Open Writing

When Blake Hartley went to the office the next day, he was in for another surprise. Sgt Khan showed him a fax from Interpol, from the Cairo police. It was addressed to Hartley as officer in charge of the case. He was glad Donaldson was away. He’d have had kittens if he’d read it and handed the case over immediately to the C.I.D. He liked to keep his patch neat and tidy. Like his desk. Under his control. Anything that looked too big for him was passed on.

The fax came from Colonel Mordecai Waheeb. He thanked Hartley for letting him know about Dr Manasas. If it could be arranged, he’d like to come over personally and help. There were aspects of the case Inspector Hartley should know about and which he’d prefer to discuss with him directly.

Blake Hartley rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he read. It mentioned missing girls in Egypt, a sect which still carried out human sacrifice to the goddess it worshiped. He could hardly believe what he was reading. Yet Elsie Adams had told him some odd things. There was Kathy Burton’s disappearance, for instance. The candles and snake-image in Rosie Adams’ room. They flashed through his mind, but all he said to Khan was, “Looks as if there’s bigger fish in our pond than we thought.” He put the fax away carefully in his personal drawer. Not in the general filing-cabinet, in case Donaldson looked in. He was always meddling about in there.

“We’ll have to let Superintendent Donaldson know, sir,” said Khan.

Inspector Hartley turned and snorted. “Like Hell! Bring him back from London? With his head full of narcotic psychology? He’ll cock the whole thing up straight away. Panic like mad once he hears Interpol’s involved. Pass the case straight to Met. level - and just when it’s getting interesting. Anyhow, there’s more to it than a body in the museum.”

Sgt Khan was curious, but the inspector said nothing. He locked his drawer and told the sergeant they were going to check out a flat - Kathy Burton’s. On the way he told him why. He was desperate to learn where the girl was. If she’d really gone to London. And the person he wanted to interview first was her mother.

She was called Mrs Franks and lived in a snotty row of terrace houses at the back-end of the town. Very back-endish. They should have been pulled down years before. They’d been tarted up by their landlord, but still looked slummy. The families living there had gone downhill with them. Some of the houses were boarded up. It was a race whether they fell down before the demolishers got to them. Few would have backed the demolition gang.

**

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