“That’s my problem,” said Hartley. “Right now I want Sally Anwar - alive. If she isn’t…if she’s harmed in any way, I’ll make damned sure you never see your precious goddess again.” And anticipating what Whitcliff was going to say, he went on, “And if anything happens to us, your princess will moulder away in Keighworth - just like she’s done for the past hundred years.”
Whitcliff drew a deep breath. “You’ll get Miss Anwar. She’s perfectly safe and well. I can vouch for that. When we have her divine highness and I’m safely away, Anwar is yours.” Whitcliff put down his brandy glass and wiped his moustache with a silk handkerchief he carried in his breast pocket. “Just one thing more you ought to know, Inspector Hartley, before I leave. The Burton girl was not murdered as you think. She was already dead when we offered her to Hathor. She died from a drugs overdose. You ask her friend Rosie…or Madame Marie. She died suddenly at her place when she returned from London high on heroin. If you have her body, as you say you have, your pathologist’s report will soon confirm that.”
“And?” queried Hartley.
“We merely - how shall I put it? - took her off their hands. The dear lady has clients who want more than their fortunes telling, it seems. We treated the girl’s body with respect. Offered her as a handmaid to Hathor. It saved a great deal of trouble all round.”
“Then why did you snatch DWC Anwar?” asked Khan.
Whitcliff glanced across and said patronisingly, “Because, my dear sergeant, you blew her cover. You were recognised by my friends here when you were busy doing your Sherlock Holmes bit across the road. Really, sergeant, you’ll have to do better than that to get on! Even Donaldson could have done better than that. After what happened to Manasas, we couldn’t let your charming police lady slip through our fingers. She gave us the opportunity to get away. As long as we hold her, we hold our passport to freedom. I know you’ll let us get clear before you’ll let anything happen to her.”
Inspector Hartley cut in with, “Time’s running out Whitcliff. So what’s it to be?”
“Return our divine Hathor and you’ll get your DWC…alive and quite unharmed. You have my word,” said Whitcliff.
“Your word? I wonder how much that’s worth,” said Sgt Khan.
“Giving safe conduct to a goddess. I find that very droll, Mr Whitcliff,” said Colonel Waheeb.
“Not half as droll as a Christian policeman-priest acting as her guardian,” said Whitcliff. “Is it agreed then?”
Blake Hartley nodded. He’d no option. At least it gave them time.
“And you’ll square it with Superintendent Donaldson? I don’t want him meddling. Taking it higher and all that. We keep everything in our own backyard. If it goes beyond, the deal’s off. You understand?” said Whitcliff.
Hartley nodded again.
“Now if you don’t mind, inspector, I’ve some packing to do. And you also have a busy night ahead. The quicker we get this thing tied up, the better. But remember. No nonsense or this could end so tragically…and none of us wants that.” He looked at his watch. “Meet me at the hall in three hours’ time. We have the grounds well monitored as you know, so no tricks. Anyone there but you three and I can’t guarantee what will happen to Miss Anwar.”
Inspector Hartley finished his drink and picked up his hat. He nodded curtly at Blackwell and the others then Whitcliff showed them out. Hartley didn’t return his good night when he left them at the door.
They drove off in silence and no one spoke till they were well clear.
Chapter Twenty Four
“He doesn’t seem to think Manasas and Driscoll’s murders come into the equation,” remarked Colonel Waheeb eventually.
“He’s crazy,” said Khan. Then added ruefully, “But he’s right about DWC Anwar. It was my fault.”
“You weren’t to know they’d recognise you. Happens to the best of us, son,” said Hartley, keeping his eyes glued to the road. His mind was racing. What would he tell Donaldson? What was his next move now that a colleague’s life was at stake? At length he said, “How far have your people in Egypt got with the El Tuban Group?” he asked Waheeb. “Is there any chance of picking Whitcliff and the others up once they reach your end, when we’ve got DWC Anwar back?”
Colonel Waheeb was sitting directly behind Blake Hartley. He leaned forward and said, “If I read Whitcliff aright, he won’t go to Egypt directly. He’ll bolt to Yemen where his organisation has contacts. He supplies them with weapons so he’s well in with them. He’ll lie low there till it’s safe for him to move.”
