Again, Ben found himself nodding. “Which means they must have known about what was on Mars before the mission was sent. But if they worked this out based on the Amarna finds, then Gail would have known about it too.” Which explains why the Professor and Gail are both dead, he thought.

“But why hide proof of extra-terrestrial life?” George said, breaking his silence. “And even if Gail and the Professor had managed to prove it from the Amarna finds, then so what? The news had already reached the media anyway! That’s why she was here in the first place!”

Before either of them could answer, he continued.

“I’ll tell you why: because it’s not proof of alien life that’s being covered up; it’s something else. Something bigger. Maybe the Professor knew something, maybe he didn’t. But whoever killed them wasn’t taking any chances either way,” he slammed his fist on the table. Behind them a waiter shot them a disapproving glance.

“What could be bigger than aliens?” Martín and Ben said in unison.

George looked at them both with fire in his eyes. “I don’t know, but it killed my wife, and when I find out what it is, I’m going to make sure that somebody pays for that.”

Captain Kamal scratched his head and switched off the screen on his desk. There were no two ways around it: Gail Turner just wasn’t going to go away as he’d hoped.

At first, he had been concerned that the lack of a body would make her husband a constant pain, a thorn in his side. Then, he had been delivered a ‘body’.

Back in the morgue, as he’d lifted the sheet that covered her, his heart had skipped a beat. She hadn’t looked dead to him. Motionless, yes. But dead? He just had to hope that her husband didn’t notice. He’d covered her up as quickly as possible, feeling the game was up, but Mr Turner hadn’t suspected a thing, even after being so close to her, touching her. If anything, the punch in the face for his lack of compassion had been welcome when compared to the alternative.

And so she had been taken away, and Kamal had staged the cremation of some poor nameless beggar who’d been stabbed in a back alley. Mr Turner had spoken with him briefly the next day to arrange transportation of the ashes back to England, and that had been that.

“Khara! ” he picked up his terminal’s keyboard and slammed it back down on the desk. “Ibin himaar!”

Because that hadn’t been that at all. What he’d been promised would be straight forward was now turning out to be anything but. And the worst part was that it wasn’t Mr Turner, or indeed anyone else, who had made things difficult.

He only had himself to blame. He had been left to cover the details of her ‘escape’ from the Museum. As far as he knew, she was in perfect physical health. He’d requested the doctored CCTV footage, and hours later it had been delivered to him. Watching it back, he even fancied, for a moment, that it was her running from the Museum, and not some computer generated model. It was, he knew, indistinguishable from real life. Even a trained expert couldn’t tell it was a fake. He knew, because he’d given it to one in his own department.

Usher syndrome !

How could he not have known, when it was even on her online profile page?

He leant back in his uncomfortable chair and looked at the ceiling. He followed a small crack from where it started next to a hanging light all the way across to where it met the wall. The crack had been repaired barely five years ago. And yet there it was again, as large as ever. Possibly even bigger. It had probably been repaired five years before that, too. He snorted in mild amusement, though it was far from funny.

Even if he managed to get out of his present situation, even if the powers that be accepted the CCTV footage over her husband’s testimony and her medical records, five years from now would some crucial piece of evidence be uncovered that would make the string of lies unravel? Would his best efforts barely cover things up, leaving the truth just under the surface, ready for someone to find? Would Mr Turner give it up? What would he do if he were in his place?

How long would it be before more people started poking their noses into the investigation? Into his affairs?

There was only one certainty: whoever was behind it all wouldn’t be there to protect him. He would be on his own. He already was on his own.

It hadn’t, he decided, been worth it at all.

George stuffed his wash bag into his suitcase and grimaced as he forced the zip shut. Behind him, Ben looked out of the window and shook his head.

“Martín seems to be an OK person. I think he is as genuinely bemused as we are.”

George threw his suitcase to the floor and gave the bathroom a quick scan. Satisfied he had gathered everything, he returned to the main room and checked under the bed; socks had a nasty habit of rolling under beds, as he knew from his travelling for work. It was more a force of habit than anything else, though, as socks couldn’t be further from his mind.

“But with all this talk of cover ups, I don’t know where to begin,” Ben continued. “And in any case, it doesn’t really help, does it?”

George got to his feet and checked the cupboard for suits, despite the fact that he hadn’t brought any suits to Cairo.

“It’s actually a shame Martín has to leave so soon. I have enough space in my flat for both of you. We could lock heads and give this some serious thought.” He looked at the Englishman, who was now checking every drawer of a chest of drawers he had obviously not used either  during his stay. “Besides which, I owe you a drink from last time you were here.”

George stopped and looked at him. Last time they’d been in Egypt, he had been with Gail, and they had gotten obscenely drunk in a bar. George knew his friend well enough to understand he didn’t lack tact; he knew what he was trying to do. He forced a smile and nodded slowly.

“I’ll stay a while,” was all he managed to say. Being in Egypt brought back painful memories, but he was dreading returning to their empty house in Southampton even more.

Ben was about to answer when there was a knock at the door.

“Martín?” he asked George.

George looked puzzled. “It shouldn’t be, his flight is in an hour, he’ll be late if he’s still here!” He walked over to the door and opened it.

To his total surprise, Captain Kamal stood in front of him. Looking nervously left and right down the hotel corridors, he forced his way into the room.

“Sorry, Mr Turner,” he said in his strongly accented English. “Please close the door.” As he said this he closed the door himself, leaving George standing in the entrance with his hand clasping an imaginary door handle.

“What do you want, Captain Kamal?” George said, deliberately saying the Captain’s name to identify him, to warn Ben not to speak. If he recognised his voice, who knew what might happen next.

Ben looked startled, but then surprised George completely with a voice he’d never heard before. Heavily accented, he somehow didn’t even sound Egyptian. “Salaam, Captain. My name is Ahmed Mohammed Naser. I am a family friend of the Mr Turner.”

They shook hands, Kamal somewhat reluctantly.

“Mr Turner will be staying with my family for some time while Mrs Turner’s murder is investigated. It is much, much, cheaper than the hotel for such a long stay,” he smiled weakly.

Kamal pushed past Ben and pulled a chair out from under a small round table in front of the window. Sitting down, he leant forward and placed his elbows on his legs, clasping his hands out in front of him.

“We need to talk,” he said, matter-of-factly.

George hesitated. “The Embassy have advised me not to without them being present,” he said, thinking on his feet. He and Ben simply hadn’t thought of what would happen if they came face to face with Kamal. They hadn’t thought that far ahead.