The Greek Key

Prologue

Cairo, February 1944.

Staff-Sergeant Higgins – 'Higgy' to his friends – had no warning this would be the last time he would ascend in the creaking lift climbing slowly to the fourth floor of the Antikhana Building.

At ten in the evening it was silent as a tomb within the walls of the three-sided building. The only sound was the ghostly creak of the old lift as it crawled upwards past deserted landings. Through the iron grille of the cage he could see the stone staircase which rose round the central lift shaft. It felt as though no one else was in the place -no one except the Sudanese receptionist behind his desk on the ground floor.

Not surprising if he was the first to get back, thought Higgy. The few military men who slept there occupied small bedrooms on the rooftop. And they rarely arrived back from drinking and eating in Cairo before eleven. Personally, he liked an early night…

He frowned as he slid the door of the cage shut when il had wobbled to a stop. They switched off the lights in the corridors running round the three sides of the building at seven. So where was the glow of light beyond the entrance to the corridor coming from?

He hesitated, listening. Normally he would head straight for one of the three spiral staircases at each corner of the building – the enclosed staircases which led to the rooftop. The light was gleaming from under the closed door at the end of the corridor. The Greek Unit's quarters.

He had no idea what Ionides, who had escaped from German-occupied Greece, did. Something connected with propaganda, they said. He must have forgotten to turn off the light before leaving for his billet. Or he could just still be working.

Hitching up his khaki drill trousers, he walked quietly along the tiled passage. The first twinge of unease ruffled him when he thought he heard a noise from the room next to the last one. Also part of the Greek Unit's quarters, the two rooms were linked by an inner door. But no light glowed from under this second door. Who would be moving about in the dark?

He paused, grasped the handle, turned it slowly, pushed. The door wouldn't budge, was locked. He stiffened. He'd never known that door to be locked before when one of the Greek Unit was working.

Higgy walked a few paces further and stopped at the second door. Beyond, at the corridor's end, the black hole leading to the spiral staircase gaped. He took a grip on the handle of the door, turned it, entered. He froze.

At the last moment, it occurred to him it might be Ionides' colleague, Gavalas, who was working late. But it was Ionides all right. Except he wasn't all right.

Higgy had his share of battle-hardened courage. An ex-tank commander, he'd seen friends in the desert scorched to death in what they cynically called a 'brew-up'. Not the normal brew-up of tea – the fearsome sight of another tank, hit by a German shell, going up in flames. Locked inside their steel box, few escaped alive.

The office, with barred windows facing the native quartet across the street, looked as though a hurricane had struck it. Drawers were pulled out, contents scattered across the floor. Filing cabinets had been overturned. Crimson splashes smeared the white walls.

The black-haired young Ionides lay amid the carnage, sprawled on the floor on top of a mess of papers. He was drenched with blood, his dark eyes stared sightless at the ceiling, his head had been almost severed from his neck, his face was slashed brutally, the weathered skin coated with more blood. Blood was everywhere – spattered across the desk where presumably he had been working. The splashes on the walls were more blood.

Higgy shivered. He closed the outer door. Six feet tall, well-built, twenty-eight years old, he stood motionless, gazing at the horror lying a few feet away. Then he remembered the noise he'd heard from the locked room. He stared at the communicating door. God! The maniac who had done this must be inside.

Panic gripped him. His first instinct was to haul open the outer door and run like hell for the roof up the spiral staircase. His throat felt parched. His hands trembled. The silence from the room beyond the communicating door was insidious, made him want to yell.

The silence went on: not a hint of a sound from behind that closed door. Higgy sucked in a deep breath. Had it been imagination, nerves tingling from the empty building? Had he, in fact, really heard anything? He glanced down and saw again the dreadful corpse which had recently been a living man. A black foot-long circular ruler of ebony lay on the floor. He picked it up, took a firmer hold of himself, walked towards the closed communicating door. Still no sound.