“Wherever he goes, I’ll nail him,” said Hartley grimly. “Even if it means dragging him from hell!”
“Easier to nail him in Egypt,” commented Waheeb. “We’ll wait for him at the sect’s temple. He’ll go there all right.”
“But you’ve said you’ve no idea where it is,” said Sergeant Khan.
“He’ll lead us to it. Of that I have do doubt,” replied Waheeb. “Patience, my friend. Remember what I said? The snake always returns to its pit and we’ll follow its trail. We have what he wants most. He’ll dance to our tune if we play the right one.”
“How?” asked Hartley.
“We can bug the mummy again. Get our friend Dr Dunwell to insert a tag. With that in place we can trace its every movement…right to the Temple of Hathor. They’ll have dumped the switched coffin now Whitcliff knows we have the real one. Yes, we’ll nail him in Egypt. Once Miss Anwar’s safe, we can take our time pulling him in. And it would give me the greatest satisfaction taking him and the others on my patch,” said the colonel.
But Blake Hartley had an unpleasant surprise when he reported for duty the next day. The Super had attended a dinner at Skipworth with the Chief Constable the day before. True to form, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
Royalty had been opening a new hospital and there’d been a county jamboree afterwards. The usual set basking in the limelight of the media. The usual back-biting by sidekicks like Donaldson. The usual mutual back-slapping by the politicians. Donaldson had ended up after a few few drinks buttering up the Chief Constable.
Inevitably the museum murder had cropped up. It caught Donaldson off-guard and before he’d realised it he’d let the cat out of the bag that nothing really was happening. Then he had to back-pedal like mad to save his own skin.
“Oh, it’s drifting along, sir,” said Donaldson, nervously.
The Chief Constable had long since learned to read faces. The look on Superintendent Donaldson’s spoke volumes.
“Drifting along? What d’you mean, Donaldson?” he said.
Arthur Donaldson withered beneath his superior’s stare. His mind raced. If Hartley had fouled it up, if anything had happened to DWC Anwar, he’d be in queer street and no way out. There was one straw to grasp and he clutched it.
“To tell you the truth, we’ve a crisis on our hands, Sir William,” he admitted. “As a matter of fact, it’s cropped up only today. I meant to inform you, but events have rather caught up with me. I’m waiting to clarify the situation. Waiting for a report.”
“Report! What report?” barked Sir William.
“Well, it’s like this, sir,” said Donaldson. “We’ve had one of our DWCs abducted.”
“For God’s sake, man, who? What’s been going on?” Sir William almost shouted.
Donaldson shook.
“One of our women detectives,” he replied. “She was working under cover, and - er - it got blown. She’s being held hostage.”
The Chief Constable exploded. Why hadn’t he been told? He wanted to know exactly what had gone wrong. Who was in charge and, of course, Inspector Hartley’s name fell readily from Donaldson’s lips. If heads were to roll, Donaldson’s wasn’t going to be among them.
“As a matter of fact, sir, DWC Anwar was watching a house. She’d infiltrated their set-up.”
“They? Who may they be?” asked Sir William.
Donaldson gulped and took a swig of whisky.
“Now I know t
his sounds a bit far-fetched, sir, and I’m sure that somewhere along the line Hartley’s got hold of the wrong end of the stick, but there’s a way-out religious sect of some sort operating in Keighworth. Y’know the place is full of foreigners. Hartley believes they’re connected with the El Tuban Group.”
“The El Tuban Group,” whispered Sir William. “The lot who massacred some tourists in Cairo recently?”
“The same, sir,” said the Super weakly, and took another pull of his drink. “Hartley is sure they’re responsible for the murder in Albert Park Museum.”
Sir William Smith, Chief Constable of the Ridings Police, stared blankly at Donaldson, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Why wasn’t I told? Why wasn’t Special Branch called in?” he said savagely.
“We were going to, sir, when we’d confirmed details. I’ve always been a big believer in factual data, sir. Hartley works on hunches but I work on data…”
“And between you, you’ve both cocked it up!” snarled Sir William.
