Clutching tea-towels to their faces they went back into the front room and doused the joss-sticks. Then they opened all the windows. Minutes later Sergeant Khan knocked at the door. When Sally Anwar failed to appear, he left his hidey-hole across the road and rang the bell. It was Rosie who answered. She looked scared and asked what he wanted.
“I’m a friend of Sasha Wasim. She asked me to pick her up. Will you tell her I’m here?” he said.
She looked more scared than ever. “Sasha? Oh, yeah,” she said, playing for time. “She didn’t say owt about anyone picking her up but she left about half an hour ago. The back way.” Then she slammed the door to. Ibrahim Khan walked down the short path and as he closed the gate he caught a glimpse of Madame Marie peering at him behind the heavy curtains.
Khan raced round the back. The high gate into the yard was locked. He was getting desperate and phoned the station, but as he walked away something shiny on the ground caught his eye. A broken cuff-link. He picked it up and pocketed it. Engraved on it was a cobra head and the word “Hathor”. On the reverse side there was a spot of blood.
Inspector Hartley was on his way to the Super’s office when Khan’s urgent call came through, for Donaldson was about to give him another roasting. He’d attended the dinner at Whitcliff’s place the previous might and Blake’s name had cropped up. It amazed - and dismayed - Donaldson how often it did now.
He told the inspector his attitude at the Lodge had ruffled Sir Jeremy and was unacceptable Sir Jeremy hadn’t gone into details but he was clearly upset. And he told Blake Hartley yet again to steer clear when Dunwell invited him into the Lodge.
“It’s all a matter of professional etiquette,” said Donaldson. “I don’t want to pull rank, Hartley, but I like to relax when I’m off-duty. I mean, you wouldn’t want me elbowing my way in if you were at some social function and speaking to the bishop, would you?”
Hartley raised his eyebrows. The cheek of it! That’s exactly what Donaldson had done more than once when they’d happened to be at a diocesan jamboree. Donaldson was churchwarden and Reader at an up-market church in an up-beat village near Ilkesworth. He was on the diocesan synod and being a bishop’s son, he was also on first-name terms with the archbishop and the rest of the hierarchy in the province. So Hartley wasn’t exactly happy by the time he returned to his office and his sergeant phoned to tell him of DWC Anwar’s disappearance.
“Are you telling me she’s been snatched?” said Hartley.
“Yes, sir,” Khan replied. “She must have blown her cover. There’s no sign of her.”
“Get back here straight away, Khan,” said the inspector. “I’ll call Colonel Waheeb. But whatever you do, don’t say anything to Donaldson. I’ll tell him myself.”
Hartley put the phone down and found himself praying. There were times when unvoiced prayer rose spontaneously within him. This was one. He sat quietly at his desk his eyes closed, his brow furrowed. The unthinkable had happened. He needed more than human help now.
There was a knock on his door and when he opened it Mordecai Waheeb stood there. He’d been in town and just dropped by to see how things were. Hartley ushered him in quickly and explained the situation. Not long afterwards Sgt Khan arrived and repeated what had happened. He pulled out the cuff-link he’d found. The other two recognised it at once.
“It’s the El Tuban group!” whispered Waheeb.
The three detectives stood grim-faced in silence. So heavy was the silence, the Town Hall clock startled them when it struck.
“What are we going to do?” asked Sgt Khan, who was the first to speak. “We’ll just have to inform Superintendent Donaldson.”
Inspector Hartley looked drawn. “Any suggestions before I go in and tell him?” he asked wearily.
He looked across at Colonel Waheeb. He was studying a map of Keighworth on the wall. He didn’t answer Hartley’s question immediately, but asked if he could use Hartley’s phone. The inspector pushed it across the desk. The colonel asked the duty clerk to put him through to Saniyya Misha at the Institute. When she answered there followed a rapid conversation in Arabic. Then he hung up.
“It seems the birds have flown,” he said. “Riad and Mukhtar handed in their notices two days ago and have left the Institute. Professor Edwards is furious. They’d been packing for days unknown to him and have taken several of the objects they were studying with them.”
“Wherever they are, they’ve got DWC Anwar as well,” said Hartley miserably.
