The Embalmer

by Alison Belsham

Genres: Police Procedurals; Thrillers; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

Has the ancient Egyptian cult of immortality resurfaced in Brighton?

When a freshly-mummified body is discovered at the Brighton Museum of Natural History, Detective Francis Sullivan is at a loss to identify the desiccated woman. But as Egyptian burial jars of body parts with cryptic messages attached start appearing, he realises he has a serial killer on his hands. Revenge, obsession and an ancient religion form a potent mix, unleashing a wave of terror throughout the city. Caught in a race against time while battling his own demons, Francis must fight to uncover the true identity of the Embalmer before it's too late...

Release date: November 12, 2020

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 416

Sample

Instructions for Mummification

You will need:

1 cadaver

1 embalmer’s board with at least four raised cross struts

20 litres date palm wine

1 curved iron hook

small bowls and vessels

a large quantity of linen swabs

1 obsidian blade

4 Canopic jars

400 lbs natron – a naturally occurring salt compound

frankincense and myrrh

2 pedestals, equal height

100 yards good quality untreated linen

2 litres tree resin

You may find that some of these items are difficult to procure. If you need to, use the closest alternative that presents itself, though it may be detrimental to the process.

1. Place the naked cadaver face up on the embalming board and wash the body with date palm wine.

2. Insert the iron hook into each nostril in turn. Use it to break through the cribriform plate of the ethmoid bone. Rotate the hook thoroughly throughout the cranial cavity to liquify the brain.

3. Turn the cadaver over so the brain can drain out of the nostrils into a small bowl.

4. Attach strips of linen to the iron hook and use them to swab out the cranium until no more brain tissue can be retrieved.

5. Pour tree resin into the cranium via the nostrils.

6. Use the obsidian blade to make a three-inch incision on the left side of the abdomen.

7. Remove the abdominal and thoracic organs – spleen, liver, kidneys, pancreas, gall bladder, intestines, lungs. Leave the heart in situ.

8. Pack the removed organs into the four Canopic jars with natron.

9. Cleanse the abdominal cavity with palm wine and pack the space with linen-wrapped packages of natron, frankincense and myrrh.

10. Spread a deep layer of natron on the embalming board, filling the spaces between the cross struts. Lay the cadaver back on top and cover it entirely with the remaining natron.

11. After 35 days at room temperature, the natron will have set hard like baked salt. Break the natron away from the cadaver, which will now be desiccated.

12. Rest the cadaver across the two pedestals, one at the head and one at the feet, and wrap it as tightly as possible in a basket-weave pattern. Fingers and toes should be individually wrapped. As you do this, paint the linen strips with tree resin to ensure they stay in place. Include amulets and good luck tokens among the bandages.

The mummified cadaver is now ready for interment.

1

The Embalmer

There’s a man. A man who believes he’s immortal. Or at least on his way to immortality. He’s followed the instructions, point by point. He’s making his way along the sacred path, so he can take his place among the gods.

Ra, the sun god.

Amun, the invisible one.

Isis, the mother.

Apophis. The Great Serpent. His god, the one he worships.

If he succeeds in what he’s doing, he’ll become one with Apophis. He’ll become the living incarnation of the Great Serpent. And in death, he’ll become immortal.

The man stands in front of the altar and sighs. He extinguishes the candles with the softest touch of his fingers, relishing the burn to his mortal flesh. He won’t need it much longer. He bows his head and whispers the name of his god.

‘Apophis. God of snakes. Watch over me and protect me.’

He makes a soft hissing noise, as he walks across the stone floor of the shrine to where the mummified woman lies, so beautifully wrapped, in her casket.

The night’s work is ahead of him. With the sacrifice he’s made, he’ll announce his arrival to the world. A new god moving among them. He checks off the list of what he’ll need with the stub end of an ancient pencil. Small teeth marks pit the wood – he remembers chewing on it as he struggled with homework. All those years ago. He can still hear the other boys’ laughter in his ears.

He banishes the thought. There will be no more laughter at his expense.

Tonight he will announce his arrival by unveiling his creation. She’ll be put on display for all the world to see. To admire. First, he must move her to the loading bay, then into the back of the van. The casket isn’t heavy – the pale, voluptuous flesh of a month ago is gone, transformed by the mummification process into a dark, leathery hide stretched taut over her bones. Her pretty, plump cheeks are now hollow and her fat fingers have turned into claws. She’s as light as a feather.

