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

by Murray Bailey

  At a minute to 7am he returned to the ticket barrier and the staff member opened the panels for him. “Mind you don’t get on a train,” the man said in all seriousness. “There are big penalties for getting on without a ticket these days.”

  “Just going to the Excess Baggage Company place—really. Thanks.”

  Alex slipped through and round the end of the platform, passing close to the coffee bar. Outside the left luggage place, he stood impatiently. The door was closed, but he could see staff inside. A knock on the door didn’t attract their attention. After four minutes, a spotty youth finally came over and opened the door.

  “You’re supposed to open at seven,” Alex said, but immediately regretted it when the shop assistant gave him a strange look. He thought back to his attempted conversation with the barista and had to remind himself that these people saw a million people a day, most of whom were in a hurry. There was no time to talk and interact, just do your job and get paid.

  Alex took a breath and smiled. “Sorry, I’m just a bit… agitated today.”

  “A bit!” the youth snapped back. Then he mellowed as though his training was just kicking in. “Hey, it’s OK. What can I do you for?” He lifted the counter and went to the far side.

  “I’ve come to collect something.”

  “OK. Give me your ticket and we’ll get it right to you.”

  Alex handed over the pink piece of paper.

  “If that’s a ticket, it’s not from here.”

  Alex decided to bluff it. “Ah. I mean this is the reference but I’ve lost the actual ticket.”

  “Not a problem. There’s a £15 charge for a lost ticket. All we need is your ID and a description.”

  “Ah. You see… I’m not really sure.”

  The youth eyed him suspiciously and then rolled his eyes. “Someone left your luggage for you?”

  “Right.”

  “What’s your name and address?”

  Alex wondered whether it would be in his name or Ellen’s. Since he didn’t have ID for Ellen he provided his own name. Then he gulped as he realized the shop assistant might connect him with the recent publicity. The youth showed no recognition and casually pulled a form from under the counter.

  “Address here.” He pointed to the form. Then again at the bottom. “Sign here and show me some form of ID please.”

  “A credit card do?”

  “Nicely.”

  Alex signed an indemnity, paid £15 in cash and the assistant took a photocopy of his card and checked the signature.

  “All righty,” the youth said. “Now, what am I looking for?”

  “A package, I guess.”

  Again an odd look, but the young man disappeared for a while. Alex saw him return and place something under the counter.

  “I see now. It wasn’t left here, but sent for collection. You need to give me a three-digit code…”

  “OK, 140?”

  “Cool.” The youth pulled a black leather briefcase from under the counter and slid it over.

  As he swung the briefcase to his side, Alex was suddenly aware of another man in the shop. Their eyes met, but then the man produced a ticket and handed it to the assistant.

  Clutching the handles tightly, Alex walked onto the platform into a stream of passengers heading for the barriers. He had to wait for the station employee to be unoccupied and he held up the bag.

  “Collected this from the luggage place—you let me through.”

  The man opened the barrier with the most fleeting of acknowledgements and Alex followed the crowd towards the entrance to the tube station.

  Something grazed his arm. No, not a graze. Someone gripped his arm. “Hey!” Alex tried to pull away and looked into the face of a stern man wearing a brown suit.

  “Alex MacLure,” the man said in a monotone, “you are under arrest.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  His head spun and he instinctively gripped the briefcase tighter.

  “You are believed to be in possession or have been in possession of stolen goods,” the man in the brown suit said, his voice low and controlled like he was trying to mask an accent. He flashed a warrant card, open then closed. “Police.”

  Alex looked around and said nothing.

  The policeman was talking again. “What’s in the bag, sir?”

  Alex’s head cleared a little. He said, “Did Jackson send you?”

  “Yes.”

  There had been a hesitation and something in the man’s eyes.

  “OK, take me to him,” Alex said, and hoped he didn’t sound challenging.

  The policeman didn’t respond to the tone and continued to hold Alex’s arm just above the elbow.

  Alex nodded and stepped towards the escalator that descended into the tube station. After a brief tug he felt the policeman pull alongside and steer him down the steps rather than the narrow escalator.

  To the right was a small retail outlet selling papers, books and snacks. To the left were ticket machines. A queue of yellow shirts spilled across the foyer and groups clustered in the centre—the fundraisers.

  Alex, with the policeman jammed against his side, manoeuvred between the bodies. A board with the map of the underground split the crowd in two. Alex headed to the right, close to the map. At the last moment he jerked to the left, causing the man’s arm to strike the board’s metal post.

  The grip was broken. Within four quick paces Alex was at the ticket barriers and waved his Oyster travel card. As he darted through, he glanced right and saw the policeman heading after him but with no sign of a pass or ticket. No way could he jump over the barriers, but as Alex glanced again he saw the man force someone out of the way and charge through.

  Alex ran down the first escalator. At the bottom he turned to go onto the platform for the Circle line. A short distance along the platform was another exit. He took this and followed signs to the Bakerloo line. Before reaching it, he passed the exit route and ran along this to the escalators. These took him to the other side of the station with three exit options. At the top of the final escalator he looked behind. No sign of the pursuer. He passed through the barrier, turned right and emerged on the Paddington station concourse close to the platform twelve coffee bar. Without stopping, he scooted around to the left and up the ramp, through a wall of cigarette smoke, to the street.