Colonel Waheeb turned again to the map. “In my country, we have a saying,” he said. “ ‘A snake that has eaten returns to its pit.’ My guess is that our two snakes have taken their prey here or here.” He pointed to High Royd House and Pithom Hall. “We’ve got to flush them out and make them disgorge.”
“But how?” asked Khan.
“By trading the dead for the living,” said Waheeb. “The mummy for Miss Anwar. Their goddess for our colleague. We still have the real mummy in store. Remember?”
“D’you believe they’ll take it?” asked Hartley, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“I know they will, my friend,” said Waheeb. “They’re fanatics - crazy. They value their sacred dead far more than the living. What’s more, I’ve a feeling Whitcliff is expecting us. By now he’ll know they have the fake mummy and he’ll want to do a deal. That’s why they’ve snatched Miss Anwar. I’m sure of it.”
“And they’re all at Whitcliff’s place?” said Hartley, looking more and more hopeful.
“He’s their man up front now that Mukhtar and Riad have gone to ground. He’s using our policewoman as a pawn. They all badly want their goddess to take back with them to their temple in Egypt. Yes, I should contact Whitcliff before he contacts you That will upstage him. But be careful, my friend. One false move and Miss Anwar will finish up like poor Manasas.”
“In that case, I’m saying nothing to Donaldson. He’ll panic completely!” said Inspector Hartley.
“But we’ll have to tell him something, sir,” said Sgt Khan. “We can’t just leave him in the dark over something like this.”
“Tell him just as much as he needs to know,” advised Waheeb. “Tell him that the mummy trade-off is our only hope if we’re to get Miss Anwar back alive. I’ll speak to him myself, if you wish, my friend.” And Inspector Hartley decided that was best.
When Colonel Waheeb broke the news Donaldson threw a wobbler. He wanted to call in the Anti-Terrorist Squad. Wanted to tell the Chief Constable. Wanted most of all to cop out. But he knew he couldn’t when Waheeb explained what would happen if he did.
He sat at his table with his head in his hands for some minutes then looked up. He had the stare of a snared rabbit. “My God, Hartley, you’ve landed me in it this time. If anything happens to DWC Anwar we’re in it up to here.”
“We’ve reached that point already, sir,” said Hartley, dismally.
Donaldson got to his feet, plucked his moustache and fiddled with his watch-chain. “And what exactly do you propose we do, Hartley?” he asked.
“I’m going to see Whitcliff,” said the inspector.
The Super was brought up short. “But you can’t just go rushing into his place, Hartley. You’ve done that already - and look what a mess that got me into!”
“I shan’t go rushing in, sir. I’ll phone him. He’s expecting me, sir.”
“But why?” asked, Donaldson perplexed.
“Because we’ve got what he wants, sir. What his bunch of crazies have snatched DWC Anwar for, their Eblis.”
“Eblis? What d’you mean, man?” asked the Super, frowning.
“The object of their worship. The very reason for their existence, sir,” said Hartley.
Donaldson’s amazement gave way to impatience. “Don’t beat about the bush, Hartley. Explain yourself.”
“The mummy in the museum,” he replied. Then he and Waheeb spent the next half hour explaining all about it.
“You’re not going alone,” Hartley,” said Donald
son finally, and for one horrible moment the inspector thought he was going to say he would accompany him. “Take Khan with you. I’d feel happier if he were there.”
“I didn’t know you cared so much about me, sir,” said Hartley with the hint of a smile.
Donaldson went up on his toes, so Blake Hartley guessed it was time to leave.
Chapter Twenty Three
They’d plenty to think about on the way to High Royd House. Driving out of town, they passed numerous tiny factories and businesses. Gone were the large employers of Hartley’s youth. The mills and engineering works, now closed, had employed hundreds if not thousands then. Keighworth had been the richest - and damn near the muckiest - town in England. The mills and black-shops had gone now; work was harder to find, but Keighworth was cleaner, almost rural in parts where trees and shrubs had crept back. It was, however, still the same old Keighworth. Still the same droll town.