He smiles. He hisses, pressing the two tips of his bifurcated tongue against his bottom teeth.

The journey to immortality has begun.

It’s just a matter of sacrificing the right people.

In the right order.

And a certain person last of all.

2

Tuesday, 31 October 2017

Gavin

It was Gavin Albright’s second day on the job. The new team member. And it was not what he’d expected, mainly because he’d had to step into a dead man’s shoes. Even if it wasn’t technically the case, it certainly felt that way. DC Tony Hitchins had been murdered by the so-called Poison Ink Killer just a few weeks ago and now Gavin had joined the team – anyone could be forgiven for thinking it was to fill the gap. Still, at least he didn’t have to come to work wearing a uniform any more.

He looked across to where Detective Inspector Francis Sullivan was talking animatedly with DC Angie Burton, his new partner. Burton had returned to work for the first time since being injured during the chase for the Poison Ink Killer. Her return was the reason why the whole team had ambled over to the Mucky Duck for a couple of pints at the end of the shift.

Sullivan was young and forward-thinking, and he had a growing reputation as a hands-on DI, a man of action. Gavin thought they were about the same age, thirty, but the boss certainly looked younger than him – his short red hair and boyish features against Gavin’s receding hairline and heavy beard. But Sullivan was already a DI – on the fast track – and in the last two years, he’d apprehended two of Brighton’s most horrifying killers. He was scarred as a result of it, quite literally. There was a black gulley on his left cheek, where he’d been gouged with a poison-laced tattoo iron.

‘Albright?’

Gavin stopped scratching his beard and turned his attention back to what was happening in the pub. Rory Mackay, Sullivan’s sergeant, was beckoning him across to the table he was sharing with Sullivan and Burton. Mackay was a short man, with just the first sprinklings of grey in his cropped hair. He had a reputation as a solid and experienced detective within the station, but Gavin had heard rumours of resentment when Sullivan leapfrogged him to DI.

‘Call come in – domestic disturbance ongoing in Kemptown. You two take it?’ He nodded at Gavin and Angie.

Angie frowned from behind her untouched pint. She didn’t look well – pale and drawn in the face, skeletal body, older than her thirty-four years – and Gavin wondered if she was really ready to come back to work.

‘Seriously, boss?’ She was appealing directly to the DI.

‘Come on, Angie. You know what night it is – uniforms are all busy with rogue trick-or-treaters. We need to pick up the slack.’

‘We’ll take it,’ said Gavin, earning an eyeroll from his partner.

‘Good man,’ said Rory.

Routine stuff for someone with Angie’s years of experience maybe, but still a hell of a lot more interesting than anything he’d been involved in as a constable on the beat. He was happy to go, even if she wasn’t thrilled at the prospect. He knew she – and the whole team – had just lost a colleague in the most harrowing circumstances, and of course he was sympathetic. But her return seemed to cast a pall of gloom over everyone.

‘Straight back on the horse,’ said Angie, with a sigh. There were dark circles of grief under her eyes.

‘If you don’t feel ready . . . ’ said Francis.

She shook her head. ‘No, it’s fine. Come on, Gavin. Let’s get it done.’ She pulled an elastic off her wrist and drew her shoulder-length brown hair into a tight ponytail. It made her look even more severe.

Gavin read out the address Rory texted to him as he and Angie walked up the road to where Angie had left her car.

‘I know that address,’ said Angie.

She glanced back over her shoulder and Gavin looked round too. The boss was leaving the pub and heading off in the other direction.

‘What?’ said Gavin. There was something in the way in which she’d quickly turned her head back.

‘The address. It’s Marni Mullins’s house.’

The name was familiar to Gavin but he couldn’t think why. ‘Who’s she?’

‘It’s none of our business,’ said Angie, striding forward.

She wasn’t making sense.

‘What information do we have?’ said Gavin, climbing into the passenger seat.

Her car was small and the top of his hair practically brushed against the roof interior. He had to extend the seat belt to its full length to get it around him. At six foot three, he was almost a foot taller than Angie, and maybe twice her bulk with his rugby-player’s physique.

‘Not much. A neighbour called the police – screaming, crashing.’ She started the engine and put the car into gear.

‘And you know the people who live there?’

‘Marni Mullins is a local tattoo artist. This isn’t the first DV call to her address.’

Gavin heard her dislike for Marni Mullins in the tone of her voice.

‘Violent husband?’

