They had to walk from the centre of town to Ingerworth and she hardly spoke a word the whole way there. As they passed Ingerworth churchyard Sally saw Inspector Hartley leaving by the side-gate. He was with someone, a woman, and heading straight for them.
For the first time, Rosie Adams showed some sign of life. “Bloody hell!” she exclaimed. “It’s me mam - and that flaming inspector. She’s been seein’ him about me, I’ll bet.” and she almost dragged Sally into a nearby alley till they’d passed. Then they crept out and hurried on to High Royd House.
A century earlier, when Ingerworth had been a small hamlet, the house stood high on the hillside overlooking the main road to Keighworth. Since then, when mills had been built, a web of mean streets had been thown up, creeping to its very gates. However, it still stood in its own ample grounds.
No one had touched the gardens for years and they were a mass of rhododendrons which had run wild. The walls were ruinous, but an electric fence ran round the perimeter and guard dogs constantly patrolled the grounds. The huge iron gates at the main entrance were rusted and permanently locked. Whitcliff drove his smart car through a rear entrance.
Despite its gardens the house was still imposing, built by a rich mill master years before to flaunt his wealth. Many of the windows were boarded up except in the wing where Jason Whitcliff lived. There the curtains were never drawn, for he was a solitary man and had as his companion a solitary male servant. A huge minder he’d brought back from Egypt.
The house had been the original family home till Sir Joshua built Pithom Hall on the moors. By then he’d become well and truly hooked on the Hathor cult and moved into the Hall.
He left High Royd House to his eldest son, Jason Whitcliff’s grandfather, where the family continued to live after selling off their mills. Just why they’d stayed on, why Jason Whitcliff himself lived there when he spent so much time in Egypt, had been a mystery. The rest of the family had died out and Whitcliff had never married. In Keighworth he was regarded as an eccentric, something of a recluse, living in the past.
A short drive led to the back entrance. The gates there were locked like the main gates the other side of the house. The girls had to ring, and waited for some time to be collected. In the coppice behind Sgt Khan waited, and was joined later by Inspector Hartley.
“You’re in constant contact, Khan, I hope?” he said, crouching near his sergeant. From where they were, overlooking the house, they could see the girls waiting at the back entrance.
Khan nodded and pulled out his mobile. “If anything goes wrong she’ll hit the panic-button,” he said.
“And then?”
“Then we’ll go in,” said Khan.
Inspector Hartley nodded but the terrible thought niggled inside him that it might be too late by then; and they watched helplessly as Whitcliff’s minder and his dog came to let the girls in. Hartley asked who was patrolling the area that night.
“This is Whitley and Moor’s patch,” said Khan. “I’ll give them a buzz to check out.” He called up the patrol car and told them to stand by, but keep well away from the house. The last thing they wanted was Sally Anwar’s cover blowing.
Madame Marie was already there. So were Riad and Mukhtar and with them another woman. When they’d been introduced, DWC Anwar asked to be excused and in the loo contacted Sgt Khan. When she mentioned Saniyya Misha, Hartley’s alarm grew. Colonel Waheeb had said the El Tuban group had plants inside the Egyptian police force. Could Misha be one of them? Or had she genuinely penetrated the cell? She’d told Sally she was being initiated with her that night, and that gave him a crumb of comfort as he crouched with Khan praying all would go to plan.
Inside the house there was a smaller version of the temple at Pithom Hall. The same figures of the gods were painted on the walls and there was an altar in the centre of the room, like that at the Hall. On it were four candlesticks holding black candles. Between them was a golden effigy of the raised cobra, and the altar was covered with richly embroidered cloth. The lighting was subdued and incense rose from censers at either end of the altar.
The two initiates were ordered to stand before the altar then the others left the room. They re-appeared moments later clad in the priestly robes of the Pharaonic priesthood. Whitcliff was more ornately dressed than the others. His vestments were golden and he wore an amulet collar with the raised cobra on it and the outspread wings of a falcon. He also wore a pectoral with jewelled solar and lunar symbols and the eye of Horus. On his fingers were rings studded with scarab beetles. His head-dress comprised a vulture’s head and cobra - the head-dress of the Pharoahs. He carried a symbolic shepherd’s crook and dagger. As they drew close to the altar he pulled a mask over the lower part of his face so that only his eyes stared at them through the thick clouds of incense.