  A red bus was moving through the crossroads. He jumped on and sat down, panting. Close to the smoke-enshrouded entrance he saw the brown-suited man emerge, look around and disappear again.

  Alex paid the conductor and stepped off at Edgware Road. He knew this area had a Costa Coffee with a quiet basement. He ordered a double espresso and went downstairs. There were seats for thirty or so customers but only two were occupied and neither person looked up as he found a chair opposite a TV screen that showed the view of the upstairs bar and entrance.

  He placed the briefcase on the table in front of him and ran his hands over the surface and then along the edge as though sensing what was inside. It was fastened with combination locks, one on each side, three dials on each.

  First things first. He took out his phone and called DI Jackson.

  “Did you send someone to arrest me?” Alex asked without preamble.

  “It’s Sunday morning, Mr MacLure—”

  “You picked me up last week on a Sunday.”

  “Fair point, but Highclere Castle had been burgled overnight. We were working. I am not working this morning.”

  “Did you send someone to arrest me?”

  “No.” There was hesitancy in Jackson’s response. “What makes you ask that?”

  “The latest rubbish from that reporter, saying I was definitely responsible for the break-in at Highclere Castle and was working with a Polish gang. It is nonsense. You know that, don’t you?”

  Jackson didn’t respond immediately but when he did he said, “Yes.”

  Who the hell was the guy in the brown suit? If not Jackson’s man then maybe another force. “Could it be someone from the
Met?”

  “Could who be? Are you saying a policeman is there to arrest you?”

  So if not the Met police, who? There was only one conclusion: the other gang. The guys from the car chase with the guns. The guys who had trashed his flat. The guys responsible for the triple murder of the other gang.

  “Mr MacLure?”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry to have disturbed you this morning, Inspector. It must have been a reporter, someone trying it on. Just wanted to check it wasn’t a policeman that I gave the slip.”

  “You sound a little strange. Is there anything you need to tell me?”

  “Just the adrenaline and out of breath.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  Alex thought for a moment. Would it help to tell Jackson about the other gang? Maybe, but that might lead to the briefcase. He ran his hand over it. Too small to hold the missing ceremonial block. No, this contained Ellen’s research.

  “Sorry,” Alex said again and ended the call.

  He knocked back the coffee and stared at the combination lock. Two sets of three numbers. He tried 140 on each, even though he knew it was too obvious. Anyone collecting the case would know the reference number and would try 140.

  What would Ellen choose? No! What would Ellen think Alex would choose? It would be a significant number.

  She had known he’d won the lottery. Would she remember the numbers he’d chosen: 2, 5, 10, 17, 28 and 41? Six numbers but ten digits. He tried 251 and 017 but even as it failed to unlock he knew it wasn’t right.

  What were the numbers she’d written in his book? She’d used Isis twice. Why not use those numbers for multiple purposes? He tried to recall the sequence. He was pretty sure the first page number had been 356. Not a particularly interesting number. Take the square of each digit and add it up. Repeat this with the answer. If you eventually get the answer one then you have a happy number. And 356 was the lowest happy number that could be found after six iterations.

  It didn’t unlock either combination.

  Alex steepled his hands in front of his mouth and stared at the locks hoping for inspiration. Come on, Ellen, what would you choose for me?

  After trying a few wild guesses and getting more frustrated, Alex decided to get more coffee. He checked upstairs before going back to the counter, ordering a long black this time.

  As he paid, he saw the pink slip of paper in his wallet. He’d put it there with the credit card he’d used as ID at the baggage place.

  He pulled it out.

  “Sir?” The barista asked again for payment.

  “Oh my God!” Alex whispered. “Oh my God! Ellen, you are a wicked genius.”

  In his haste to get downstairs to try the numbers that had just struck him, Alex forgot his coffee and had to be called back.

  The number on the paper was 140. He’d already tried that, but 140 was special. Not only that but it was a pyramid number. That’s why there was the symbol. It was an extra clue. Not a delta but a pyramid!

  Start with a square base of balls and build them up. Not counting one ball on its own, the first pyramid was formed of a base of four balls with one on top. The second was a base of nine balls followed by four and then one. That made fourteen balls for the second pyramid number. The sixth pyramid number was 140. And the number of balls in a pyramid with a base of 140 by 140 balls was a six digit number: 924,490.

  With fingers trembling with anticipation, Alex tried 924 on the first combination lock.

  Click.

  He dialled 490 on the second lock.

  Click.

  He lifted the lid.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Alex looked around the café. There were now four people downstairs but they paid him no heed. He studied the TV monitor half expecting someone to appear—maybe the fake policeman. After a minute of nothing suspicious, he tore his eyes away.

  Inside the briefcase was a sheaf of papers in a red folder, bound by string.

  Like a child will hold a Jack-in-the-box, with a mixture of anticipation and nerves, he lifted the bundle from the briefcase and worked the string free. The first few pages were emails from Marek.