Angie shook her head. ‘No, it’s not Thierry Mullins who’s the problem. It’s her. She drinks, throws stuff around, has a go at him.’

‘So what’s none of our business?’

‘It’s nothing. She was involved in the Tattoo Thief case.’

‘Ah,’ said Gavin, finally making the connection. ‘She’s the one who was linked to the boss in the newspaper?’ He remembered the grainy picture of the boss emerging, early morning, from the house of a woman who was apparently a witness in an ongoing case. It had been the talk of the station for weeks.

‘Fake news.’ She said it a little too quickly, then changed the subject. ‘Good to have you on the team, Gavin. The boss thinks you’re a bit of a legend since you helped him arrest Jered Stapleton.’

‘Just did what I was told,’ said Gavin with a wry smile. ‘But thanks.’ He was proud of the role he’d played in the apprehension of the Poison Ink Killer. ‘Angie, I know from the rest of the team you were close to Tony Hitchins.’

Angie didn’t respond. They were turning the corner into Great College Street.

Had he put his foot in it?

‘I just want you to know, I’m not trying to step into his shoes or anything. I’m not here to replace him – I was scheduled to join the team anyway.’

Angie shook her head. ‘It’s fine. I understand.’ She pulled the car into a space by the pavement. ‘We’re here.’ She sounded relieved to draw a line under the conversation.

They were about two doors down from the house number Rory had given them, but Gavin could already hear noises from inside. A woman was shouting – the words indistinct – and the front door was opened, then slammed, twice in quick succession. A middle-aged man in a cardigan and slippers came towards them on the pavement.

‘You the police?’

‘Yes,’ said Gavin. ‘Did you call it in?’

The man nodded and looked at the house. ‘Bloody fed up with them, I am,’ he said. ‘Should just let ’em do each other in, then we’d get a bit of peace around here.’

‘Thank you for calling,’ said Angie. She strode up to the door of the Mullins house and rang the bell.

The shouting was louder by the door and Gavin could hear a multitude of swear words, in English and in French. The second time Angie rang, the door opened and a short, dark-haired woman peered out at them. Her face was flushed and her eyes widened.

‘I know you,’ she said, addressing Angie. ‘You can fuck right off.’

She started to shut the door but Angie leant against it with her shoulder.

‘Mrs Mullins, calm down.’

As they went into the hall, Gavin saw a tall black man leaning on the newel post of the stairs. Thierry Mullins.

‘I know what I saw, Thierry.’ Marni was going to continue arguing, regardless of the presence of two police officers in the house. ‘It was Paul. He’s back here.’

‘Paul’s dead.’

‘He’s not. He’s here. He wants to take Alex away from me. Fuck you, Thierry, for not believing me.’ She launched herself at her husband and began to pummel his chest.

‘Merde! Not again.’ He grabbed the top of her arms.

‘Mrs Mullins,’ said Angie. ‘Step away from your husband.’

Marni pulled away from him, unsteady on her feet, tears welling in her eyes.

Thierry sneered. ‘What’s wrong now? Not the policeman you were hoping for?’

With a yelp of anger, Marni lunged at her husband.

‘Gavin!’ shouted Angie.

Gavin blinked and made a grab for Marni, but he was too slow to stop her from connecting with her intended target.

Her knee. Thierry’s groin.

Ouch.

3

Wednesday, 1 November 2017

Francis

Francis took the call on the way into work. A cryptic, garbled message about a break-in at the Booth Museum of Natural History on Dyke Road. Great. He hadn’t had coffee yet and he was having to go out of his way because the uniform who’d arrived first on the scene couldn’t be sure whether a crime had been committed. Or whether there was a body or not.

The Booth Museum was an anachronism. Francis knew it well – everyone who’d grown up in Brighton knew the Booth. It was a good, old-fashioned, glass-display-case museum, with no interactive videos and no buttons to press. It didn’t spoon-feed its visitors an education and nowadays it couldn’t compete with the aquarium or the i360 viewing tower. There was just row upon row of exquisitely – if now a little faded – stuffed birds, harking back to an era when birdwatching included killing one’s quarry and putting it in a glass case for posterity.

When he arrived, he parked on a yellow line opposite the entrance. There was a patrol car already drawn up outside the museum, blocking a bus stop. At eight thirty, the museum wasn’t yet open for business, so he had to tap on the main door to be let in. The uniform officer who’d requested assistance opened the door, and led him up a short flight of steps into the reception area.

