Author’s Note

 

The forensic processes detailed here, like the public buildings, are all real. The legend of Ankh Hor does exist, as do the chalk works and flint mines under the city of Norwich.

 

 

 

I am more and more convinced that man is a dangerous creature, and that power... is ever grasping, and like the grave, cries ‘Give, give.’

 

Abigail Adams, quoted 1775

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

‘How much further?’ demanded Harry Scarfe. The edge in his voice betrayed the strain of the last twenty-four hours.

            Howard Kingsley, breathing heavily, eyes stinging with sweat, was trying hard not to think about what lay ahead. ‘We’re close,’ was all he said.

            They struggled on through the tunnel, forced by their awkward load to shuffle in tandem, until at last they reached a heavy-set door. Grunting with relief, they lowered what they were carrying carefully to the ground.

            ‘No noise.’ Kingsley’s throat was dry. ‘The guards.’

            Producing a large key, he guided it into the lock. The primitive mechanism refused to turn.

            Scarfe struck the door with the side of his fist.

            ‘No noise!’

            ‘Open it, then.’

            ‘I am.’ Kingsley worked the key in frustration.

            With a sudden click the lock gave way and the door swung aside. Half expecting to be seized immediately, Kingsley was unable to move. But no hands reached out to grab him, and so nervously he leaned over the threshold. The light was muted, giving little away. He listened. The chamber appeared empty.

            Standing back, the roll of blue tarpaulin they had carried here lay at his feet, dark slicks running across it. Trussed untidily with short lengths of twine, a nauseating bulge had formed in the middle.

            This was madness.

            They would never get away with it, thought Kingsley. If only he hadn’t been so greedy, never gone to Petrova in the first place. Faced with the reality of the tarpaulin and what lay inside, he realised what a mistake he had made. He looked longingly past Scarfe to the tunnel, sloping away behind them, the torchlight fixed to his head quickly losing its strength in the blackness.

            ‘We’re not going back,’ said Scarfe, the menace in his tone clear – too much was at stake. ‘Not until this is done.’

            Knowing he had left it too late to argue, Kingsley concentrated instead on his efforts to block out why they had come. They. Now he was part of it.

            ‘Ready?’

            Staggering through the doorway and into the low-ceilinged room, their final destination, the two men managed a last few steps before bending to lay down the tarpaulin once more. It had a distinct odour now, sharp and acrid.

            ‘This place couldn’t be better.’ Scarfe looked around him. ‘Perfect.’

            To one side of the room, a steep staircase led above ground, while embedded halfway up the opposite wall, which curved noticeably, was a metal grille. Beyond this dropped a well, from which rose a penetrating coldness, even more so than in the tunnel. Scarfe walked over to it, pressing his face against the grille. The top of the well was about fifteen feet above him, ground level, affording the chamber what little light it had. He couldn’t see the bottom.

            ‘Have you got your keys to upstairs?’ Scarfe asked unexpectedly.

            ‘My keys?’ Kingsley patted the set he always carried. ‘Why?’

            ‘I want you to go and get me something.’

            ‘What, now? Get what?’

            Scarfe told him. At a loss to understand at first, the truth hit Kingsley like a punch.

            ‘She’s still alive, isn’t she?’ He took a step away. This was too much.

            ‘Of course she’s not still alive.’

            Far from being comforted, Kingsley instead began to fear for his own life. Did Harry intend returning through the tunnel alone? He hung back. ‘What do you want it for then?’

            ‘Reasons. Just go and get it.’

            Kingsley could see nothing but danger for himself. ‘What if I get caught? Why don’t we just do what we came here for and go?’

            ‘Don’t get caught. That wouldn’t be good for either of us. Five minutes, and you can have it back.’

            Kingsley chewed his lip. The dagger of Ankh Hor. Harry didn’t intend using it on him then. So what did he want it for? Some kind of unholy ritual? Atonement? There seemed no other explanation. Whatever the answer, time was ticking away.

            ‘What are you waiting for?’

            Reluctantly, Kingsley obeyed. Climbing the stone steps, he paused to switch off his torch before carrying on into the darkness.

            Eventually he came out into a cavernous hall, as high as it was wide. It felt eerie and unfamiliar in the moonlight. No sign of Barry or Clive, but then he had no idea of their routine. They could appear from anywhere. Moving to the next room, he did his best to ignore the hundred lifeless eyes following him as he passed, entering the tall atrium at the other end. Taking the middle set of stairs, he raced up them two at a time, wincing at the sound of his heels on the bare wood, keenly aware he was visible from any number of directions.

            Safely reaching the top, he rounded a banister and stopped outside a large plate glass window that formed one side of a room. Displayed inside was a valuable collection of Egyptian antiquities, including the mummified remains of Ankh Hor, who when alive had been a priest at the Temple of Amun. The middle of the room was dominated by a huge sandstone plinth, its top bare of any ornamentation. Finding the right key, Kingsley opened a glass door cut into one end of the window and entered, pausing briefly to look at the priest’s elaborate sarcophagus. Superstition got the better of him.

            ‘I’ll bring it straight back,’ he promised.

            ‘You will.’

