Blake Hartley was lucky. He’d been born into a cleaner, healthier Keighworth which was now contracting. The great families had taken their wealth elsewhere, usually down south to play the squire and marry into the gentry there. Hartley’s family had stayed on and new people like Khan’s family had come in. Keighworth had changed.
The great houses at High Royd and Pithom Hall were among the very last of their kind still owned by the original families. All the others had been turned into nursing homes, or knocked down and built over. Many of the churches and chapels endowed by those same great families had gone with them.
But somehow St John’s at Ingerworth struggled on. Its congregation was small but active and the Revd Blake Hartley was their priest. His ministry rippled through the parish, often to those who attended church least: the winos, junkies and wayfarers who made church graveyards and porches their homes, and were a deal closer to God than they imagined, for they didn’t live long.
Mary had his meal ready when he got in. She sensed something was up. He wasn’t usually so late coming back, but as a copper’s wife she’d learned long ago not to quiz him. He’d tell her in time what she needed to know.
“I’ll be going out later, love,” he said, “so there’s no need to stay up.”
She suspected it was to do with Sally Anwar. He’d told her Donaldson had stood him down, but didn’t say where he was going. Nothing about the deal he’d struck with Whitcliff.
She’d just finished clearing the table when the doorbell rang. It startled her. When she opened the door, Sgt Khan and Colonel Waheeb stood there, looking grim like her husband. They made small-talk while Blake put on his coat and hat, and as they left he embraced her more warmly than usual, and said again he didn’t know when he’d be back. How many times she’d heard those words, but tonight they had a sombre ring. She said nothing, only wishing them goodnight and seeing them into the pick-up, which held the mummy. Then she stood waiting at the gate till the dusk swallowed them up.
They said little on the way to Pithom Hall. The atmosphere in the van was taut, stretched to breaking point. The last light from the sun glowered lurid as they climbed the horizon to the moors, which stretched out dark and menacing. Black boulders hunched from the heather. Black pits pocked the land where rock had been quarried. Black stunted trees silhouetted the skyline.
They passed the abandoned quarry where the tunnels led to the Hall. A lorry was there with men working feverishly to load it. The last shipment before the El Tubans bolted. There was nothing the detectives could do about it so they drove on.
Their approach triggered off security lights all along the driveway to the hall. The forecourt lit up like day as they swung in.and the light blinded them as they left the pick-up. Whitcliff came out to meet them with Blackwell and his pal Roxley. There was no sign of their dogs, but they were both armed. As they left the truck Blackwell came forward to frisk them. Satisfied they were unarmed, he nodded at Whitcliff, who greeted them.
“Sorry about that,” he said smoothly, “ but it’s a little formality I always observe. I can’t afford to take any risks now.” He peered into the back of the pick-up under the tarpaulin which shrouded the mummy. “You’ve kept your word, inspector. I’ll keep mine,” he said.
He called out in Arabic over his shoulder. Riad and Mukhtar emerged with Sally Anwar, shaken but unharmed. With her was Saniyya Misha but they obviously hadn’t rumbled her and Waheeb breathed with relief.
“Go inside and monitor the cameras,” Whitcliff ordered Roxley. Then he glanced at his watch. “We have a few moments together, gentlemen, before my departure flight. Perhaps you’d like to join me in a farewell drink. We will never meet again.”
Smiling he motioned them inside. Riad and Mukhtar followed, carrying the coffin of the princess reverentially. Once they had it inside, Whitcliff pulled back the cover from the glass lid. He stood a moment as if in prayer before the still figure inside. Then he replaced the cover.
“By this time tomorrow, Her Divine Highness will be among her own again,” he said. “Re-joining them after more than a century. I’m indebted to you, Inspector Hartley. An infidel priest restoring us our goddess. Ironic, isn’t it?”
Hartley smiled. He felt like smiling now he knew Sally Anwar was all right. He, too, had been praying.
Saniyya Misha stood with the other two Egyptians, who were guarding the coffin. They’d draped it with a richly decorated cloth they had ready, covered in hieroglyphics. Whitcliff supervised the pouring of the drinks. Only Hartley accepted.
“Two devout Muslims and one devout Christian - taking a little drink doubtless for his stomach’s sake, eh, inspector?,” he joked, pouring Hartley a stiff whisky.
