The Exodus Quest. Will Adams

cash, letting him see the banknotes. ‘How can I be confident it’s genuine unless you tell me where you got it?’ he asked.

      The trader pulled a face, looked around to make sure he couldn’t be overheard. ‘A friend of my cousin works on an excavation,’ he murmured.

      ‘Which excavation?’ frowned Knox. ‘Who runs it?’

      ‘Foreigners.’

      ‘What kind of foreigners?’

      He shrugged indifferently. ‘Foreigners.’

      ‘Where?’

      ‘South,’ he waved vaguely. ‘South of Mariut.’

      Knox nodded. It made sense. Lake Mariut had been hemmed around by farms and settlements in ancient times, before the inflows from the Nile had silted up and the lake had started to shrink. He counted his money slowly. If this bowl had indeed come from an archaeological site, he had a duty to return it, or at least to let someone there know that they had a security problem. Thirty-five Egyptian pounds. He folded them between his thumb and forefinger. ‘South of the lake, you say?’ he frowned. ‘Where, exactly? I’ll need to know precisely if I’m to buy.’

      The young man’s eyes refocused reluctantly from the money to Knox. A bitter expression soured his face, as though he realized he’d said too much already. He muttered an obscenity, gathered the four corners of his tablecloth, hoisted it up so that all his wares clattered together, hurried away. Knox made to follow, but a colossus of a man appeared from nowhere, stepped across his path. Knox tried to go around him, but the man simply moved sideways to block him, arms folded across his chest, a dry smile on his lips, inviting Knox to try something. And then it was too late anyway, the youngster swallowed up by crowds, taking his earthenware bowl with him.

      Knox shrugged and let it go. It was almost certainly nothing.

      Yes. Almost certainly.

      II

       The Eastern Desert, Middle Egypt

      Police Inspector Naguib Hussein watched the hospital pathologist pull back a flap of the blue tarpaulin to reveal the desiccated body of the girl within. At least, Naguib assumed it was a girl, judging by her diminutive size, long hair, cheap jewellery and clothes, but in truth he couldn’t be sure. She’d been dead too long, buried out here in the baking hot sands of the Eastern Desert, mummified as she’d putrefied, the back of her head broken open and stuck fast by congealed gore to the tarpaulin.

      ‘Who found her?’ asked the pathologist.

      ‘One of the guides,’ said Naguib. ‘Apparently some tourists wanted a taste of the real desert.’ He gave an amused grunt. They’d got that, all right.

      ‘And she was just lying here?’

      ‘They saw the tarpaulin first. Then her foot. The rest of her was still hidden.’

      ‘Last night’s windstorm must have uncovered her.’

      ‘And covered any tracks, too,’ agreed Naguib. He watched with folded arms as the pathologist continued his preliminary assessment, examining her scalp, her eyes, her cheeks and her ears, manipulating her lower jaw back and forth to open her mouth, probing a spatula deep inside, scraping froth and grit and sand from the dried-out membrane of her tongue, cheeks and throat. He closed her mouth again, studied her neck, her collarbones, the bulging, dislocated right shoulder and her arms, folded awkwardly, almost coyly, down by her sides.

      ‘How old is she?’ asked Naguib.

      ‘Wait for my report.’

      ‘Please. I need something to work on.’

      The pathologist sighed. ‘Thirteen, fourteen. Something like that. And her right shoulder shows signs of post-mortem dislocation.’

      ‘Yes,’ agreed Naguib. Out of professional vanity, he wanted the pathologist to know he’d spotted this himself, so he said: ‘I thought perhaps that rigor set in before she could be buried. Perhaps it set in with her arm thrown up above her head. Perhaps whoever buried her dislocated it when they were trying to wrap her up in the tarpaulin.’

      ‘Perhaps,’ agreed the pathologist. Evidently not a man for uninformed speculation.

      ‘What time would that give us after death?’

      ‘That depends,’ said the pathologist. ‘The hotter it is, the quicker rigor sets in, but the quicker it passes, too. And if she’d been running, say, or fighting, then it would be quicker.’

      Naguib breathed in deep to quell any hint of impatience. ‘Approximately.’

      ‘Shoulders are typically the last muscle groups to develop rigor. Onset takes at least three hours, often six or seven. After that …’ He shook his head. ‘It can last for anything from another six hours to two days.’

      ‘But a minimum of three hours, yes?’

      ‘Usually. Though there are cases.’

      ‘There are always cases,’ said Naguib.

      ‘Yes.’ With his finger, the pathologist tickled out the fragile links of a chain around her neck, a silver charm hanging from it. A Coptic cross. He glanced around at Naguib, the two men no doubt sharing a single thought. Another dead Copt girl. That was all this region needed right now.

      ‘It’s a nice enough piece,’ muttered the pathologist.

      ‘Yes,’ agreed Naguib. Which argued against robbery. The pathologist lifted the girl’s skirts, but her underclothes, while ragged, were intact. No sign of sexual assault. No sign of any assault, indeed; except, of course, that the back of her skull had been smashed in. ‘Any indication how long she’s been here?’ he asked.

      The pathologist shrugged. ‘I’d be guessing. I’ll need to get her back to base.’

      Naguib nodded. That was fair enough. Desert corpses were notoriously tough. A month, a year, a decade; out here they all looked the same. ‘And the cause of death? The blow to her head, yes?’

      ‘Too early to say.’

      Naguib pulled a face. ‘Come on. I won’t hold you to it.’

      ‘Everyone tells me that. And then they hold me to it.’

      ‘Okay. If not the blow to her head, maybe her neck was broken?’

      The pathologist tapped his thumb against his knee, debating with himself whether to say anything or keep quiet. ‘You really want my best guess?’ he asked finally.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You won’t like it.’

      ‘Try me.’

      The pathologist stood up. Hands on his hips, he looked around at the arid yellow sands of the Eastern Desert stretching away as far as the eye could see, shimmering with heat, broken only by the rugged Amarna cliffs. ‘Very well, then,’ he smiled, as though aware opportunities like this wouldn’t come his way too often. ‘I rather suspect she drowned.’

      III

      Knox found Omar Tawfiq kneeling on his office floor, the casing and innards of a computer spread out in front of him, a screwdriver in his hand, a smudge of grease on his cheek. ‘Don’t you already have enough to do?’ he asked.

      ‘Our computer people won’t come out until tomorrow.’

      ‘So hire new ones.’

      ‘New ones will charge more.’

      ‘Yes. Because they’ll come out when you need them.’

      Omar shrugged, as if to accept the truth of this, though Knox doubted he’d act upon it. A young man who looked even younger,