  We’ve cracked it! You were right about the code in the cuneiform messages.

  Alex flicked through a few pages and saw images of clay tablets looking like a dog biscuit but with arrows and lines. This was cuneiform script, cramped and barely legible. Then there seemed to be a translation followed by a shorter passage with crossings out and suggested alternatives. He recognized the translation as an Amarna Letter, a record found at Tell el-Amarna, the site of Pharaoh Akhenaten’s city. It was a strange message formally translated as:

  To Napkhuria, King of Egypt, my brother, my son-in-law, who loves me and whom I love, thus speaks Tushratta, King of Mitanni, your father-in-law who loves you, your brother. I am well. May you be well too. Your houses, Tiye your mother, Lady of Egypt, Tadu-Heba, my daughter, your wife, your other wives, your sons, your noblemen, your chariots, your horses, your soldiers, your country and everything belonging to you, may they all enjoy excellent health.

  Marek had translated this as:

  The pharaoh, through his brother, declared war with chariots, horses and soldiers to destroy the house.

  Under this he wrote:

  I think this is the record of the destruction of the city of Akhetaten or the palace. There’s a name, transliteration of which is srq. It could be someone called something like Serq or it could mean the city was overrun with scorpions.

  The next tablet translation was also obscure:

  The sheep have been rounded-up (by the scorpion or blood?). Something about the way to afterlife being blocked perhaps?

  Alex paged through many similar texts and then read through more printed emails from Marek. One said: Carter wrote of papyri not clay tablets. Maybe this is something else.

  Marek’s final email, dated just over a week before Ellen had been murdered:

  I’m becoming worried. How close are you to getting it? We need to be extra careful and cover our tracks. I think you are right that they have killed—maybe even Lord C—and will not hesitate to kill to stop this information going public. Let’s not communicate until you have the information.

  The rest of the papers were Ellen’s own notes and diagrams: her research. As he read, it became very clear what had happened, what she’d been doing at Highclere Castle and why she had taken the ceremonial block. He also knew now that he had to destroy the notes.

  And then he saw the last page. Only, if he’d opened the bundle the other way around it would have been the first. It was a handwritten letter from Ellen.

  Alex, if you are reading this then I know my worst fears have happened. Please take care. This discovery is huge but it is also very dangerous. We are convinced there are people who do not want this information to come to light.

  The letter went on to tell him to find Professor Thompson at the Oxford institute, if he hadn’t already done so. He would help understand the importance of what Carter and Lord Carnarvon discovered and Carnarvon died for.

  There are two parts to this, Ellen went on to write. The first is the ceremonial block. The second is the hidden message. You’ll find Marek’s details in the bundle. He’s done the translations and he’s really the one behind understanding the story. He’ll help you with the main part. The ceremonial block is a map. You’ll understand when you read the story. I think the missing papyri included information too, maybe all of it. Maybe the map has already been worked out and there’s nothing at the end. But I am absolutely convinced that whatever it is, or was, has immense consequences. Solve it, Alex. Solve it for me and, if it really is as huge as I think, find the truth that someone wants buried.

  There were secure URLs and passwords listed. She wanted Alex to destroy the hard copies once he’d been through them and not print anything else.

  I’m not sure what you’ll find, but in the wrong hands, maybe this could be used in a damaging way. I don’t know. Or perhaps the map was solved decade
s ago and we’ll never know what lay at the end. But I know for sure that if it hasn’t then this information could lead the wrong people to the solution.

  She repeated herself a few times and he found himself imagining her state of mind. He figured she’d written this in the early hours of Sunday, bundling up the papers and leaving his house. She’d almost told him on Saturday night. He was sure of it. Maybe the fear that someone was watching stopped her. But he reckoned she’d left the phone and put the code in the Isis puzzle before leaving. She’d have bought the briefcase, possibly from one of the stores down from the café he was now in. She’d left him the research at the baggage reclaim and then gone back home. And two days later she was dead.

  Alex felt a tear on his cheek and brushed it away, but her final words made him choke.

  Thank you for being my friend.

  If there is an afterlife, a Field of Reeds, our hearts are not heavy. The gods will welcome us and I will see you again.

  Until then, I remain your—Ellen

  It was almost lunchtime when he stopped reading and studying the pictures. Alex stuffed the papers into the briefcase and locked it. First checking the CCTV, he went upstairs and left the coffee shop. He crossed Edgware Road and headed back towards Paddington station. A spur of the canal ended close by and he reached the shops and plaza within a few minutes. From a convenience store he bought a cigarette lighter.

  He walked across the deserted plaza to blue boarding behind which he knew a building had been demolished to make way for new offices. He followed the boards until he located a panel used as a door. After a quick check that no one was looking, he front-kicked the panel. It flew open and Alex stepped through.

  Shielded in a corner of the hoarding, he opened the briefcase and took out the papers. He then began to scrunch them up until he had a pile of paper balls sitting on the open briefcase. Ironically, he realized that he’d created a paper pyramid, but he didn’t smile. He didn’t feel like smiling. It felt like he had lost his friend all over again.