Francis looked around. The walls were completely lined with square and rectangular glass cases containing stuffed birds in dioramas of their natural habitats. They looked stiff and dusty – there was nothing lifelike or natural about them. Apart from their eyes. Francis remembered them from school trips. Dark and beady, they followed you malevolently as you walked past. He’d never been a big fan of dead birds.

At the centre of the rear wall there was a broad wooden counter with a till at one end, and in the centre of the floor were several shelving units containing books, postcards, keyrings, pencils, polished stones and model dinosaurs – all the usual museum shop tat calculated to separate young visitors from their pocket money. The stock didn’t seem to have changed since he was a boy.

A young man in a wrinkled suit and round glasses was coming towards him.

‘Hello, I’m Nathan Cox. I’m the assistant manager here.’ His voice had a nervous tremor, but he stuck out a hand.

Francis shook it as briefly as he could. The man’s palm felt clammy against his own.

‘DI Sullivan.’ He resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his trouser leg. ‘Tell me why you called us.’

‘I arrived here at about half past seven,’ said Cox. ‘We don’t open until ten, but I find it’s the best time for getting anything done, before the public arrive. Especially before the school parties come through the door.’ Nathan Cox grimaced. ‘I like it when it’s silent, and all I can hear is the echo of my own footsteps.’

Francis pursed his lips. Surely his time could be better spent elsewhere.

‘This morning, I felt almost immediately that something was . . . not wrong, but different. I came in through the back door and I felt certain someone had been in here since I’d locked up last night.’

‘What made you feel that?’ said Francis. ‘Any signs of a break-in?’ He looked around, taking note of a large open case with sand spilling out, near the entrance, and there seemed to be some sort of mess on the reception counter.

‘No, nothing like that,’ said Cox. ‘Just a hunch. I’m very sensitive to the atmosphere of the place. The air . . . dust had been stirred up.’

‘Can we get on? What is it I’m supposed to be looking at, Mr Cox?’

‘Yes, sorry. I came in at the rear entrance and dropped off my coat and bag in the staff-room. It was half dark – we have to keep the blinds on the skylights shut to stop the exhibits from fading. I switched on the lights and walked through the small dinosaur gallery up at the far end. It all looked perfectly normal. Then I came down the long gallery, checking the exhibits on both sides. Everything seemed fine. The Victorian parlour in the middle was the same as ever. But when I came through to the reception area here, I saw it immediately.’

Francis raised his eyebrows. ‘It?’

Nathan Cox pointed at the case to the left of the entrance, the one Francis had noticed earlier. ‘There.’

Francis looked. Inside the case he saw what appeared to be an ancient Egyptian mummy on a wooden plinth, covered with brightly coloured hieroglyphs. It stood on several inches of fine, golden sand. To one side of the plinth there was a row of three clay jars, the tops of which had been shaped into the heads of Egyptian animal gods.

It wasn’t real – even he could tell that. The bandages wrapped around the mummy were too white and fresh-looking. The whole thing was too perfect. Real mummies were dirty and stained, battered-looking. This looked like a new display, probably for the school groups.

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘The mummy,’ said Cox with a sniff. ‘It wasn’t here when I locked up last night, and we had no contractors booked onsite. That case usually holds a pair of white-tailed sea eagles.’

‘And where are they now?’ said Francis.

Nathan Cox looked around frantically. ‘I have no idea. I don’t know why this is here or who did it. My boss isn’t here yet . . . she might know something.’

‘So why exactly did you call us, rather than waiting for your boss to arrive? Are you sure this isn’t some kind of Hallowe’en prank?’

Cox didn’t answer him.

Francis went closer to the case and peered inside. His nostrils were assaulted by a smell that combined camphor, pine, incense and rosemary. It wasn’t unpleasant, though there was a sharp after-tang that caught in the back of his throat.

The linen bandages were wrapped around the mummy in an intricate pattern of overlapping and intertwined bands. There were small clay figures tucked among the folds. Where the body’s face would have been, there was a curved wooden lozenge, painted with a woman’s features, the eyes heavy with kohl, the lips dark red and sensual. He wondered who she was. It was probably a copy from an original mummy, a woman who lived in ancient Egypt and whose remains were actually mummified. Was she somewhere in a museum now?