Ingerworth had remained bitty and gritty. Businesses with half a dozen employees cluttered the road out of Keighworth. They manufactured everything, it seemed, from light-switches to venetian blinds. There was even a pickled onions plant.
Whitcliffs Mills had been taken over years before by the Fairclough Group. One wing of the huge complex had been demolished to make a car-park. Another was used as a warehouse for rustic furniture. Only a handful of looms remained and were tucked away in one corner of the complex.
Whitcliff had diversified, too. He’d got out of textiles years before and gone into arms-dealing. He’d plenty of markets in the Middle East. He’d many companies and he owned Listerton’s and as a result he had Listerton in his pocket, too.
Why Whitcliff kept on High Royd House was a mystery. He rarely stayed there. Sentimentality, perhaps. He’d spent his early life there and had always kept it in good nick. Why he was restoring Pithom Hall the inspector now knew. It was the headquarters of the sect he headed as well as an arms depot.
Though isolated on the moors, High Royd House loomed over a screen of trees. Cameras constantly surveilled the house and surrounding land, as at Pithom Hall. Nothing could have stirred there without being seen.
As Hartley guessed, Whitcliff was expecting them, for when Hartley pressed the bell a guard dog ran snarling to the gate, barking furiously at the men outside. Whitcliff’s silky voice greeted them through a speaker. “Do come in, inspector. I see you have company.”
The voice was triumphal. Sneering.
Although he couldn’t see him, Blake Hartley could picture him standing arrogantly by a monitoring screen and laughing at them. Whitcliff was still chuckling when he received them. He held all the cards - except one; that was played against him later and lost him the game.
The dog was called off and the gates opened by remote control. They drove up an overgrown drive choked with rhododendrons. The house once boasted a fine garden but it had gone to seed. Broken vases lay on their side and a forlorn dry fountain gasped from a bed of weeds. Already sycamore saplings smothered the old lawns. Only the drive and the parking space in front of the house were clear of the invading wilderness.
As they left their car, Khan commented on an ancient Benz parked near the garage. Its luggage rail was stacked high with cases and a travelling trunk. Someone was on the move.
They were greeted by the snarling guard-dog as they stepped on to the portico. It was kennelled behind one of the ionic pillars supporting a decorated pediment bearing the Whitcliff arms. The armorial bearings stood out in the floodlights which came on as they approached.
The huge bodyguard came to the door said something in Arabic. The dog fell silent. Expressionless, the bodyguard motioned them inside and they followed him. The atmosphere was oppressive with not a hint of welcome as they went into the great Victorian entrance hall.
In the hallway was a fine display of Egyptian artefacts, overseen by a full-length portrait of Sir Joshua Whitcliff, robed not in English dress but the priestly vestments of Hathor. There were smaller portraits of his sons and grandsons in the same regalia.
Above the portraits on a plinth ranged statuettes of Egyptian gods and goddesses; pride of place given to Hathor. The bodyguard bowed low before it as they passed. At the end of the corridor was the reception room.
The Arab opened the doors and motioned them in. Once they were inside he closed the doors silently behind them. There were two lookalikes inside, with that significant bulge under the left arm-pit where a holster lay. Blackwell and Roxley were also there but only Whitcliff spoke.
He stood by the roaring open fire. Subdued lighting left much of the room in darkness. The red firelight flickered, lighting up the heavily decorated Arabic furniture and décor. A drinks cabinet stood in one corner. It was modern and looked out of place with its chrome and silver.
“Mr Fahid,” said Whitcliff, greeting him in Arabic, “I didn’t expect the pleasure of your company.” His eyes flitted constantly from one to the other, mocking them like his voice. He turned to Hartley. “Somehow I suspected Mr Fahid was always part of your private set-up, inspector. Unlike your superior, you have a mind of your own, your own way of doing things.” He gave a deep chuckle as if what he’d said amused him. “Your Yorkshire independence doesn’t accord with Superintendent Donaldson’s southern conformity. He’s a very exact man, y’know.”
Hartley said nothing. Whitcliff smiled again and offered them a drink but Hartley refused as did the others. Whitcliff shrugged his shoulders and looked a little piqued. He nodded at one of his men who poured him a brandy.
