New Pompeii Page 2

  “See for yourself.”

  The younger policeman took a few steps forward and pulled back the blind. He grunted. The window looked out across one of the college quads. It should have given him a great view of the old library, but it was dark outside. Pitch black.

  “And the college hasn’t heard from the girl for over forty-eight hours?”

  Kirsten started to shake again, but this time not because she was cold. Forty-eight hours?

  “She didn’t turn up for duty on Tuesday morning,” replied the other officer. “Porter says she’s often late, but not like this. The others on this floor haven’t seen her. First reported missing by another bedder at fourteen hundred hours.”

  Forty-eight hours? Kirsten felt her arms drop to her sides, useless. The men were right in front of her. Neither had noticed she was standing beside them. And there could only be one explanation. She’d seen the movies. Read the books.

  She was already dead.

  “What did she do, again?” asked the younger policeman.

  “College bedder.”

  “Which means what? She slept with the students?”

  The older officer didn’t smile. “Emptied their bins. Changed their sheets. Kept the fellows informed of what was happening on the student staircases.”

  “And what sort of girl was she?”

  “Flirty. Some might say cheeky.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  The younger man stared into the bath. “Many staff live on site?”

  “Not nowadays. There’s some shift accommodation for porters in the front lodge. But these rooms have traditionally been used by bedders. They’re too small to be any use to the students.”

  “They don’t look too bad…”

  “Not great if you’re paying fees.” The older man pointed upwards. “There’s also a bell in the roof of this stairwell. It rings at seven each morning, and seven at night. Breakfast and dinner.”

  “I see.”

  “Locked-room mystery,” mused the older officer.

  “Hmm?”

  “Missing person. Door locked from the inside.”

  “It could have been locked by someone using a piece of nylon.”

  “Difficult…”

  “Possible with practice. Students are known for their pranks – and the ones at this place must be cleverer than most. So I suppose my last question is this: who’s the last person we know who saw her?”

  “A kid called Harold McMahon.”

  4

  NICK ARRIVED HOME to find an envelope waiting for him. It sat on the telephone stand. Placed so he would see it as soon as he came through the front door. So here it was. The last one.

  Nick examined the envelope – but didn’t pick it up. Not yet. The top left-hand corner bore the logo of Imperial College, London.

  “Are you going to open it, or just stare at it?”

  Nick didn’t reply. Didn’t even turn. He could sense his father standing in the doorway to the lounge. He should have made the effort to get home earlier. At least then he could have opened the letter in private. Taken the beating with no one to see him. Now that wasn’t going to happen. His father was waiting.

  Nick hesitated, then took the letter from the stand. Inside, the answer to his application would be switching between “yes” and “no” until the moment he read it. Like a roulette wheel. Yes or no. Red or black.

  “Stop messing around and open the damn thing.”

  Nick scanned his name again before letting the edge of his thumb slide along the gummed flap. Yes or no. It could be either.

  And yet he only needed one to say “yes”.

  Behind him, his father let out an impatient sigh. They’d both been waiting for this for the last couple of weeks. It was his final opportunity. But, in the end, it was written in the same way as all the others:

  Dear Mr Houghton,

  Thank you for your recent research application. We read your proposal with interest; however, you will understand that these are difficult times and as such we need to be particularly selective with regards the projects we support. Unfortunately, we felt your research proposal was not quite right for us at the present time and…

  Nick didn’t bother to read the rest. Wordlessly, he slipped it back into the envelope. So, that was it. His applications had all been turned down. He stood for a couple of seconds, the implications bearing down on him.

  His father seemed to read his body language. “You can apply again during the next round.”

  “Do you expect their opinion will have changed by then?”

  “It would be wrong of them to punish you for my mistakes.”

  Nick didn’t respond. Yes, it would be wrong. But the slow accumulation of rejections indicated he was already being punished. Already being driven out.

  “I’ll find a way round this,” his father continued.

  Nick didn’t say anything. He drifted towards the kitchen and ran himself a glass of water. He drank it in one go before refilling. He’d been to seven interviews. Applied for seven potential proper jobs. The bastards had all smiled, shaken his hand, and listened to his proposal. And then they’d thrown his applications in the bin.

  All because of his father’s “mistakes”.

  Nick looked down. His knuckles were white. The tendons clear against the back of his hand. He forced himself to put down the glass before it shattered. He should have stayed at work. The roulette wheel would have still been spinning. He shook his head, and headed towards the lounge.

  His father’s middle-aged bulk already occupied one of two easy chairs. He held a book loosely on his lap, but wasn’t reading. Nick sank into the other chair. He couldn’t settle. His father’s eyes were locked on him – his face illuminated from above by a solitary reading lamp.

  “I didn’t see you in the library today.”

  Nick shook his head. He shouldn’t have given any sort of answer, but his response had been automatic. His father closed his book. “If you spent more time studying then you’d be further on with your preparatory research. Maybe that would have impressed them at the interviews.”

  So it was his fault. Nick took a large mouthful of water. Emptying the glass for the second time. Tension was pulling at the back of his neck, but he couldn’t look away. Just as his neck started to cramp, his phone rescued him, buzzing in his pocket. One new message. Ronnie. Be here now.