Arthur Donaldson looked mortified. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “But Inspector Hartley and the Egyptian officer he was liasing with thought it better to keep wraps on the whole business till it was time to move in.” Then he added quickly, “Special branch do know about it, sir. It was they who told us to put wraps on.”
He was right. Mordecai Waheeb had briefed him on that, because Special Branch and Interpol were monitoring the El Tubans right across Europe.
Sir William fell silent. When he spoke again, he said simply, “I want Hartley off the case. It’s too big for him. And it’s too big for you. I’ll get onto Special Branch immediately I get back and find out what’s happening. Their anti-terrorist team will take over as from now. Understand? Hartley’s way out of his depth. He should have been taken off the case weeks ago!”
Donaldson nodded dumbly.
“Get Hartley to brief you, then stand him down. Let me know at once when you’ve clarified the situation. I also want to meet this Colonel Waheeb or whatever his name is. Send Hartley on leave. Anything. But get him out of the way. He’s too old for this sort of thing. There’ll be all hell to pay if anything happens to that woman.”
The next day, Inspector Hartley sensed something was amiss the moment he opened his Super’s door. Donaldson couldn’t meet his eye. He was utterly crestfallen. Hartley had never seen him like this. He’d rung through to tell Hartley and the others to report immediately they got in. Usually that meant he was angry. But far from it. He was sweetness itself. He’d done something behind somebody’s back. Hartley knew whose.
“I -er- saw the Chief Constable last night, Hartley,” he began. “As a matter of fact, we were sitting next to each other at dinner. He brought up the Manasas case. Oh, sit down, please, gentlemen.”
Inspector Hartley eyed him closely. He was always pally when he’d done something underhand.
“Sir William and I discussed the case at length. With his connections in the Middle East, Sir Jeremy Listerton and all that, he wanted to know how we were progressing.” Donaldson began tapping the table with his pen. “We talked about DWC Anwar.” He lifted his eyes a moment then dropped them again quickly. “Now I don’t want you to get this wrong, Hartley. I put in a good word for you and said it wasn’t your fault. But Sir William feels the case has taken on a new dimension. He’s handing over to Special Branch. He’s standing you down. You’re off the case forthwith.”
There was a penetrating silence during which Donaldson began fiddling with his watch-chain and got up to look outside.
“If you don’t mind me asking, sir, what exactly did you tell him?”
The Super turned and faced Hartley squarely. “All he wanted to know,” he said. “I had to tell him. There was no way out,” he added bleakly.
“Whitcliff said last night,” said Hartley slowly, “that if the case went to higher authority the deal we struck would be off. He wouldn’t then guarantee DWC Anwar’s safety.”
Arthur Donaldson looked sick. He smoothed his hair, straightened his tie and ran his hand across his mouth. Then he stood up straight. “I’m sorry, Hartley, but it’s out of my hands. It’s somebody else’s pigeon now. You’re to tell me what happened last night, then that’s that. You’re on leave as from now. Understand?”
Hartley drew a deep breath. “And Sgt Khan?” he asked.
“Sgt Khan will be working under whoever’s sent to replace you. He’ll tell them what’s happened to date. So you’d better get your office into some sort of shape for them to work in. I’ll have to start making my own preparations. The quicker we start, the better. I’ll be seeing you, Colonel Waheeb, and you, Sgt Khan, later this morning, so please don’t leave the station, gentlemen.”
He moved to the door and even opened it for them, nodding at Colonel Waheeb as he left. Hartley was the last to leave. He paused in the doorway, forcing Donaldson to meet his eye.
“How long am I on leave for, sir?” asked Hartley.
“Indefinitely. Till they’ve got this case buttoned up,” Donaldson replied. “I’m sure all the spadework you put in will be appreciated.”
“I’m sure it will, sir,” said Hartley icily. Then he followed the others downstairs to his office.
Once there and the door firmly closed, Sgt Khan said, “If we’re going to get DWC Anwar clear, sir, we’ve got to act now.”