“Let’s say it’s to steady my nerves,” Hartley replied.
Whitcliff smiled more broadly. “You know, Hartley, it really is a pity we must part. I’ve come to respect you more and more. That fool Donaldson doesn’t know what a superb officer he has.”
“I think he does,” said Colonel Waheeb.
Whitcliff raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that, colonel. Here’s to success, inspector,” he said. “Mine now. Yours in the future. Better luck next time.”
“And I’ll drink to that,” said Hartley.
His reply seemed to amuse Whitcliff, for he laughed softly. “In five minutes I shall leave here - sadly never to return,” he said. Then he added, “You’re in for quite a spectacular night.” They were to realise what he meant later.
“Your flight is by courtesy of Listerton, I suppose,” said Hartley, sipping his drink.
“Of course,” said the other.
“You pay him well for his dirty deals,” said the inspector.
“Let’s keep ethics where they belong. In church,” said Whitcliff. “The arms business is one of Britains’s most profitable exports. Without Listerton and his ilk you’d be praying for thousands of unemployed.”
“Instead of the millions who are being slaughtered by them ,” Hartley flashed back.
Whitcliff didn’t reply. He drained his drink as the roar of a helicopter drew closer. It landed and Whitcliff immediately left to board it, leaving Saniyya and Riad guarding them, while Mukhtar and Blackwell carried the coffin outside.
Someone jumped from the helicopter door, armed with a heavy automatic rifle. When the coffin of the princess was on board, Whitcliff got in. The door closed behind him and the aircraft took off into the night.
When it had gone, Riad ordered them all against the wall. Saniyya Misha stood by and watched him closely. Mukhtar had gone outside to bring round a sleek BMW. He left the engine ticking over as he and Roxley carried luggage into the car. When Roxley came back Riad surprised him by telling him to join the others against the wall.
“What yer playin’ at?” asked Roxley bemused.
“You’re now dispensable. Like your friend, Blackwell,” said Riad. “Did you really think we’d take you two back to Egypt. You’d be so much dead-weight.”
Roxley reached for his gun, but he was too late. Riad opened fire and he dropped to the ground groaning, holding his chest. Blackwell was returning downstairs when it happened, carrying a primed detonator box. He turned and fled the way he’d come. Riad fired at him but missed, then shouted something at Mukhtar and took off in pursuit up the stairs.
Mukhtar waited till he’d gone then drew his gun, but before he could use it more shots rang out. He crashed against the banisters, clutched at them, then slid to the floor dead. Saniyya Misha stood grim-faced with a smoking gun.
Waheeb and Khan raced towards her picking up Mukhtar and Roxley’s pistols, while Hartley remained with Sally Anwar, holding her and shielding her with his body. When the shooting stopped she was shaking violently.
“You all right?” he said quietly as she clung to him. She nodded, then wiped her eyes. Saniyya Misha came over.
“Whitcliff told Riad and Mukhtar to kill you once he’d got the princess. Blackwell and Roxley, too. Because I was Egyptian and inducted in
their sect, they were to take me with them,” she said. She looked disdainfully at Mukhtar’s body then re-loaded her pistol. “When we’ve got Riad, we’ll have squared Ahmad Manasas’ death,” she said, mounting the staircase with Waheeb.
But she was halted by a cry from Roxley, bleeding badly at the foot of the stairs. “No!” he gasped. “Get outside! Get away! The whole place is wired. Blackwell has orders to blow up the Hall and the Mausoleum.” Hartley went over to him but even as he knelt, Roxley slumped forward. The inspector felt for a pulse, but he was dead. “Let’s get out of here!” he shouted to the others.
And barely had they got outside when there was series of explosions. The hall and its Mausoleum erupted suddenly in a mass of flames and in the firelight they saw two figures on the roof. One held a gun. It was Riad. Blackwell was on the parapet. Then, almost in slow motion, it seemed, he fell backwards as the other shot him. He dropped from sight into the burning building beneath. A cloud of black smoke obscured Riad momentarily. When it cleared, he, too, was gone as the roof gave way in a roar of flame and sparks.