Madame Marie presented the two novices as he took up his place behind the altar. The lights were dimmed and the rest of them, who’d also masked the lower part of their faces like Whitcliff, formed a tight semi-circle around the two women.
“Greetings in the name of Hathor our mother,” intoned Whitcliff.
Sally shivered and glanced at the other woman. Saniyya Misha stared stony-faced ahead. She didn’t take her eyes off Whitcliff, and the dagger in his belt. There was no escape and Sally gripped the mobile in her pocket tightly.
Madame Marie and Rose Adams came forward and stood beside them. The menfolk stayed behind. Rosie seemed in a trance and murmured something over and over again which Sally couldn’t make out. The air was thick with incense now, overpowering and she felt faint.
“You who are to become daughters of Hathor prepare to dedicate yourselves. Know that the gods are with us. Know that the eyes of Ra are upon you. You are to dedicate yourselves to him. Offer yourselves!”
Sally was panic-stricken. Before she could move, her hands were pinned by the men behind. So fast she couldn’t reach her phone. Then Madame Marie approached the altar and bowed low. Whitcliff drew the dagger from his belt and passed it to her. It gleamed brightly in the candlelight as she held it aloft. Sally’s eyes widened with horror, but she was powerless. She couldn’t move or speak. Nor could Dr Misha.
Nearer and nearer came Madame Marie smiling wickedly. She came to Sally first and Riad shoved Salley’s head forward. She tried to scream but her mouth was dry. Any moment she expected to feel the blade of the dagger on her neck.
But all that Madam Marie did was to cut off a lock of Sally’s hair. Then she moved across and did the same to Saniyya who was held by Mukhtar. That done, she took the locks of hair to the altar and handed them to Whitcliff, who placed them in copper dish.
“Great Hathor, our mother goddess,” he intoned, holding up the dish before the cobra image, “we offer you these tokens of your daughters’ bodies. They seek your protection and guidance in this life. Bring them to yourself as they pledge themselves to you in this world and eternity.”
A blue flame flickered across the altar from the cobra and with a deft flick of his wrist, Whitcliff emptied the contents of the dish onto the flame. The strands of hair caught fire and sizzled to ashes as Whitcliff held his hands in the rising smoke.
“You are one with Hathor now,” he said to them. “You are joined with us and all her followers. You are set amidst the imperishable stars where you will live after your mortal death.”
He waved his crook over the blue flame which began to die slowly. When it was quite extinguished and the room almost in darkness, he said in a strange voice, “I am here, my children. I, Hathor. I have come to claim you as mine. You shall never know real death. You are with me always. Obey my priests and you will see me even as they do.”
Whitcliff’s eyes were tightly shut but his face looked ecstatic. Then he said in a whisper, “I am yours, O great one. Your priest. Your servant.” He held his staff over the altar for what seemed an age, then they all began intoning prayers to the gods.
As their voices died away, Whitcliff suddenly opened his eyes. He shuddered, as
if coming out of a trance. The lights went up and he gave his smooth smile.
“Welcome,” he said simply. “You are now one of us.”
Riad and Mukhtar released the girls’ arms. Saniyya Misha looked across at Sally and smiled with obvious relief. Then Madame Marie stepped between them to invest them with the robes Rosie Adams had brought. That done, Whitcliff came from behind the altar and embraced them. He placed on their heads the nemes head-dress worn by the ancient Egyptians Then he led them in procession to the meal his servant had prepared.
Afterwards, Sally was able to sneak into the loo again and say she was all right. “Thank God for that,” was all Hartley said. And he thanked Him again when he saw DWC Anwar leave the gates of the house as the lights behind her went out.
