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, he’d recently been promoted interim head of the Supreme Council for Antiquities in Alexandria; but everyone knew that he’d got the job because Yusuf Abbas, the Cairo-based secretary general, wanted someone pliable and disposable he could bully while he manoeuvred one of his own trusted lieutenants into the permanent role. Even Omar knew this, but he was too diffident to resent it. Instead, he spent his time hiding from his bemused staff in his old office, filling his time with comfort-zone tasks like these. He stood, wiped his hands. ‘So what can I do for you, my friend?’
Knox hesitated. ‘I saw an old bowl in the market. Hard-fired. Well-levigated. Pinkish-grey with a white slip. Maybe seven inches in diameter.’
‘That could be anything.’
‘Yes. But it gave me that feeling, you know?’
Omar nodded seriously, as though he had respect for Knox’s feelings. ‘You’re here to check our database?’
‘If that’s possible.’
‘Of course.’ Omar was proud of his database. Building it had been his main responsibility before his unexpected promotion. ‘Use Maha’s office. She’s away today.’
They walked through together. Omar sat at her desk. ‘Give me a minute,’ he said.
Knox nodded and walked to the window, looked down at his Jeep. It had cost him a fortune to have it repaired after the Alexander business, but it had been good to him over the years, and he was glad of his decision.
‘Any word from Gaille?’ asked Omar.
‘No.’
‘Do you know when’s she coming back?’
‘When she’s finished, I imagine.’
Omar’s cheeks reddened. ‘All set,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ sighed Knox. ‘I didn’t mean to snap.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘It’s just, everyone keeps asking, you know?’
‘That’s because we like her so much. Because we like you both.’
‘Thanks,’ said Knox. He began working his way through the database, colour and black-and-white photos of cups, plates, figurines, funerary lamps. Mostly, he flipped past them without a second glance, the old computer groaning and sighing as it strained to keep up. But every so often an image would catch his eye. Yet nothing quite matched. Ancient artefacts were like this. The closer you looked, the more potential points of difference you found.
Omar came back in with a jug of water and two glasses on a tray. ‘Any luck?’
‘Not yet.’ He finished the database. ‘Is that it?’
‘Of local provenance, yes.’
‘And non local?’
Omar sighed. ‘I wrote to a number of museums and universities when I was setting this up. I didn’t get much of a response at the time. Since my recent appointment, however …’
Knox laughed. ‘What a surprise.’
‘But we haven’t entered the data yet. All we have are CDs and paperwork.’
‘May I see?’
Omar opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, pulled out a cardboard box of CDs. ‘They’re not in any order,’ he warned.
‘That’s okay,’ said Knox. He slid one into the computer. The chuntering grew louder. A page of thumbnails appeared. Fragments of papyrus and linen cloth. He clicked to the next page, and then the third. The ceramics, when he found them, were colourful and patterned, nothing like what he was looking for.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ said Omar.
‘Thanks.’ The second CD was of Roman-era statuary, the third of jewellery, the fourth corrupt. Knox’s mind began to wander, triggered perhaps by Omar’s earlier question. A sudden memory of Gaille, taking breakfast one morning on the Nile Corniche in Minya: the way she licked her upper lip free of the slight glaze from her pastry, her dark hair spilled forwards, her smile as she caught him watching.
The eighth CD was an anatomy lecture demonstrating how to distinguish manual labourers from the idle rich by bone thickness and spine curvature.
Gaille’s mobile had rung that morning in Minya. She’d checked the number, shifted in her seat, turning herself away from him to hold a stilted conversation that she’d quickly ended by promising to call back later.
‘Who was that?’ he’d asked.
‘No one.’
‘You want to get on to your service provider, if you keep getting calls from people who don’t exist.’
A reluctant sigh. ‘Fatima.’
‘Fatima?’ An unexpected stab of jealousy. Fatima was his friend. He’d introduced the two of them barely a week before. ‘What did she want?’
‘I guess she’d heard about Siwa being postponed.’
‘You guess?’
‘Fine. She’d heard about it.’
‘And she rang to commiserate, did she?’
‘You