He was scared shitless. He was growing more convinced the next room was empty, but if the murderer was still there he wasn't going to let the bastard escape. Ionides was a nice chap, always liked a chat and a joke. Higgy held the ruler like a baton, reached for the door handle with his left hand.

If the killer was inside he was probably holding the knife used to inflict the terrible mutilations Ionides had suffered. The state of the office showed the Greek had fought for his life. No, Higgy thought, should the assassin still be here I'm damned if I'm letting the swine get away.

He opened the door a few inches. The room beyond was dark. He reached his left hand inside, found the light switch, turned it on. Light flooded the second office and he pushed the door wide open, flat against the wall. His right foot tangled with something. A screwed-up bundle, a whole mess of it, and all the sheets were stained a darkish red. Blood.

He took a step inside the office often used by Gavalas. He had heard a rumour that Gavalas had gone on leave. There were no signs of disturbance in this room as far as he was able to see. He gripped the ruler tightly and walked in.

He walked across the empty office which showed no evidence of the ghastly death struggle behind him. He must report this at once. In his dazed state he tried to open the door leading to the corridor without turning the key. It opened.

The significance of this hit him like a second shock wave. The door had been locked when he had tried to open it from the corridor. The confirmation that the assassin had been hiding inside the darkened room minutes – moments – after completing his hideous act was too much for Higgy.

He felt his bowels loosening. Throwing open the door, he ran for the nearest toilet, locked the door. Afterwards he was never sure how long he sat on the lavatory.

He went back down through the deserted building by the stone staircase. The lift cage was a potential death-trap. The Sudanese receptionist stifled a yawn as he appeared at the foot of the stairs, gazing at the black ruler Higgy was still holding, sat up straight and adjusted his red fez. 'Who has left the building since I came in here?' Higgy demanded.

'No one, sir. I would have seen them. They have to pass my desk. ..'

'I know that. Who came into the building?'

'No one, sir,' the Sudanese replied in perfect English again. 'You are the only person here at the moment.'

'Selim. You fell asleep,' Higgy accused.

'No, sir,' Selim protested. The night shift is my usual duty. I sleep in the day.'

Then call the SIB. Now! Urgently.'

'SIB?'

'Special Investigation Branch, idiot.' Higgy regretted the insult the second he had spoken. 'Just call them,' he repeated. 'Someone has been killed. I'll talk to them when you get them on the line.'

He sat on the stone steps while the Sudanese used the telephone. He felt washed out, drained. To stop his hands trembling in front of Selim he gripped the ebony ruler like a vice. And while he waited he kept asking himself the question. How could anyone have got into the building unnoticed when the only way in was the two huge double doors beyond Selim's desk?

Second Lieutenant Samuel Partridge of the SIB sat beside his chief, Captain Orde Humble, who drove the jeep slowly as they came close to the dirty grey Antikhana Building. It was the morning after the late night call from Sergeant Higgins and it was going to be another glorious sunny day.

'Seems we were here only five minutes ago,' Partridge remarked as a horse-drawn gharry with an Arab driver pulled up at the entrance to the building.

'Precisely three hours,' growled Humble and parked the jeep by the kerb.

Partridge, a one-pipper, twenty years old, wished once again he'd kept his mouth shut. Humble was fifty-six, ex-Scotland Yard, long-faced and pessimistic. He never missed a chance to put Partridge in his place. The lowest of the low – one-pippers. Not that it was Partridge's fault he had been posted to the SIB at his youthful age. You didn't create fallen arches under your feet. Hauled out of his regiment by a medical officer who had spotted this physical defect. 'Feet like that. You can't wear Army boots, my lad…'

An attractive fair-haired girl in her late twenties, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, a blue frock, high-heeled shoes, paid off the gharry driver and started up the wide steps leading to the huge closed double doors. Partridge felt the adrenalin start to pump as he studied her snow-white skin.

Humble leapt out of the jeep and intercepted her. She stared arrogantly at him, reaching for the doorbell. A wrinkled face stared back from under the peaked military cap, his eyes cynical, the thin mouth of a man who has learned over the years to choose his words.