Inspector Hartley was mooching round clearing the things off his desk. He didn’t reply. He looked hurt and drawn. It was Colonel Waheeb seated by himself in the corner who spoke.
“He’s right, my friend,” he said. “We can’t wait. Once Whitcliff finds out Special Branch have been brought in, it’ll be too late. Mukhtar and Riad will see to that.”
“How d’you mean?” asked Khan.
“Once they discover their deal has fallen through, they’ll kill Miss Anwar, then shoot it out with whoever is sent to rescue her. After all, to them death is but the gateway to eternal life with Hathor and the gods. They give the highest place to their martyrs. We’ve got to go through with the deal - at once.”
Blake Hartley sighed wearily, dumping his books and papers into a box. “I’m supposed to be on leave,” he said.
“But Sgt Khan isn’t and I’m certainly not! Be our guest!” said Waheeb. “We’ll go this evening as arranged. What’s more, once DWC Anwar is safe, we’ll tell Whitcliff to make his getaway immediately.”
“But he’ll go free!” exclaimed Hartley. “So will the others.”
“The quicker he gets clear, the quicker we have Sally Anwar back safe and sound. And you forget, my friend, that when he takes his beloved relic back to Egypt, we have tabs on him all the way there. Does it really matter whether we pick him up in Keighworth or Cairo? As long as we have the mummy, we hold the ace-card. He’ll do anything to retrieve that.”
When Hartley had finished packing, the other two helped him load his things into an adjacent room the cleaners used. Donaldson came down an hour later, when the office was empty. He looked at it with mixed feelings: part satisfaction (he’d never seen it so tidy), and part sadness.
He caught Inspector Hartley just before he left and tried to put a brave face on.
“Well -er- Hartley, You’ll have some well-earned time on your hands now. A sort of run-in to retirement, eh?” he said blithely, going up on his toes and rattling the change in his pocket. “What will you do with yourself?”
Hartley grunted and put some papers in his brief-case. “Don’t worry about me, sir,” he said. “I’ll find summat to do.” Then he turned and continued speaking to Khan.
Donaldson took the hint and left. But when he got back to his office, he felt strangely alone. As if Hartley’s departure was leaving a great hole in his life. Already he was regretting opening his mouth so wide to the Chief Constable. Hartley at least always seemed to muddle through. There was no one to muddle through now. No one to grumble at. He was on his own.
Chapter Twenty Five
The three detectiv
es met at Hartley’s house before driving to Pithom Hall. Hartley realised that if anything happened to Sally Anwar, he was finished. There’d be no going back off leave. He’d be kicked out of the force at once in disgrace.
There was that other girl, too, Kathy Burton. Her death weighed heavily on his mind. He was her mother’s parish priest. And then some time in the future he’d have to confront Rosie Adams’ mother and tell her the facts. Tommy Driscoll’s death, too, had been partly his fault. There must be no mstake this time.
Before the others arrived he went into St John’s to say the evening offices as was his custom. That done, he left the priest’s stall to kneel at the altar rail where he prayed long and hard; going over the events of the past few weeks; asking for guidance to see his colleagues and himself through the task ahead when they went to Pithom Hall to get Sally Anwar back safe: seeking strength to fight the malevolent forces of evil he felt at work about him. This was no ordinary crime he was trying to solve. There were dimensions to it which needed all his priestly power.
He stood up and looked slowly round the church. Mary and he had been married there. His children had been baptised there and he’d attended it ever since they’d moved into their one-and-only home after their wedding. He’d been licensed to the church after his ordination as a non-stipendiary minister fifteen years earlier. And since then he’d seen three stipendiaries come and go. He was the longest-serving priest in the deanery and the parish saw him as their own. It was his spiritual home.
The church had been built in the middle of the last century when Ingerworth was a new suburb of Keighworth, spawned like the rest of the town from mills and factories and mean streets. The Whitcliff family had made their fortune there and built the first mill. Families like them had made Keighworth the richest town in England, but with much poverty. Miles of fine worsted cloth had rolled from its mills to all parts of the world and made their owners millionaires. Tons of mucky soot had poured from the same mills and factories and left their workers dead or stunted.
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