  Nick rose to his feet.

  “Going out again?”

  Nick nodded.

  “To see Ronnie?”

  Parry, thought Nick. Just parry. “He adds a bit of colour,” he said, looking down at his phone.

  “He adds distraction. Him and his damfool ideas. As I said: you need to focus on your studies. Or would you rather join him on the dole queue?”

  Nick felt his brow tighten. Could he just ignore this bullshit?

  “You want to say something?”

  Parry. “No.”

  “Well, you look like you do. Perhaps you think I’m wrong? Perhaps you think you could get a better job than the one I secured for you? Just like Ronnie managed with his degree? Not all friends are for life, Nick.”

  Nick pulled his head back upright. His dad was still glaring at him. “You’re not wrong, Dad.”

  “I’ll have a word with Drockley, tomorrow. There may be something I can do.”

  * * *

  The trip across London took a good deal longer than he expected. Be here now. If Ronnie had actually said where he was, then he might not have taken such a circuitous route. As it was, his friend wasn’t at home – and Nick had been left to take a further thirty-minute journey over to Russell Square underground station.

  On any other day, he’d probably have been sufficiently pissed off to head back home. But not today. Instead, Nick pushed his hands into his jacket pockets and waited. Trying to keep out of the main lanes of pedestrian traffic, and merge into the background buzz of the ticket hall.

  Although it was well into the ea
rly evening, there were still a fair number of people pushing back and forth on either side of the ticket barriers. Some looked like they were going into town for drinks; others were likely making their way back to hotels after a day of sightseeing. Nick watched for a few seconds, and then headed out on to the street. He couldn’t see the scraggy outline of his friend, and hoped he hadn’t been called out for no reason.

  “Hey, you took your time.”

  Nick turned in the direction of the raspy voice. His old friend grinned back at him from beside a newspaper kiosk, tipping a fresh cigarette between his lips. The cigarette remained unlit, and he allowed it to slip back and forth across his mouth as he talked. “I thought you weren’t going to show.”

  “Well you could have been more specific with your directions.”

  Ronnie leant in closer. His breath stank of hamburger. “You look like shit.”

  Nick managed a weak smile as he remembered his meeting with Drockley. “I think I’m about to lose my job.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “There’s going to be more cutbacks.”

  “Your dad will square it.”

  Nick didn’t reply. In all likelihood, Ronnie was right. But his father hadn’t been able to get Drockley to sign off on his research proposal. And he must have tried.

  “You just need to chill,” continued Ronnie. “Stop worrying about what could happen, and start thinking about what might.”

  Nick closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He might lose his career. He might have to go on the dole. “So what have you got planned?” he asked. “Drinks, and then some video games at your place?”

  Ronnie didn’t reply. Instead, he hunted around in his coat pocket and pulled out a couple of rectangular cards. He grinned broadly. Waiting for a reaction. Which he got almost immediately. Because Nick found himself looking at two tickets. Launch night invites to the Peking Man exhibition, complete with security perforation and a skull-themed hologram.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “Fuck does it matter? We got about twenty minutes to get there before the doors open. You’ve been banging on about it enough. I assumed you’d want to go.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  Ronnie started to scratch the underside of his jaw. It was a clear sign of nerves. A trademark tell. “Okay. They’re from some guy who owed me. Totally legit, I swear. But what does it matter? You want to go. I want to go. Let’s go!”

  Nick continued to hesitate.

  “Oh, fuck it – you know why I want to go, and it ain’t about those bones.”

  Nick started to turn away but Ronnie grabbed his arm. “Look,” he said. “That boat? The Awa Maru? It was loaded with crates before it set sail. Official documents say it wasn’t just carrying the Peking Man specimens back in 1941. Five billion dollars worth of gold bullion and platinum were on that thing. Five fucking billion. So when the Chinks found the boat in the 1970s – after they’d spent millions trying to locate the wreck, by the way – guess what they found?”

  Nick shrugged, but he pretty much knew the punchline. Because it was the entire point of the exhibition. The contents of the boat had never sunk. Novus Particles had intervened before the bones had even got damp.

  “Nothing,” said Ronnie, answering his own question. “The wreck was empty.” He grabbed the leaflet, jabbing it with his fingers. “So who’s got the gold?”

  Nick sighed, and reached for the tickets. In the corner was a stamp he hadn’t noticed on his first glance. But its meaning was obvious, both for the tickets, and for his presence at Russell Square. They were part of a batch reserved for academic staff from nearby universities. The same batch he’d been unable to get hold of when they’d been first offered around his department. “So you need my university pass,” he said, “or these aren’t valid.”

  Ronnie didn’t say anything.

  Nick looked in the direction of the British Museum. They could make it. Twenty minutes before the doors opened. A couple of minutes’ walk, or a two-week wait. “You promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid while we’re in there?”

  “I promise on your mother’s grave.”