He prodded the mummy with his finger, wondering what it was stuffed with. Straw probably – it rocked slightly on its plinth. It seemed quite light, given the size of it. He stepped to one side and squatted down to examine the jars, his feet crunching on grains of sand as he moved. The jars wouldn’t be original either – real ancient burial jars were priceless museum pieces, he knew that much. He couldn’t remember the names of the Egyptian gods, but the jars were all about storing the organs of the deceased, ready for when they needed them in the afterlife. There was a dent in the sand at the end of the row.

‘Was there something here?’ he said, looking up at Nathan Cox.

‘Yes.’ Nathan looked at him and then looked at the counter. Francis followed his gaze. There was an overturned clay pot, a painted wolf’s head, a scattering of lumpy white powder and something that looked like an old leather pouch, stiff and brown, a few inches in diameter. Francis straightened up and went over to it. The wolf’s head had pointed ears and a long narrow snout. It wore the typical striped headdress of the Egyptian pharaohs, and though the body of the jar was unpainted, the head was picked out in gold and blue and black. He studied the powder spilled across the counter and became aware of a new smell, the sort of musty reek of long-abandoned basements or church crypts.

‘What’s all this?’

‘I opened up one of the jars. I wanted to know what was in them. To be honest, I thought it would be empty, but it wasn’t.’ His voice cracked. ‘I think that’s part of a body?’ He ended the sentence with a high inflection, making it into a question.

Francis looked at what Nathan was pointing at, the thing that resembled old leather. It was almost black, and the surface looked parched. He bent and sniffed the air close to it, pulling a face.

‘There’s no reason to think it’s human,’ he said, straightening up. ‘We’ve had some of these turn up, apparently with cat remains inside.’ Both Cox and the PC grimaced. ‘I’ll call our pathologist to come and take a look – and at the other jars,’ he continued, waving in the direction of the display case. ‘In the meantime, I think the museum should remain closed, just in case this is a crime scene.’

He called the city’s head forensic pathologist, Rose Lewis, and told her about the jar. She wasn’t impressed when he described it to her.

‘I’ve seen enough mummified cat entrails, thank you,’ she said. ‘This is the third Canopic jar called in this month, complete with mummified body parts.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Don’t worry, they’re not human – cat parts.’

It was as he’d thought.

‘Someone mummified cats? Were they ancient?’

‘I don’t think so, but I’m not wasting tests on them.’

‘So basically this call-out is a waste of my time?’

Rose laughed. ‘If you’re there, you might as well pick it up for me.’

‘There’s still the question of what’s inside the mummy,’ said Francis, glancing over at the Egyptian tableau. ‘Probably totally fake with nothing inside, but I think we need to treat it as a crime scene until we’ve got some explanation.’

‘Okay, fair enough – I’ll come down.’

He put the phone back in his pocket.

‘Nathan,’ he said, ‘you said you’re the assistant manager?’

Nathan nodded.

‘Who manages this place and where is he?’

‘She. Alicia Russell. She should be in by now.’ Nathan looked around as if expecting her to materialise. ‘I can go and check the staff-room at the back.’

‘Please.’

By the time Rose arrived it was approaching opening time and Nathan had put up a notice at the main entrance to say the museum would be closed. There was still no sign of Alicia Russell – she hadn’t arrived for work and wasn’t answering her phone.

Rose was dressed in running gear, and she’d recently had her auburn hair cut into a short, sharp bob. There was still a sheen of sweat on her forehead, making Francis all too aware that he could hardly remember when he’d last exercised. But at least she came armed with coffee.

Francis took a long-overdue mouthful of it and directed her towards the reception counter.

‘That,’ he said, pointing at the desiccated pouch, still sitting amid the pile of powder.

Rose inspected it from a number of angles, before pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

‘This was in the jar?’ she said.

Nathan Cox nodded.

Rose walked across to the mummy. The door of the glass case was still open, and Rose leaned inside, sniffing the air thoughtfully. She looked down at the other three jars and frowned.

‘Francis?’ Her voice struck a note of concern.

‘Yes.’

‘How big do you think a cat’s stomach is, especially when it’s been dried out during mummification?’

He looked across at the object on the counter. He could see her point. The coffee in his mouth became bitter and he pulled a face.

‘Exactly,’ said Rose. ‘That’s not any part of a cat. I suspect that’s a human stomach. Which means this is a crime scene.’

4

Wednesday, 1 November 2017

Francis

Francis walked the length of the empty museum. The long-dead birds followed him with their glass eyes and he had the uneasy sensation that he was breathing in dust from their carcasses. At the end of the gallery, a huge stuffed bat with papery wings seemed to be flying right at him, its sharp rodent teeth poised to pierce his skin. Harmless enough, but he’d always found the place a bit creepy – even before the discovery of the stomach.