            Kingsley yelled out, jumping as if touched by a red-hot poker.

            ‘Quiet, it’s me.’

            Kingsley collapsed against the wall.

            ‘I didn’t want you getting lost and not coming back.’

            The sound of footsteps came from nearby stairs.

            Kingsley motioned manically for Scarfe to hide behind the sandstone plinth. Crouching, he then swung the glass door back into place before joining him. Too late, he realised he had left the door unlocked, the latch clearly visible.

            ‘I’m telling you, it came from up here. Someone called out.’

            Kingsley recognised Clive’s voice, listening as both guards moved towards them, stopping outside the Egyptian display.

            ‘All seems okay. What do you reckon?’

            Barry, sounding as if he had already lost interest.

            ‘I dunno. None of the alarms have gone off. Could’ve sworn I heard someone, though.’

            Barry gave a drawn out exhalation. ‘Tell you what, we’ll do another walkabout, just to cover ourselves, then we’ll get a good brew on the go.’

            Without warning, strong torchlight strobed through the glass, lighting up the sarcophagus and casting a shadow barely an inch from Kingsley’s right foot. Kingsley tensed, trying to shrink.

            ‘So long as he’s not on walkabout with us. Gives me the creeps. Come on then, let’s get started downstairs.’

            After waiting as long as they could bear, Scarfe and Kingsley crept out from their hiding place.

            ‘That’s it. We need to get out of here, fast.’ Kingsley was in no doubt.

            Scarfe plucked from its stand the golden dagger he had sent Kingsley to fetch. Even in the subdued light, it glowed like cold fire. ‘I still need this.’

            ‘Harry –’

            ‘Let’s move.’

            Scarfe pushed him roughly out into the corridor. Kingsley secured the display before setting off with Scarfe in the opposite direction to the guards.

            A short time later they were back in the underground chamber next to the well, their torches switched on again.

            ‘Will they search down here?’ Scarfe asked.

            ‘I don’t know. Whatever you’re doing with that, be quick.’

            Scarfe bent down to untie the tarpaulin, placing the dagger beside him on the brickwork floor. Disturbed though he was, Kingsley looked on in horrified fascination. Suddenly the bundle was flapped open, and the naked corpse inside revealed. Kingsley could barely recognise her. The skin was a ghostly pale, except for one shoulder, blackened by ugly stretches of bruising. A dark crust of lumpy gore blocked the nose and mouth, the same mass forming dark lines around the neck. Worst of all were the eyes. They stared out at Kingsley, distorted by shock. His gullet shrank, quickening his breath.

            ‘Oh my God, Harry. Oh my God.’

            ‘What did you expect?’ snapped Scarfe.

            Lower down the body and tied to the waist with orange netting were two large ornamental stones, of the sort normally used to decorate ponds. The reason she had felt so heavy thought Kingsley, his head thick and dull. The toes were still neatly varnished.

            Scarfe leaned over the dead woman and twisted her face down. The exposed back was disfigured on the upper part by a deep gash, a scarlet slit ripped out between the delicate shoulders. Using thumb and forefinger Scarfe split open the wound and held it there, taking up the dagger and resting its weight in the gap. Kingsley saw him hesitate, and then, very slowly, begin to force in the blade. The sound of metal against bone grated through the air, stopping only when mashed clots of blood started to press over the hilt.

            Kingsley stifled his retching with a handkerchief. Scarfe stood up, for the first time looking shaken. ‘Here.’ He held out the dagger, dull now, a tiny thread of sinew stuck to its point.

            Trembling, Kingsley removed the square of cloth covering his mouth and closed it round the knife.

            ‘Make sure you clean it properly. Your fingerprints are on there too.’

            Kingsley nodded dumbly before finding his voice. ‘Why did you do that?’

            ‘Doesn’t matter.’

            Kingsley had other questions, questions he didn’t want answers to. He looked again at the girl. Dead, her nakedness seemed more indecent than if she were alive.

            ‘Aren’t you going to wrap her up again?’

            Scarfe shook his head. ‘Plastic might make her float. Get the grille open.’

            Doing as Scarfe said, Kingsley leaned warily through the waist-high gap the grille left in the shaft of the well. The coin bucket was above him; good. No one had moved it. Below, a hundred feet or more, a solid black disc of water waited silently. Would Barry or Clive hear?

            ‘Hurry up. Come and get the other end.’

            Kingsley suddenly froze. ‘I can’t. I can’t touch her. You’ll have to cover her up.’

            ‘We’re doing it like this, so come and get the other end.’

            After a short silence, Kingsley started nodding to himself. ‘Okay... okay.’

            Swallowing hard, he took hold of the ankles, the skin cold and loose. Scarfe gripped under her arms.

            ‘One, two, three.’

            Lifting with great difficulty, they wrestled the dead woman up onto the open ledge of the well, manoeuvring her until the top half of her torso was suspended above the abyss. There was no dignity left her. Catching his breath, Kingsley delayed the point of no return a little longer, hardly able to bear to send her finally over the edge. At last he could avoid Scarfe’s eye no more. The time had come.

            ‘Now,’ said Scarfe.

            With a single movement they both pushed. She was gone.