“Inspector Hartley, let’s not beat about the bush. We are both practical men - Keighworthians, eh?” he chuckled again. Hartley glanced around. There wasn’t much of Keighworth there. He didn’t reply so the other continued, “We all know why we’re here. Leastways, Hartley, I know why you and your sergeant are here. But Mr Fahid?”
“Colonel Waheeb of the Cairo Police Department,” cut in Mordecai.
The heavy lids raised for an instant in surprise and just for one moment Whitcliff’s self-assurance gave way to something like fear. He sipped his drink and regarded Colonel Waheeb more closely.
“I’ve heard about you Colonel Waheeb. Your reputation runs before you. But I hardly expected to meet you here. In Keighworth of all places. Not quite as exotic as Cairo, eh?” he smiled and swirled his brandy round his glass. “Pity about Manasas,” he added, giving the other a dark smile.
Colonel Waheeb remained impassive but his voice was hard. “Yes. It is a pity. Such a good man. A family man, but that wouldn’t interest you. However, we learned much before you butchered him.”
The fear in Whitcliff’s eyes returned. They dropped to his brandy-glass as he spoke.
“Butchered? I don’t know what you’re talking about, colonel. You really ought to be careful when you throw out such absurd accusations. But we didn’t come here to discuss Manasas, did we? It’s about a relic. Our most sacred. We’re here to make sure it gets safely back home to Egypt.”
Blake Hartley gave a hollow laugh. “That all depends on you, Whitcliff, ” he said. “It’s not the only thing we have. The poor girl you murdered. We have her, too.” He glanced across at Blackwell as he spoke. “The false mummy Blackwell switched is on its way to Egypt.” Then he added, “So we have the original as well as the dead girl.”
He paused to let his words sink in. Whitcliff put down his drink and scowled at Blackwell, who looked nonplussed. “He’s bluffing, sir!” he stammered. “He must be. The divine princess is at the hall. In the Mausoleum.”
“On second thoughts, I think I will have that drink you offered,” said Hartley. “I’ve just noticed you keep a good malt.”
The inspector smiled quietly and nodded at the drinks cabinet. Whitcliff himself poured the inspector his drink. When he’d sampled it and held it to the light, Hartley turned to Blackwell. “You and Tommy Driscoll never did get on, did you?” he began.
“What d’yer mean? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Blackwell.
“Years ago, you fancied his girl and made sure he got the push at Pithom Hall. He never forgave you. Nor did he ever forget the place. The memories of it kept him going after he left the army. He dossed here often before you began tarting it up. And he stumbled across where you’d hidden the mummy when you snatched it from the museum. Told me about it before you bumped him off.”
“You’re crazy!” snarled Blackwell, looking across at Whitcliff.
Inspector Hartley ignored him and took a sip of his whisky. “Excellent stuff,” he said to Whitcliff, then went on. “Sergeant Khan and I went to the hall. More precisely, to the Mausoleum. I hope you’ll forgive us but we did a bit of grave robbing among your forebears,” he said turning again to Whitcliff. “So now we have the princess and you have DWC Anwar. We’re here to do a deal, Whitcliff. Let’s not beat about the bush. You get your dead if we get our living.”
He took another sip. Blackwell began bleating but was silenced by Whitcliff.
“Shut up, Blackwell!” he said. Then almost in a whisper, “Where have you got her divine highness?”
Blake Hartley held his whisky glass up to the light again. “Come, come,” he said. “You can’t expect me to tell you that. Not till our deal’s been struck.”
“I could report you to Superintendent Donaldson…to the Chief Constable…” began Whitcliff.
Hartley gave a bleak laugh. “You’d have a helluva lot of explaining to do afterwards,” he said. “And you still wouldn’t have your precious princess.” He nodded towards the window. “I see your car’s already packed. Ready to take your beloved goddess back to Egypt doubtless. Well, she won’t get her ticket to heaven yet. Not unless our lady is delivered alive and well to us first.”
“And afterwards? The other body? How will you explain that to your superintendent once I’ve gone?” said Whitcliff. “If you’d left her in peace, that girl would now be in Egypt with the rest.”
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