by Elise Noble
“What are we looking for?”
“Anything that doesn’t belong.” That Khaled’s colleagues might have missed. “We’ll split the site into zones. Call me if you see anything, and we’ll take photos before we move it. And don’t touch.”
When he went to find the water earlier, Black had raided the hotel kitchen for paper bags and tongs to use as a makeshift evidence-collection kit. Would he hand anything they found over to the police? No. The captain had shown no inclination to work this case properly. If further analysis was needed, Black would send the evidence to either the Blackwood branch office in Cairo or straight to their fully equipped forensics lab in Virginia. He hated to admit it, but this mystery had gotten under his skin.
Black split the site up based on geographical features and assigned sections to each team member. By the time the sun began to drop towards the horizon, they’d bagged up eight more bones, although Black suspected half might be of animal origin, plus a collection of detritus—cigarette butts, candy wrappers, a button, a small piece of metal that looked as if it might have come off something mechanical, and a stray tennis shoe. He’d also spotted a scrape of white paint on a rock along the path, plus a few flakes on the ground below, which most likely came from a vehicle trying to squeeze through. Not the police’s truck—that had been dark blue. He’d get the paint analysed, but as most other pickups, taxis, and cars in the region seemed to be white, it wouldn’t help to narrow things down much.
“Hey, over here,” Emmy called.
Black’s ears pricked up, not because of her words, but due to the urgent tone underlying them. What had his wife spotted?
When he reached her side, she was shining a flashlight into a crack between two rocks. Just visible was the end of a piece of pale blue cord. A clue? He snapped some pictures. Blue cord hadn’t appeared anywhere in the case before, so what had got Emmy so excited?
He found out when she snatched the tongs off him to grab one frayed end.
Fuck.
“Recognise this?” she asked.
Yes, he did. Not the cord itself, but the scarab beetle attached to the end of it. This one looked finer than the one Bob had found on the Blue Tang, the craftsmanship more delicate, and rather than having a hole through the middle, it was held in a thin metal frame. Not gold, it was too dark for that. Copper, maybe?
And the cord had stains on it, dark brown splodges that might have been dirt or blood. The victim’s blood?
While it was hardly conclusive evidence, it did reinforce the possibility the two cases were linked. What were the chances of finding two dead bodies with scarab beetle charms nearby in a small town like Dahab? Could this be the killer’s signature?
“What’s that?” Zena asked, standing on a rock so she could peer over Black’s shoulder. “A clue?”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly? That’s all you’re gonna give me? I’m a part of this team, aren’t I? Who identified that last bone as a calcaneus?”
“I did.”
“Yes, but I confirmed it.”
“We found a similar beetle to this one on the boat after we brought up the last girl from underwater,” Emmy told her. “Which may or may not be a coincidence.”
“A coincidence? Oh, please,” Zena scoffed. “In a town this size? You don’t really believe that, do you?”
No, Black really didn’t.
CHAPTER 16 - EMMY
“ANYTHING FROM MILES?” I asked Black when we finally got back home. Alone. After I’d taught lock-picking 101 in Captain Bob’s office, showing Khaled and Zena how to make a rake and a tension wrench out of paper clips, then use them to unlock Bob’s desk drawer, we’d made our escape. Zena had tried to wriggle out of a family dinner and join us, but Lynn had insisted she go and Captain Bob backed his daughter up, thank goodness. I was getting weirdly used to Zena being around, but having a few hours to ourselves was a relief, even if we had to spend the evening poring over clues in what was possibly a double homicide.
Black checked his phone. “He’s sent an email. Unsurprisingly, it’s long. With multiple attachments.”
“I’d better get a bottle of wine.”
While I hunted for a corkscrew, Black took pictures of today’s find and sent them off to Miles, then opened up the essay he’d penned and began to read.
“It’s called a heart scarab, apparently. A symbol of rebirth. The ancient Egyptians believed the sun died each night and was reborn each morning as a scarab beetle.”
“A beetle? Why didn’t they pick something cool like an eagle? Or a lion? Or a horse?”
“Who the fuck knows? Anyhow, the scarab became associated with regeneration, and they thought the dead could harness its powers and be reborn into the afterlife.”
“With our careers, maybe we should invest in a dozen of these things.” I slid a pen through the cord loop and held the necklace up, studying it.
“The heart was thought to be the seat of the mind, of intelligence and emotion, and after death, its owner would be called up before a panel of deities headed by Osiris in a ceremony called the Weighing of the Heart. Anubis, the jackal god, would weigh the heart against the feather of Ma’at, and if the heart was found to be lighter, its owner would proceed to the afterlife.”
“And if it was heavier?”
Black took a swig of wine and studied the screen again. “The person would be deemed unworthy, and their soul would be devoured by the goddess Ammit. Nice.”
“So how does the scarab fit in?”
“During the funeral preparations, it would be placed over the heart, usually under a mummy’s bindings. The scarab prevented the heart from giving evidence against the deceased at the Divine Tribunal. They’re usually inscribed with a spell from the Book of the Dead.”
“Is that what all those hieroglyphs on the back are?”