'Don't press that bell. You're not going in there. Who are you, anyway?'

'Flying Officer Malloy's wife. His unit is based here. And may I enquire your authority to order me about? Incidentally, who is that young boy getting out of your jeep?'

With appraising interest she watched Partridge alighting from the vehicle. A gaggle of Arab street urchins appearing from nowhere surrounded the jeep.

This is my authority. SIB.' Humble waved his ID card in her face. 'A particularly unpleasant murder took place inside this building yesterday.'

'Not really? Some wog got in, I suppose. I tried to phone my husband and the operator refused to put me through. Such damned sauce.'

'Acting under orders, madam. No communication is permitted for the present. I suggest you go straight back to your married quarters.' He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled down a passing gharry. There's your transport home.'

'You've a bloody nerve. I shall complain…'

As she strolled back down the steps Partridge was handing a few piastres to the leading urchin. 'Watch this jeep until we get back. If it's OK you get the same again.'

It was a necessary precaution. They could have returned to find the wheels missing. He had heard every word of the conversation between Humble and Mrs Malloy. He passed her on the way up the steps. She gave him a direct look with half-closed eyes and was gone.

'Barmy outfit, this one,' Humble complained as he thumbed the bell. 'Allowing women like that to visit the place. Our first stop is Colonel Grogan. Right tartar from what I hear. Runs this pansy bunch of propagandists.'

That attractive girl you were talking to…' Partridge began.

'Married to some RAF type. Flying Officer Malloy. And she had her eye on you. If you know what I mean.' Humble made a crude gesture with his fingers which Partridge found distasteful.

'I was going to say,' Partridge persisted as Humble pressed the bell again, 'it was odd. She never asked who had been murdered.'

'Who knows what goes through a woman's mind?'

The door was opened by a private in the SIB. They're still examining the murder room,' he informed Humble. 'Haven't found anything that helps much yet, sir,' he continued as he escorted them into the lift. The body was removed hours ago.'

'I know. You needn't come up with us. Colonel Grogan's on the third floor? We'll find him.'

'Anything from the pathologist yet?' Partridge enquired as the lift began its rheumatic ascent.

'He's been up all night working on the corpus delicti. All he'll say so far is that the weapon which carved up Ionides could be a commando-type knife. Could be,' he snorted. 'I have yet to get a straight answer from any of those buggers.'

Colonel Grogan's door faced the lift beyond the entrance to the corridor running round the building. Humble knocked on the top panel, a voice rapped out, 'Come in, close the door, you're two minutes late.'

'Accounted for, sir, by the two minutes we had to wait outside to gain admittance to this place.'

'Sit down. This place, as you call it, is one of the most sensitive propaganda centres in Mid-East Command. And who am I talking to?'

Humble introduced himself and his companion, produced his identification, which Grogan glanced at and settled back in his chair. Humble had him weighed up at a glance. A regular soldier, contemptuous of all those 'in for the duration', which appeared to include his visitors.

Grogan, he estimated, would be in his late fifties. His thatch of white hair was trimmed close to his bony skull, his clean-shaven face was craggy, his expression bleak. He sat erect as a poker in his hard-backed chair.

'What do you want?' he demanded.

'Well, sir, we are investigating a particularly horrific murder which took place on these premises…'

'Get to the point. I haven't all day.'

'Up to this moment we have interviewed Sergeant Higgins who found the body. Nothing much he could tell us. But I understand that among the units you oversee…'

'Command!' Grogan snapped.

'As you say, sir. I understand there is a secret unit led by a Colonel Maurice Barrymore…'

'Half-colonel. Temporary appointment. Lieutenant-Colonel Barrymore you must be referring to.'

Oh, my God, Humble thought, no wonder they gave him a desk job a thousand miles behind the lines. A World War One type. Up boys, and at 'em. Never mind the casualties – take that machine-gun post. He changed tactics.