The uniformed officer who’d taken the original call was standing by the door of the staff-room.

‘Any other staff members arrived for work yet?’ said Francis.

‘There’s a girl who sells the tickets and runs the shop. I’ve asked her to wait in here.’

Francis went into the staff-room – there were a few chairs, a coffee table, and a small kitchen unit with a sink and a kettle. It didn’t look welcoming or relaxing. A girl was sitting nervously on the edge of a wooden chair. Nathan Cox stood with his back to her, staring out of the window. The view was a brick wall. He turned round as he heard Francis coming in.

The girl looked up, wide-eyed and flustered, as Cox introduced her. She looked about eighteen, though she was wearing the sort of frumpy floral dress that Francis would have expected to encounter at a church council meeting. Heavy-rimmed glasses obscured her eyes and her brown hair was tied back in a high ponytail.

‘This is Martina Russell.’

Francis waited, then gave her a nod of encouragement. ‘What do you do here, Martina?’

‘On reception four days a week, one day helping Alicia in her office.’ Cox gave the information before the girl had the chance to speak.

Martina Russell nodded in agreement.

‘Russell?’ said Francis. ‘Are you related to Alicia?’

‘She’s my aunt.’

The sour look that flashed across Nathan Cox’s face didn’t go unnoticed. Francis wondered what it signified.

‘Do you know any reason why she hasn’t arrived for work this morning?’

The girl looked up, surprised. ‘It’s Wednesday, right?’

Francis nodded.

Martina shook her head. ‘She never said anything to me about not coming in. Maybe she’s caught in traffic.’

‘She’s nearly two hours late and she only lives in Shoreham,’ said Nathan Cox. It was clear from his tone that he had little time for Martina. ‘And she hasn’t phoned in.’

‘Does she keep a diary here?’ said Francis. ‘Maybe she had a meeting somewhere else.’

Martina nodded, then shook her head. ‘Yes, there’s a diary in her office. But she didn’t have a meeting. I would have known about it.’

‘Can you show me her diary?’

When Martina stood, Francis saw that she was wearing chunky, schoolgirl-style sandals with white ankle socks. He couldn’t decide whether she was being ironically fashionable or whether ideas of teen glamour had completely passed her by.

He followed her through the back area of the museum and into a small gallery displaying animal skeletons and fossils. At the far end there was a door. Martina pulled a bunch of keys from the pocket of her dress and opened it.

‘This is her office,’ she said, showing him in. ‘We keep it locked if no one’s in it – members of the public are nosy, and they’ll try any door.’ She seemed more animated now they’d left Nathan Cox behind.

The office was anything but grand. In fact, it seemed decidedly poky to be the office of the director of the museum. Obviously, space was at a premium. The impression wasn’t helped by the amount of clutter – two small desks and a row of bookcases were overflowing with documents, newspapers, books and folders. There was a vase on the windowsill. The chrysanthemums it held were brown and wilted. Martina picked up two empty coffee cups from one of the desks, but it was too little, too late.

‘The diary?’ said Francis.

The girl put down the cups and lifted a pile of papers on the other desk. Despite the mess, she’d known exactly where her boss’s diary was. She flicked through the pages and then held it out to Francis.

‘Look – there’s nothing in there for today.’

‘And you have no idea where she might be?’

Martina shook her head.

‘When did you last see her?’

‘She was here at work the day before yesterday. Yesterday was her day off, so I didn’t see her. But she never said anything about being late in today.’

Francis turned back a few pages. ‘There’s nothing in here relating to new exhibits or anything Egyptian. What about last night or yesterday during the day? Any indication she had plans?’

‘She said she was looking forward to a quiet day at home,’ said Martina.

‘And you don’t know anything about the mummy or who brought it here?’

‘No.’ Martina looked momentarily stricken. ‘Nathan said that jar had a part of a body in it. Is that true?’

‘We don’t know yet,’ said Francis. ‘It will have to be examined in the pathology lab.’

‘A human body?’

‘I really can’t discuss it,’ said Francis. He turned towards the door.

‘Wait,’ said Martina. ‘If there’s a real human inside that mummy . . . ’ Her voice tailed off.

‘What?’

‘Could it be Alicia?’ She blurted out the words as if she’d had to force herself to say them.. . .