Black cracked a rare smile. “Not in this case. Miles says it’s mostly gibberish, and the last line roughly translates as ‘Made in Egypt.’”
Another email flashed up on the screen. Miles again. Guess there wasn’t much to do in his mud hut or wherever it was he slept while he was digging things up. Bradley tried to help out and make things more comfortable for Miles and his team, bless him, but it didn’t always go to plan. Last month, I’d spent an hour on the phone to the Egyptian authorities, negotiating for the release of ten kilos of jelly beans and a set of patio furniture from customs. A few well-placed bribes worked, but by the time the jelly beans reached their destination, they’d melted into one giant lump of rainbow-coloured goo, and the archaeologists had been reduced to chiselling bits off with whatever tools they had to hand.
“This is interesting,” Black said.
“Really?”
I squashed in closer to read, and yeah, it actually was interesting. Miles reckoned today’s heart scarab was the real deal, and he wanted to know where we’d got it from. Apparently, there was currently a thriving black market in stolen artefacts. He’d have to examine it in person to confirm, yada yada yada, but it had all the hallmarks of a three-thousand-year-old artifact, although the copper setting appeared to be modern. The Ancient Egyptians would have used gold.
Miles had even translated the spell on the back.
O my heart of my mother!
O my heart of my mother!
O my heart of my different forms!
Do not stand up as a witness against me, do not be opposed to me in the tribunal, do not be hostile to me in the presence of the Keeper of the Balance, for you are my ka which was in my body, the protector who caused my limbs to be healthy.
Go forth to the happy place whereto we hasten, do not make my name stink to the entourage who make men.
What is good for us is good for the judge.
May the heart be happy at the verdict.
Do not tell lies about me in the presence of the god.
It is indeed well that you should hear!
“Ka is life force,” Black said, reading on. “I guess it’s like the Chi
nese qi.”
“Shame both of our victims are missing theirs. What are we dealing with here? Some sort of ritualistic killing? A murderer who sees himself as judge and fucking jury?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. Nothing about this case makes sense at the moment. Usually, I’ve got an idea as to motive, but here…”
“Don’t feel bad. Hey, why don’t we offer to fix Khaled’s kitchen tap and let him do the investigating?”
At least that got a smile out of Black, but only a fleeting one because his phone vibrated again, and his forehead creased into a frown.
“What is it?”
“A possible lead on the identity of the victim.”
“Oh?”
“The skeleton had a surgical repair to the left humerus. I took the serial number from the metal plate in the pictures and asked Dan to find out more about it. According to the manufacturer, the plate was sent to the Dahab International Medical Center three years ago, but they don’t have a record of who it was implanted into.”
“So our victim was a local. Can Mack get into the hospital’s database?”
“She’s trying, but she’s starting from scratch so it could take time.”
As a matter of course, our tech department maintained backdoors into a whole variety of computer networks and databases, partly through the high-level security clearances we’d accumulated over the years and partly because certain members of the team enjoyed the challenge of being where they shouldn’t. But a hospital in an out-of-the-way town in Egypt? There’d been no reason for them to try cracking that system until now. They’d most likely start with phishing emails, and depending on how security-conscious the staff were, gaining access could take anywhere from a few hours to a few weeks.
“How about Khaled? Could he help?”
“He still hasn’t managed to get Carmela’s autopsy report. How long do you think it’d take him to get the hospital records? We’re only here for another week.”
I had to concur, which left one option. Visiting the hospital to try and get the information ourselves.
“Hmm, you know what? I’m feeling a little sick.”
“Your daughter needs stitches, but she’ll be fine,” a nurse told me. Not an Egyptian but a Filipino, judging by her accent, and she leaned in close to peer at Zena’s forehead. “The doctor will be here soon.”
So much for preparation. I’d gone for an eight-mile run on Sunday morning to bring my temperature up, then eaten half a dozen chillis to keep it high, and I was sweating nicely by the time we left the villa. The plan was that I’d distract the staff with an imaginary fever while Black snuck into the hospital offices to see what he could find in the way of records.
But as we headed for the car, Zena had come running over to see where we were going, tripped down some steps, and landed head first on a fancy metal plant pot. Now she had a cut on her forehead and, I suspected, a slight concussion. When Black and I offered to drive her to the hospital, Lynn had been happy to shirk her parental responsibilities, and in the car just before we ventured into the hospital, I’d said two words to Zena: Drama. Queen. Hence the reason she was now doing her very best to create a scene worthy of an Oscar.
“But it hurts so bad! And my head won’t stop bleeding! What if I die of blood loss?”
“Is that possible?” I asked.
“It really isn’t bleeding that much,” the nurse said, and I pitied her for having to deal with us. Yeah, it wasn’t fun being bitchy to the medical staff, but sometimes, doing horrible things was necessary for the greater good. And while we kicked up merry hell in the waiting area, Black had snuck off to get an idea of the layout of the hospital. We needed to know where the records were kept.
“How can you say that?” Zena shrieked. “I’m crimson. Look at me!”
“Is it possible to get a second opinion?” I asked.
“The doctor’s just finishing up with a patient.”
“You only have one doctor here?”
