The Captain looked carefully at George for a few moments. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr Turner. You see, Professor Mamdouh al-Misri was murdered, late last night in his office at the museum. Your wife is missing, and until she is found she is our closest link to the killer.”

George’s two friends slid out of the room into the kitchen, leaving him alone.

He sank to the sofa and shook his head. The camera embedded into the video wall followed him.

“Mamdouh’s dead?” he said in disbelief. “And there’s no sign of Gail at all?” he asked more in the direction of the officer.

“I’m afraid not, Mr Turner,” came the dispassionate reply. “I understand that this has come as quite a shock to you. To help in our investigation, I would appreciate it if you could try to remember any details about your conversation with your wife yesterday evening.”

He shook his head. Now he was extremely concerned about Gail; she usually sent him numerous messages when she was away, to say goodnight, good morning, and to update him on anything interesting in between. His phone and video wall both told him she had done nothing of the sort since twelve hours earlier when she had landed in Cairo. The only other call he had received was from the man from the space agency.

“I had one other call last night,” he started slowly. “A man called from the European Space Agency wanting to speak to her. I gave him the Professor’s phone number and told him to call there.”

The Egyptian didn’t look surprised, but instead nodded his head approvingly. “A Mr Martín Antunez, I believe? Yes, he called the museum yesterday evening as you suggest. We found his details written on a note in the Professor’s office.” He was getting fidgety, as if he felt he would get no further and did not wish to divulge more about his case. “We have already spoken to him, Mr Turner. Anyway, I have sent you my business card, if anything else comes to you, or if you hear from your wife, then please let me know immediately.”

He was about to reply when the screen went blank, replaced momentarily by the telephone company logo, which in turn was replaced by the placeholder reel of the video wall, a mountain slope overlooking a wide rain-swept valley through which a river wound its tumultuous path. He stared at the scene for several minutes before standing up and moving towards the kitchen.

Opening the door he interrupted his friends, their sudden silence betraying the subject of their conversation.

“Well?” the one who had slept in the bath said. The look on his face and rasping voice both suggested he had not slept very well. “Is she alright?”

He glanced at them both and reached for the percolator. Sensing its lack of heat, he poured a cup of the thin black liquid and placed it in the microwave. Removing it seconds later, he sipped the piping-hot coffee and looked at them both again.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m going to Egypt to find out,” he added resolutely.

He left the kitchen and his friends in silence as he returned to the video wall to book his flight.

Chapter 42

You did not need to come to Egypt, Mr Turner,” Captain Kamal repeated in an unfriendly tone. “Our investigations have been progressing well during the day; your presence is simply not required.”

He seemed much smaller in person than on the video wall, which had the annoying tendency of making callers much larger than life. It could be quite intimidating at times, which was why George usually only made voice calls except when speaking to Gail. The added dimension of seeing any other caller was not something he saw much point in, though many people insisted on using the function – in particular for business or official calls.

Standing next to the diminutive officer, he couldn’t help thinking that he looked like a much reduced version of Peter Sellers in the Pink Panther films. The fact that his accent was not dissimilar didn’t help. Had the whole situation not been so serious and the man so unpleasant, George would have found him more than a bit comical.

“My wife has disappeared in your country, how could I not come here to help you find her?” he asked. “Speaking of which, are you any closer to finding her?”

“We will let you know as soon as we find her, Mr Turner. In the meantime, I suggest that you return to your hotel where we can easily find you, should that be necessary.”

The Englishman left, albeit reluctantly, and Captain Kamal shook his head in disapproval. Police matters were not to be meddled with by members of the public, he firmly believed. Particularly not this police matter.

Why this Englishwoman was so important, he had no idea, but now he had a murder scene and an irate husband to deal with, it seemed that this was all going to be more trouble that it was worth.

A routine murder such as this would be over quickly enough. It was a high profile case, thanks to the murder-victim himself being such a high-profile member of the academic community, but that did not detract from his ultimate goal. Kamal was a focussed and experienced policeman, and he already had three of the four pieces of his murder puzzle handed to him on a plate.

The first piece was the victim: Professor Mamdouh al-Misri, of the Egyptian Museum of Cairo. An Egyptologist with a keen interest in Amarna texts, he had been the General Director of the Museum for nearly four years.

The second piece of the puzzle was the weapon: the sharp corner of the General Director’s solid mahogany desk had broken the man’s skull at his left temporal bone as he had fallen. This caused an internal haemorrhage that had placed pressure on his brain and killed him within minutes, the autopsy report told him.

The third piece was the motive: a collection of extremely rare texts, dating from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, were conspicuous by their absence from the General Director’s office. On the black market, they would in total fetch upwards of three million dollars, and he had been reliably informed by other employees at the museum that there would be no lack of willing bidders.

Which left him with one final piece to find: the murderer.

There were three ways this could end. She could turn herself in, or be found by the police on the streets. He knew that wasn’t going to happen, of course. Or she may never be found, instead disappearing into the ether, never to be seen again. In a city of thirty million people, who would question such an outcome?

But no, now Kamal had met the husband he knew that it wouldn’t end that way. He knew people, and he had seen the look in the Englishman’s eyes: he wouldn’t let this go. If she wasn’t found, he would be a thorn in his side.

Which only left one possible outcome: Cairo was a heaving great overweight animal of a city; and overweight animals can have very dirty underbellies. A pretty woman, alone on the streets late at night, on the run after committing a crime, would be simply asking for trouble.

All he needed was a body.

This is all more trouble than it’s worth, he thought again as he put his phone to his ear and made all the necessary plans.

George almost ripped the pocket of his shirt as he dug frantically for his ringing phone. His heart sank as he saw the number wasn’t Gail’s; it was identified generically as French mobile.

“Yes?” he said impatiently. He’d been running this way and that for hours, desperately trying to get any scrap of information possible that would lead him to Gail.

“Is that Mr Turner?”

A foreign accent, but it didn’t sound French, although George’s knowledge of accents was limited to the same old films from which he had characterised the Egyptian policeman.

“Speaking,” he said.

“My name is Martín Antunez, from the European Space Agency. I need to meet with you urgently,” he continued.