the name rather than the email address.
He got one hit: Marek Borevsek. This time the domain was the Berlin University and had been sent just before Ellen had applied for work at Highclere Castle. It said:
Switching to the webmail and deleting emails
It was signed Sinuhe—one of the names from the EgyptConfidential forum.
Alex had been searching through the browser history on Ellen’s phone for a sign of a webmail address when an email arrived on his phone from Vanessa.
The subject was an apology.
Alex—I’m so sorry about what happened yesterday. It was wrong of me to lie to you. If you’ll never see me again, my only consolation will be that I would not have discovered the real you otherwise. If I’d told you upfront that I write for a living, you wouldn’t have let me help you, you wouldn’t have opened up to me. Alex, I’ve attached a working draft of an article about you. The problems of your past make you more human and add a dimension to the story that will endear the readers to you. Especially when they understand you’ve been working on Ellen’s research. Nothing could be more exciting and intriguing than a secret about Tutankhamen. Anyway, read it and let me know what you think. If you don’t want me to, I won’t publish.
Take care
Vanessa
Alex read the article. It was the kind of thing that he’d expected the other reporter to write. It was positive and interesting without the scandal. She’d woven in the information they’d discovered about Ellen’s research. The piece was clearly unfinished. She ended with a note about adding a conclusion and wrapping back to the start.
Could he give her another chance? He could not stay with Pete. Where else could he go? And she was rather nice and good company.
Yes, he could give her another chance, though this time he’d have his eyes open.
He typed a reply: Cracked it!
Moments later she was on the phone, breathless and without preamble: “Isis is the key?”
He explained that Isis was the puzzle from his spare bedroom. The one he’d given to Ellen. He also told her about Pete going to the flat and pretending he hadn’t found it.
“I thought he was untrustworthy,” Vanessa said.
Alex coughed.
She said, “Fair point.”
“I opened it and there was a slip of paper inside with six characters: P-A-D-1-4-0 and then a triangle or the Greek letter delta.”
She was quiet for a second. “Could this be a page reference again? Or is there a pad as in pad of paper? Perhaps it’s line or page 140? Or pad as in apartment. Maybe it’s an address?”
“I don’t think it’s a page reference, and if it’s an address… well, there’s not enough information.”
“And what about the delta?”
“Well, it’s often used as a mathematical symbol to mean difference.”
“And what does that mean?”
He heard someone coming up the stairs. “Gotta go!” he said, and ended the call.
Alex prepared himself. Now to get Pete off the trail and out of the picture. A key turned in the lock and Pete entered the flat.
THIRTY
After pretending to storm out of Pete’s flat, Alex checked that the street looked clear and then headed for Fulham underground station. He reversed the convoluted tube journey he’d taken to get to Pete’s the day before. On the way, he typed a message to Vanessa apologizing for cutting her off and said it was about Pete and that he’d explain later. Then he said he was going back to the flat over Simon’s café and hoped that was all right.
The message didn’t go immediately due to the lack of signal and he was in Putney by the time a reply from Vanessa arrived. She said she was pleased.
During the afternoon and evening he searched the Internet for something that would explain PAD140. He also tried again to find a webmail service that Ellen might have used, and although he made no progress, he felt charged and his mind agile.
He wanted to send a text to Vanessa wishing her a nice evening. After trying a few alternatives, he opted for the simple line:looking 4ward 2 cing u sunday
Later he received the reply: I get into KGX at 15:44 will come straight over x
When he awoke his mind felt clearer than it had been since he’d learned of Ellen’s death. He picked up his phone and looked again at Vanessa’s text. He liked that she was putting a kiss at the end of her messages again.
She’d gone to York by train and she was arriving back at King’s Cross station. KGX was a three letter acronym for the station. The realization made him spring out of bed. PAD wasn’t the reference to a pad of paper or apartment. But it was a place. KGX was short for King’s Cross stat
ion. PAD was the abbreviation for Paddington station. It was so obvious now he thought about it, especially since Paddington was the closest main line station to his home in Maida Vale.
Alex checked his watch—a little after 5:30, too early to call Vanessa. He sent her a text: PAD140 refers to Paddington station. Perhaps 140 is a locker number x
Within an hour he was at the station. He’d anticipated it would be deserted so early on a Sunday, but the main station was buzzing with people in yellow charity T-shirts. A few had placards, and a giant banner referred to a mass fundraising event.
On the main concourse he looked around, spotted a man behind an information desk and wended his way towards him. Arriving, Alex asked, “Are there lockers at the station?”
The man looked up from his papers. “Sorry, sir?”
“Lockers? Is there somewhere at the station to store something?”
“Not lockers.” The man shook his head. “But if you have luggage you want to leave, there’s the Excess Baggage Company. You can leave it there.” He swivelled and pointed. “It’s at the end of platform twelve.”
Alex thanked him and made his way to the end of the concourse. He could see what looked like a shop front—a glass frontage with a blue sign above, but it was beyond the ticket barriers. A member of the railway company stood by the barriers and Alex approached him with a shrug.
“I need to go to the left luggage place,” he said, “but I don’t have a train ticket.”
“Not open yet.” The man checked his watch. “You’ve got twenty minutes, mate. Come back after seven and I’ll let you through.”
At the end of the barriers a coffee bar caught Alex’s eye. The long counter ran on both sides of the barriers. He ordered a double espresso and a Danish pastry and made a comment to the attractive barista about the ridiculousness of the barrier, cutting off the café and Excess Baggage place. He guessed she hadn’t understood because the young woman said something unconnected in a strong eastern European accent. He gave up the idea of making small talk, found a free seat and ate his breakfast.
Map of the Dead: A mystery thriller that's a page turner Page 15