“No, but—”
“Then perhaps you could ask one of the others to help?”
“We have another nurse who can do the stitches.”
“Great. Can you find her? Or him?”
“Magdalena. I will ask her to come.”
“Thank you,” I said, although I hoped Magdalena didn’t hurry because there was still no sign of Black. He’d disappeared through a door marked Staff Only fifteen minutes ago, and since he hadn’t been escorted out by security, I had to assume he was still snooping.
Would he find anything? He’d borrowed one of Bradley’s manbags to stash any goodies he came across, and he’d also promised to push my Dodge Viper off a cliff if I ever told anyone he’d gone out in public carrying a genuine ostrich satchel made by Ishmael.
“Am I doing okay?” Zena whispered.
“Perfect. How’s the headache?”
“I thought Mom was gonna kill me when she saw the gash.”
After a few initial tears, Lynn’s biggest concern had been whether her hairstylist friend could hide Zena’s injury in the wedding photos. Apparently, the stitches wouldn’t match the new outfit they’d bought in Sharm el-Sheikh, which, according to Zena, was as hideous as the old dress but slightly looser.
The Filipino nurse came back, stopping two feet away from us. Opting for a safe distance, from her nervous expression.
“Zena? I can take you to get your stitches now. Do you want your mom to come with you?”
“What, do I look ten? I can do things by myself.”
Thanks, kid. That gave me a chance to do a bit of snooping myself. Where was Black? I checked the locator app on my phone and saw he was on the other side of the building, by the operating theatres according to the signs. I headed in the opposite direction. The more we learned about the layout of the hospital, the better. I headed past the wards, walking with a purpose because if you looked as though you knew where you were going, nobody would stop you. An X-ray suite, consulting rooms, a staff lounge… When I heard a gaggle of people walking towards me, I ducked into the storeroom just in case. No sign of any filing cabinets, but I did stuff a set of scrubs into my oversized handbag. They might come in handy later.
My phone buzzed.
Black: Found records office but too busy RN.
Not to worry, we’d come back later when the admin team had gone home. Patience was a virtue, and while sin was my speciality, I’d learned to take a step back and wait when I needed to.
At ten p.m., I strolled into the hospital dressed in a pair of scrubs, taking advantage of the chaos only the aftermath of a multi-vehicle pileup could bring. Why me? Simple. Because Black’s size made him stick out too much. Zena had offered to help as well, saying that since she’d been poked with a bunch of needles then turned into a human tapestry, she’d earned the right, but I didn’t need a sidekick, not tonight. She hadn’t been amused when we left her behind, but somebody had to look after the damn rabbit and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be me.
Black lurked outside, taking advantage of the shadows left by the sliver of crescent moon that hung low over Saudi Arabia. The records office was on the third floor, or the fourth floor if I were in America, which I wasn’t—the soft sitar music drifting out of the room to my left was a testament to that, as was the bill for Zena’s treatment that we’d paid earlier. We hadn’t been charged sixteen bucks for an aspirin.
We’d only spotted two cameras on our previous visit, and I pulled a surgeon’s mask over my face as I strode past them, pausing to wave to the doctor hurrying in the opposite direction. He just waved back.
“So far, so good,” I muttered for the benefit of Black and Mack, who were listening via the microphone built into my earring. I could hear everything they said too via a hidden earpiece.
“The admin office should be coming up on your left,” Black told me.
Sure enough, there it was. The door was locked, but I carried a set of lock picks like most people carried a credit card—that is to say, I kept it in my wallet
and tended to overuse it.
Inside, the narrow room contained six utilitarian desks, lined up in pairs with hard plastic seats behind them. Neat. Impersonal. It reminded me of a classroom except instead of colourful pictures, the walls were decorated with health and safety posters and a reminder that staff fraternisation was haram. Forbidden. Under each desk was an old-style tower computer, humming softly, the occasional green light flashing on the front.
Which desk should I pick? Eeny, meeny, miny, moe… I closed the door behind me with a quiet click and slid into the seat behind the furthest desk. A nudge of the mouse, and the screen came to life, asking for a password. Of course, I didn’t have that, but I did have Mack sitting in Virginia with Wilhelmina, as she’d named her latest computer.
All I had to do was stuff the USB stick containing Mack’s proprietary software into the port and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Funny how two minutes seemed like ten when you were sitting on the floor listening to footsteps in the corridor outside and praying they didn’t come in your direction.
“How much longer is this going to take?” I whispered.
“I’m in the system,” Mack said. “But it’s as if their entire admin team has dyslexia. Nothing’s in date order, or alphabetical order—either English or Arabic—so I’m having to run a search on likely keywords.”
I should’ve brought a fucking cushion.
Finally, the tower beside me stopped whirring, and Mack sucked in a breath. What did that mean? It sounded suspiciously like bad news.
“What’s happening?”
“I’ve narrowed it down to six possibles who had their humerus repaired with metal plates.”
“Six?”
“They don’t keep details of the implant serial numbers on the system. There’s a notation in the field that says to see the patient’s file for further information. I’m assuming that means a paper file because I can’t find anything more on the server.”