Chapter Eighteen
She was escorted home by Rosie Adams, so Khan and Hartley kept well clear. Just as well, for moments after she’d gone in Riad and Mukhtar appeared in their car. They stopped outside the house a moment, checked she was inside, then drove off. But she phoned to let the inspector know she was all right. She sounded exhausted and Hartley told her to go straight to bed. She could tell him all about it next day.
At the de-briefing she still looked pale and exhausted and at the office the next day, Hartley could sense tension. Sgt Khan was tight-lipped and Sally Anwar clearly upset. Hartley soon discovered what was the matter.
“Sir,” his sergeant said, “DWC Anwar is unhappy about this undercover job.”
Hartley looked across at her. Like Khan she was tight-lipped.
“Well?” said Hartley. “What’s up?”
“About last night, sir,” Sally Anwar said. “I’ve been worried about that ritual they put me through. I felt I was compromising my religion.”
Blake Hartley pursed his lips. He hadn’t anticipated this. He told them both to sit down. Said they must talk it through and would Khan brew up for them. Meanwhile, he sorted through the papers on his desk. The two Muslims were on edge. They said nothing, but the looks which passed between them spoke volumes.
“I think I know what you mean,” said the inspector sipping his tea. Then more gently he murmured, “But I didn’t know the case was going to lead you into this, Miss Anwar, and I can’t say I’ve been happy myself the way it’s turned out. To be frank, I was scared sick last night. So was Khan.”
His sergeant nodded.
“But this other business. All that pagan gobbledegook they put you through. It’s nothing. Rubbish! You didn’t compromise your faith when you went through with it.”
“But I feel I did,” burst out Sally. “In here!” She pointed to her heart.
Inspector Hartley took a deep breath. “It was either going through with it or blowing your cover - and that could have led to …” he paused, then said, “…to the unthinkable after what those killers did to Manasas. I’m sure Allah didn’t intend that to happen. Miss Anwar, as I see it, if we take our religion seriously - and I certainly couldn’t be more serious about mine - we don’t compromise our faith when we may have to do things as detectives we wouldn’t dream of doing off duty.”
“But I was initiated into a demonic sect,” said Sally tearfully. “I acknowledged a false god by what I did. Allah will punish me.”
“Not so,” said the inspector. “You were fighting evil. What you learned last night will help us destroy that evil and all it stands for. Allah will reward you - all of us - for working His will.”
He paused to let what he was saying sink in. The two before him seemed more reassured.
“Why did you join the police if it wasn’t to fight evil? All crime is evil. It destroys both victim and criminal. Ultimately society itself if it goes unchecked. Sometimes we have to be the devil’s advocate, play him at his own game to beat him. After all there have been countless times when the devil has pretended to be Christian. He used that ploy right from the start with Judas. And the same has happened in Islam. The lowest depths of hell are reserved for hypocrites, I know; but none of us is a hypocrite here. Even if we fall short of what we believe.”
He sipped his tea. Then he said quietly, “If you still feel uneasy about working undercover, I’ll take you off this case. As far as I’m concerned you compromised nothing last night. Your conscience should be clear. Talk it over with your imam. See what he thinks. But I’m glad you brought it up. No use bottling up something like that.”
DWC Sally Anwar did talk it over and was more relaxed next day much to Hartley’s relief. She wanted to remain on the case, and attended the meeting Hartley had arranged at the Khans’ house the other side of town. They were safe there and could come and go unseen.
Their home was an old Edwardian house and stood screened by trees in a large garden on the edge of Romerton Moor. It was there she had a great surprise. She was introduced to Dr Saniyya Misha, her co-noviciate at the initiation ceremony. Neither she nor Khan could believe it when she walked in, but Colonel Waheeb explained all as they admired the Khans’ antiques. They’d recently bought a Regency table. It caught their attention the minute they entered the room for at the top of each leg there were sphinx heads, wearing head-dresses like those they’d worn at High Royd House.
“When that awful woman came across to cut your hair, I thought we’d had it,” said Dr Misha.
They went over their ordeal again and how at the meal after it Gamal Riad had become drunk. He’d tried it on with them till Whitcliff took him to one side and put him well and truly in his place. Whitcliff was clearly the boss.