'I need to interview this Lieutenant-Colonel Barrymore – and his men. I understand they've just returned from some training course. That they've only been back here in Cairo for two days…'

'Good luck to you.' Grogan stood up. 'They're waiting for you. Can't imagine why you're interested in them.'

'I don't have to explain my reasons. Sir.'

'Can't imagine why they call you Humble.' Grogan glared. 'Follow me.'

Stiff in his walk, he led the way down the corridor, back straight, the veteran of a thousand inspection parades. Turning along a fresh corridor, he stopped in front of a closed door, opened it and walked in. He made a dismissive gesture towards Humble and Partridge.

'SIB. Over to you.'

Without a glance at them, he walked out, closing the door. The three men waiting in the room stared at their visitors in silence. The windows – again barred – overlooked the front street where the jeep was parked. Partridge noted as Humble made introductions.

'Better sit down, I suppose,' the half-colonel behind a desk suggested. 'Although we can't give you long. We have things to do.'

'So have we, sir,' growled Humble. 'Like investigating a grim murder…'

Partridge, seated next to his chief, assessed the three men with interest. Lieutenant-Colonel Barrymore had spoken in a languid voice, was dark-haired with a trim moustache, thin-faced with an aquiline nose. Effortlessly, he carried an aura of authority and command.

The records showed he was only twenty-one years old but from his air of sophistication Partridge would have guessed he was in his thirties. He sat back in a swivel chair, turning a short swagger cane between strong fingers. He pointed with the cane to the two men seated in hard-back chairs on either side of the desk.

'Captain Robson. Company Sergeant Major Kearns. Members of my unit.'

'Which unit is that. Colonel?'

'Classified.' He used the tip of the cane to push a typed sheet of paper across the desk. That explains.'

Partridge studied the other two men while Humble scanned the letter. Robson was twenty-two, more heavily built than the lieutenant-colonel. Brown-haired, he also sported a moustache, straggly, and his whole manner was more relaxed. He sat with an arm stretched across the back of his chair and his expression was amiable. He reminded Partridge of a country doctor. Again, he looked older than his years.

Kearns was tall, thin, clean-shaven and hadn't moved a muscle since they entered the room. His brown eyes reminded Partridge of glass marbles. He sat very erect and his expression was bleak, his jaw clenched. All three men had skin tanned the colour of mahogany.

'I can still ask you some questions. I'm going to do just that. It's my job,' snapped Humble, pushing the letter back over the desk-top, the letter from GHQ signed by a general.

'Let's hurry it up, shall we?' Barrymore suggested in his silken tone. 'I'm beginning to get irked.'

'Unfortunately Ionides can no longer be irked. You have met him, of course? All of you? Seeing as you have your unit stationed in the same building?'

Humble's gaze swept over the three men. Nothing changed in Kearns'expression. Barry more tapped his small white teeth with the tip of his cane. It was Captain Robson who replied.

'Personally speaking, no. I gather he was stuck away up on the next floor. As far as I know I've never set eyes on the chap. Horrible business. Any clues – as to who did it?'

'The investigation is continuing.' Humble turned to Kearns who was studying Partridge like a hangman measuring him for the drop. Only twenty years old. Must be the youngest CSM in the British Army.

'What about you?'

The same as Captain Robson.' There was a snap in his voice. He'd be a bastard on the parade ground. Humble thought. It was the sheer immobility of Kearns which fascinated Humble. He looked at Barrymore.

'What about you, sir? I've heard there are special units which slip into Greece to help the Resistance there. And Ionides was Greek.'

'Rather an obvious observation. That last remark.' Barrymore made no attempt to conceal the sarcasm. 'No is the answer. And now, I think we've told you all we can. I'd prefer this interview to draw to a close. You've read that letter…'

'Which authorizes you not to answer any question affecting military security. No, I haven't quite finished. Colonel Barrymore. I understand the three of you returned to Cairo forty-eight hours ago. That means you were all in the city last night. Where were you between the hours of nine and eleven? Last night. And that has nothing to do with military security.'