  * * *

  The Great Court of the British Museum looked nowhere near as good as it had done when it had been newly refurbished. The marble floors were scuffed with the pressing of too much shoe leather, and the glass ceiling was almost completely covered in green and brown grime. But it remained an impressive space. And, in some ways, the frayed fabric of the building perfectly reflected the state of its galleries.

  Nick sighed. After the hasty repatriation programme, he didn’t come here all that often. There was little of note left on display. Tonight, however, the court hummed with activity – and a long line of people stood waiting to gain access to the central reading room.

  It seemed most had dressed for the occasion. Nick glanced down at his outfit, and felt a little embarrassed. Expecting to spend most of the night in an overheated bar, he’d only put on a light jacket to meet Ronnie. It didn’t do much to hide the T-shirt underneath. Still, at least his outfit could pass as smart-casual. What Ronnie had on was hardly in keeping with the marble floor of the central courtyard, scuffed or otherwise. The security guard at the main door certainly hadn’t been able to hide his smirk.

  “Remember,” Nick said, coming to a halt some distance from the end of the queue, “I don’t want to hear a single word about NovusPart.”

  Ronnie scratched at the back of his neck. “Even your dad agrees with me on this, Nick.”

  “Not a word.”

  “Yeah, well not talking about it doesn’t mean people aren’t going missing.”

  Nick gave his friend a cold glare. “Well I’m still of the opinion that Lee Harvey Oswald shot JFK, and Princess Di’s driver was drunk.” He paused, swallowed. “And you promised me, Ronnie.”

  Ronnie didn’t answer. He appeared distracted. Nick followed the direction of his gaze. Two women were looking back at them from near the head of the queue. Both were dressed in smart business suits – one dark blue, the other beige – as if they’d arrived straight from work.

  “There’s no dress code, is there?”

  “No.” Ronnie took his time pulling his attention away from the women. “No,” he repeated, blinking. “Look, you remember back at university, that old fart Webster used to make a big deal of the Rosetta Stone? How it suddenly allowed classicists to decode Egyptian hieroglyphics after years of scratching their fat heads over fragments?”

  Nick nodded. The stone was inscribed with a decree written in three scripts, one of them ancient Greek, the others two types of ancient Egyptian. Translating the Greek provided the key to the hieroglyphics, and suddenly all those mysterious symbols on Egyptian artefacts began to make sense. The last time he’d visited the museum, he’d heard two tourists express surprise it was a real object. “Sure. Your point?”

  “Well, we ain’t going to work out what NovusPart are up to from one or two bits of information. We need to figure it out by overlaps. Ideally find something that brings everything together.”

  “I’m not interested, Ronnie.” Nick turned away. A man and woman had joined the end of the line. Suddenly, Ronnie and he weren’t the only ones who looked out of place. While the man had dressed conservatively, his companion had certainly come to be noticed. Bright pink hair, bright yellow jacket, bright green skirt. Of course, it could have been a combo that now passed as vintage, but it was going to give whoever was sitting behind her a nasty headache. As he watched, the man returned his interest with a small wave. Nick turned away, and felt his cheeks flush. Did Ronnie know them?

  “The Rosetta Stone’s still here, you know,” Ronnie continued. “It’s one of the few things the dicks running this place haven’t given back.”

  Nick didn’t reply immediately. The queue was growing. Which meant inside was going to be rammed. But he’d get to see the Peking Man. It would be worth it. “Well,” he said. “Let’s go and see what all the fu
ss is about.”

  “We got time,” replied Ronnie. “I’m going for a piss. Wait for me here.”

  Ahead of them, the queue started to move. “They’re going in…”

  “I won’t be long. Chill.”

  Nick swore under his breath as his friend ambled away and down through an archway. The queue continued to move forward.

  After five minutes Nick started to get irritated. Around him, the Great Court was rapidly emptying. The excitement was all elsewhere. And he should be part of it.

  He looked towards the archway through which Ronnie had vanished, and started to tap his foot nervously. The evening was going to start with a talk about the Peking Man and some high-level discussion about how the bones were found. No doubt whichever spokesman NovusPart had chosen would be allowed to reveal something interesting about the artefacts, but exactly zilch about how they pulled off their now-famous trick. But still, it would have been interesting to have heard it first-hand, even if he’d be able to read the same information in the exhibition programme.

  Because Ronnie was right about one thing, even if he was wrong about everything else. It wasn’t really about the bones. It was about NovusPart. But after getting hold of the tickets, it looked like Ronnie was going to end up frustrating him again.

  Shit. Only if he let him. Taking a last look towards the exhibition entrance, Nick headed down a set of stairs, in the direction of the toilets. He found his friend loitering in the corridor outside the gents’. Rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. Like he wasn’t in any particular rush.

  “What are you doing?”

  Ronnie turned towards him, his eyes suddenly widening. “Jesus, Nick. I told you to wait for me.”

  Nick blinked. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  Nick didn’t say anything. He just waited. Waited for the inevitable scratching around the chin and the jaw. The noise of stubble being rubbed back and forth. The sound of nerves. “What are you doing, Ronnie?”

  “Just go upstairs and wait for me, okay?”

  “You want me to go in without you?”

  “No. I want you to go upstairs and wait.”

  “And then what?”