But before they left, Riad had given Sally his card and asked her to call him. As well as his address in Bradford the card had a London address, on the back. If he hadn’t been so drunk he’d have realised he’d given her the wrong card. She showed it to Inspector Hartley. The London address sounded familiar to him. He took out the notebook Mrs Adams had given him and flicked through it.
“I thought as much,” he grunted. Then passed the book to Colonel Waheeb. “It’s the address of The Western Armaments Company.”
Waheeb raised his eyebrows. “So that’s where they’re getting their stuff from now,” he said, and made a note. “They used to ship in their weapons from Libya, but we plugged that hole. Now they’re getting them from here - from Britain! But how?”
Inspector Hartley shrugged his shoulders. “With friends in high places, you can get most things here. Embargoes notwithstanding. Just put the right amount of money into the right accounts and there you are!” He pocketed the notebook before continuing, “Did you notice the address next to the armaments company address?”
“There was a name connected with your Ministry of Defence,” said Waheeb.
“A junior minister. One of the missing girl’s clients. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if our man from the ministry wasn’t gun-running for the El Tubans, as well as playing fast and loose in London. That’s the way it goes in politics.”
“But how do they get their stuff out to Egypt?” asked Khan.
Then it dawned. Riad and Mukhtar. The loaned artefacts returning to Cairo from the Institute. “We must check out the next consignment from the Institute,” Colonel Waheeb.
“There’s a whole lot of material already crated ready to go to the Cairo Museum,” said Saniyya Misha. “Shall I see what’s in it?”
“No,” said Mordecai Waheeb. “Let it run. I’ll arrange to have it opened and re-packed. We don’t want to alert them. We want to catch the big fish red-handed when we cast our net, not the minnows.”
When they’d completed their briefing at Khan’s place, Inspector Hartley checked out the list of directors of the Western Armaments Company. Surprise, surprise! Sir Jeremy Listerton, the junior Defence Minister, was on it. His constituency was in Yorkshire and he was a good friend of the Chief Constable. A regular client of Kathy Burton, too.
When Inspector Hartley beavered deeper, he found out that the Western Armaments Company had drawn up contracts signed by a Dr Gamal Riad, contracts made by a subsidiary owned by Listerton. It was al
l legal, customs said. All above board. And they told him where the containers were stored before they were shipped out
By coincidence, Sir Jeremy had been invited to open a new wing at the Institute of Middle Eastern Studies, because his company had given a substantial amount to them. Years before he’d been given an honorary degree for financing research work into Middle Eastern affairs and his knighthood had followed not long afterwards. More contracts from the Middle East followed, too.
The Chief Constable was invited to the opening as a friend of a friend of Listerton’s; and (Blake Hartley never fathomed how) Superintendent Arthur Donaldson was on the guest-list! He was full of it. The day his invitation arrived he flashed the gold embossed card all round the office. Under Inspector Hartley’s nose first.
It puzzled Hartley why his boss always had to go out of his way to try and impress him. He must have known it was hopeless. Inspector Hartley wasn’t impressed by names or honours, yet the more he showed his indifference, the more names Donaldson dropped and tried to impress. As if he was trying to educate him somehow.
Blake Hartley put it down to two things: Donaldson’s size and his ego; between which there was an inverse ratio. He was a small man, much smaller than Hartley. But his opinion of himself was huge. The inspector came to the conclusion that Donaldson’s chronic name-dropping was because the superintendent wanted to look big. And the longer they worked together, the more Arthur Donaldson inflated himself with names.
But there was something else. Envy. Hartley was an experienced policeman. He’d come up through the ranks after years on the beat, whereas Donaldson was a graduate entrant. He’d shot to the top And another thing. Donaldson’s dad was a bishop and he had to keep caste. Hartley was only a parish priest - and an unpaid one at that.
The day he received his invitation, he had Hartley in his office at once. The inspector found him strutting like a bantam cock. Like an over-keen football referee he waved his card at Hartley as soon as he came in.
1 The Museum Mystery Page 13