'If you must know…' Barrymore sounded as though he were having trouble stifling a yawn. 'All three of us were getting some well-earned kip aboard a houseboat on the Nile. The location is top secret.'

'Any witnesses to confirm your story?'

Despite his tan, the hint of a flush of blood appeared on Barrymore's face. He stood up and Humble saw for the first time his khaki drill trousers were thrust into the tops of gleaming leather cavalry boots. Walking to the door, he opened it.

'I am not accustomed to being insulted in front of subordinates. May I suggest the interview is concluded? That you both leave now. If you please.'

Humble stood up, nodded to Partridge, and strode out of the room. The door closed behind them as they headed for the lift.

'Botched that one, didn't I?' observed Humble. 'Sprawled right into it. Gave him just the excuse he was looking for to chuck us out. What did you think of them?'

'Funny trio. I couldn't get it out of my mind there was a lot of tension under the surface.'

'Which there would be if they've just returned from some mission to the Greek islands. They're Special Operations Executive – and commandos to boot.'

'SOE? Then that explains…'

'It explains a lot,' Humble interjected as they ignored the lift and walked down the staircase. 'It explains why some flaming desk wallah of a general at Grey Pillars provides Barrymore with a letter giving total immunity from questioning. It explains why he could throw me out on my ear. And we can't check their alibi. That houseboat is where the SOE plan operations. It's called Tara. Don't know why – but it's off limits even to us.'

Partridge waited until they were settled inside the jeep before he asked his question. First he paid off the chief urchin of the gang guarding the vehicle. 'Not enough!' the urchin screeched. ' Imshi! Yallah!' Partridge bawled. They ran off, shouting obscenities.

'Did you notice Captain Robson qualified his statement that he'd never met Ionides? As far as I know I've never set eyes on the chap.'

'You spotted that, too? You're learning. Gives him an out if we came up with a witness who saw them talking together. Any idea how the murder was done?' he asked as he started the vehicle moving.

'From our visit in the night it seems impossible. The only way out is the front entrance – guarded by the Sudanese receptionist. Our people searched the place from top to bottom. No one there. All windows are barred. You can get out on to balconies from certain rooms on the upper floors. But you're thirty feet from the ground. Yet the killer had to be behind that locked door Higgins tried before he went into the next room.'

'And we found traces of blood in the bathroom. My bet is Higgins sat on that lavatory seat quite a long time. I can't say I blame him – but that was when the murderer was cleaning himself up before performing his vanishing trick.'

'Unless the Sudanese receptionist was bribed?' 'I talked with Selim. I've carried out enough interrogations in my time to know he wasn't lying. You know something. Partridge? I've a hunch we're not going to solve this one.'

'This is a bloody waste of time. You do know that?' Humble rapped out as he pulled the jeep into the kerb in front of the Antikhana Building. It was dark, the street was deserted.

Partridge checked his watch. 'Ten o'clock. The exact time Higgins arrived back on the night of the murder. I want to walk right round the outside first. Then go inside – just like Higgins did.'

'You're on your own, laddie. I'll wait here. And watch it at the back. The native quarter…'

Partridge jumped down on to the pavement and began walking slowly away from the entrance steps. Although it was dark there was plenty of light from the street lamps. He looked up as he walked, stared at the projecting balconies with their iron grilles.

It was very quiet. The only sound the smack of his shoes on stone. No one about. Probably it had been like this on the night of the murder. He turned the first corner of the building and the side street was a canyon of gloom. He unbuttoned his holster flap, felt the butt of his Service revolver. Butterflies in the stomach. The silence became oppressive, sinister.

He turned the next corner, walking more slowly, trying to make no sound. Across the narrow street to his right loomed the ramshackle tenements of the native quarter. Black as pitch now. He looked up again. The roof of the building was a blurred silhouette against a distant background of star-studded sky. He heard a scuffling sound and his hands were moist. A half-starved cat scuttled across the street.