The detectives huddled below helplessly, watching the spectacle in silence. There was one strange chilling moment when the guard dogs appeared. To their amazement they ran suicidally straight into the burning Mausoleum. They heard them howling weird, fiendish cries. Then for some startling moments they saw what appeared to be ghostly figures moving about in the inferno before they became lost in the flames. Finally a gigantic column of smoke - or was it smoke?- curled into the sky. Shaped like a raised cobra, it writhed and twisted into the night sky, livid in the red flames around it till it disappeared.
By the time the fire-engines arrived from Keighworth, the detectives had gone and the next day a news black-out was thrown over the whole business. When Special Branch combed through the ruins they found the charred remains of three of the four who’d died, Riad, Mukhtar and Roxley. But they were left with a mystery. They discovered the dead guard-dogs by the charred altar of Hathor inside the Mausoleum. And on the altar was the body of Blackwell. He’d died by garrotting and was trussed like a sacrifice with his dogs.
Chapter Twenty Six
Blake Hartley was phoned at home by Donaldson the next day. The Super asked him if he’d heard about the fire at Pithom Hall.
“Not a word. Tell me more, sir,” he said innocently.
There was a moment’s silence then, “I appreciate you’re on leave, Hartley, but I’d -er- I’d consider it a favour if you’d drop in to the station for a few minutes this morning,” said Donaldson sweetly. “There’s one or two things I want to discuss with you.”
Inspector Hartley said he’d be in when he’d finished his devotions.
When he arrived he found Donaldson bleary-eyed. He’d been up half the night at Pithom Hall. Special Branch, too, had been grilling him. He said Hartley would be relieved to hear DWC Anwar was freed and unhurt. Kahn and Waheeb had managed to release her after a shoot-out. He was glad Hartley hadn’t been there. He might have got hurt. But he wasn’t in a position to say more. There was a total blackout on information, and what he’d told him hadn’t to go further. Hartley knew he could squeeze all he wanted to know from Donaldson at any time , but he knew what he wanted to know already – far more than his boss.
Donaldson said Special Branch had opened a can of maggots with Whitcliff and Listerton squirming in the middle. It was all very hush-hush, but he just had to tell someone and Hartley was the most senior officer at the station. He could trust him to keep his mouth shut.
Hartley had never known his boss so talkative and friendly. The Chief Constable had been to see him and said Hartley was to remain on leave till the whole affair was cleared up. Heads were about to roll at the highest level. Nationally. Listerton’s was one of them. The Superintendent said he was pleased about that.
The longer Hartley stayed, the more Arthur Donaldson fussed over him. But Blake Hartley sat solemn and asked if he was back on the case.
“Oh, no,” said Donaldson hurriedly, “I’m afraid not. You see there have been further developments.”
“Oh?” said the inspector innocently. “What?”
“I can’t go into details, Hartley, but put in a nutshell you’re vindicated.”
“Vindicated, sir?”
Donaldson hesitated, then said, “You were right all the time about Whitcliff and Listerton. They’re just a pair of crooks. Special Branch confirmed what you’d found out about that pair. And more.”
“I know they’ve been flogging weapons for years. It’s common knowledge, sir,” said Hartley.
“Not as common as you might have thought. Care for some tea, Hartley?” said Donaldson. He was all sweetness and light. Then he added, “I -er- I’ve missed you about the place. I know we don’t always see eye to eye, but we’ve always worked as a team despite our disagreements, haven’t we? With you as the elder statesman in the station, so to speak and myself as the driving force. Now you’re not here I miss you.”
Inspector Hartley pursed his lips and let out his breath. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. His first reaction was to be sarcastic, but heaving a great sigh relieved him. And he’d already enjoyed a cup of coffee at the Railway Tavern; not to mention a lie-in and lazy breakfast with Mary. He no longer felt angry.
Superintendent Donaldson rang for some tea and biscuits. “Tell me, Hartley,” he began, “before you were taken off the case, what did you discover about those arms shipments? Special Branch feel sure they were being stored at Pithom Hall. You and Waheeb had a good nose round there, didn’t you?. I put two and two together, and knowing you as I do, Hartley, they made four. You’re too good a copper not to miss something under your nose.”
He beamed across the table brightly..
Blake Hartley was unimpressed. “When I smell a rat, I try to catch it,” he said, sipping his tea. “There was a whole nest of them at Pithom Hall - and at High Royd House.”
“Special Branch are going over that place with a fine-tooth comb, Hartley. I told them you’d been there,” said Donaldson.
“Oh? Have they found anything?”
“Not to my knowledge. The place was unoccupied.”
Hartley said he wasn’t surprised. The birds were ready to fly when he’d made his last visit. He suggested Special Branch might look closer in the vaults under the Mausoleum, if there was anything left to investigate after the fire. Whitcliff had stored his arms caches there before transporting them to Listerton’s warehouse in Leeds. Donaldson jotted it all down furiously in his new notebook.
“Anything else?” he asked.
Hartley shook his head and sipped his tea again. “This is going to surprise you, sir, but the mummy in the museum isn’t the original. That’s on its way back home. They left the body of a girl in its place. Kathy Burton’s. Ask Dr Dunwell. He’s taken samples and can tell you more. I suggest, sir, you remove it at once. Then I’ll break the news to her mother before I go abroad.”
“Abroad!” exclaimed Donaldson, dumbstruck.
“Yes, sir. As I’m on indefinite leave, Colonel Waheeb’s kindly invited Mary and myself to spend a holiday with him in Cairo,” said Hartley, blandly.
Superintendent Donaldson had stopped writing. He was regarding Hartley more closely.
“Cairo? Look, Hartley, I don’t want to pry into your personal affairs but is there anything I ought to know about your going there?” he asked. “Anything I ought to know as your superintendent?”
Hartley shrugged his shoulders. “Why do you ask?” he said.
“Because I’m sure you’re onto something…someone over there. Didn’t Whitcliff have Egyptian blood in him?” he said.
“Rather more than half,” said Hartley.
“And that’s where he’s gone, eh?” said Donaldson.
Inspector Hartley wouldn’t be drawn. “I haven’t a clue where he is right now. Why not ask Listerton? He’s a pal of yours, isn’t he?”
The Super shuffled uneasily and bit his lip. “I was t
aken in,” he said. “How was I to know he was such a wrong ’un, flogging arms to all and sundry.”
“I thought that’s what arms-dealing was all about,” said Hartley. “No barriers. No holds barred.”
“There are parameters in all trade, ethics,” said Donaldson piously.
Hartley grunted and finished his tea. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ve arranged my day. and I must be off.”
Donaldson would have had him stay longer, but Hartley picked up his hat.
“You know, sir, I’m grateful for Sir William giving me leave. You will send him my compliments, won’t you? I’ll drop you a card from Cairo when we get there.”
He let himself out as Donaldson was still staring open-mouthed.
The next day, he and Mary flew out to Cairo. Mordecai Waheeb met them off the plane with the news that Whitcliff and his gang had been expelled from Libya. There’d been a change of government. Whitcliff and his ilk were personae non gratae. Their training camps were closed and they’d crossed the border into Egypt with the mummy. Through the homing device Dunwell had placed in it, they’d traced it to Dendera, a few hundred miles south of the capital.
Saniyya Misha was in Egypt, too, still working undercover. But Mordecai Waheeb was worried. Her cover could be blown at any time. When the El Tubans discovered what had really happened that night at Pithom Hall they’d kill her. Up till now her story had held and the newspapers seemed to confirm her account. There’d been a shoot-out but she’d managed to escape.
Waheeb stayed in his car when the Hartleys were met off the plane by one of his men Then they were whisked to Waheeb’s house in Zamalek. The next day they met Dr Misha secretly at a rendez-vous at the Egyptian Museum. As Hartley had been nurtured in the museum at Keighworth, so Waheeb at practically grown up in the national Egyptian Museum. It was part of his life and he’d close friends among the staff. In their offices he met his colleague - and there he decided to pull her out. It was too dangerous for her to remain undercover.
They travelled to the museum when it had closed for the day Dusk was already falling and the city was beginning to light up as the last vestiges of sunlight streaked the sky. Silhouettes of high-rise buildings and mosques mirrored in the river thrust at the night sky, hazed by a recent dust-storm. The desert was never far away in Cairo.
1 The Museum Mystery Page 20