Completing the circuit, he saw Humble leaning over the wheel, the red glow of a cigarette near his mouth. He mounted the steps, pressed the bell. An SIB sentry opened the right-hand door, Partridge showed his pass, went inside, nodded to the Sudanese behind the desk.

'No one in the building?' he asked the sentry.

'Yes, there is, sir. Colonel Barrymore is still in his office. Professor Guy Seton-Charles is also working late. And Sergeant Higgins is sitting on the staircase.'

'Why?'

'Better, maybe, sir, you ask him that yourself.'

The heavily built ex-tank commander was seated out of sight on the sixth step. Hunched forward, hands tightly clasped, he looked embarrassed and stood up as Partridge appeared.

'Sorry, sir. It's just that I can't go up there alone. I'm waiting for Clanger Wilson, my room-mate.'

'Let's go up together. I'm on the way to the roof myself.' Partridge hastened to put the burly sergeant at his ease. 'Why Clanger?'

'It's his nickname. Nothing malicious. He's always knocking things over. Bit like a bull in a china shop. Everyone likes him. Just a bit of fun. Calling him Clanger.'

'I think you're sensible to wait for company,' Partridge assured him as they climbed the staircase together. Think I'd have done the same thing myself in your place. After all. we still have to catch the blighter. Does Colonel Barrymore work this late often?'

'He's still here?' Higgins sounded surprised. 'Never known that to happen before. Not that any of us have a clue what that lot do. We call them the Hush-Hush Boys.'

'Let's look in on him before we go on the roof.'

Partridge opened the door to the office where a light shone from beneath it without knocking. Barrymore was bending over a file behind his desk. He looked up, closed the file quickly and laid a hand flat on it.

'I saw the light,' Partridge explained quickly.

'What the devil do you mean invading my quarters without so much as a warning knock?'

'I've just explained that. I saw the light and thought maybe someone had forgotten to turn it off. And I smell smoke. Is that mineral water, sir?'

A metal wastepaper basket stood by the side of the desk with smoke drifting up from inside. Partridge had pointed to a large glass jug on the desk next to a tumbler. 'Yes. Your powers of detection are extraordinary.' Barrymore noticed Higgins standing in the corridor. He jumped up, strode towards him. 'What are you doing? Snooping around at this hour?'

Barrymore's back was turned when Partridge picked up the jug, doused the papers burning inside the basket. Stooping, he retrieved an intact remnant with a few visible words. Report on Siros raid. He turned to face the door. 'Higgins is with me. We were just making our way to the roof.'

Then kindly make your way.'

As Partridge, cap under his arm, walked back into the corridor Barrymore slammed the door behind him. Going back to the hie, he emptied more sheets into the basket and set light to them.

Partridge was walking alongside Higgins towards the corner of the building when a door opened. A man of slim build wearing a pale civilian suit emerged from an office and locked the door. 'Who is this?' Partridge whispered.

'Professor Guy Seton-Charles. Boffin type.'

Twenty-three years old. Partridge recalled from his study of records at GHQ. Rejected for military service on grounds of poor eyesight. The thin-faced man walked towards them hugging a green file under his arm. Everything was thin. Hands, his long studious face. He wore rimless glasses.

'A word with you, sir.' Partridge produced his identity card. 'SIB. We haven't got around to interviewing you yet. What is your precise job here?'

'Difficult to be precise about anything. All problems have shades of meaning. I am concerned with propaganda to the mainland.'

'Mainland?'

'Greece. The authorities are getting it all wrong, of course. The left-wing ELAS andartes are the real guerrillas fighting the Germans. The Republican EDES lot are hopeless. But can I convince people here? Even if ELAS are Communist?'

He spoke in a pedantic petulant tone and was obviously launched into a lecture. Partridge stopped him.

'Propaganda? Greece? Then you must have worked with Ionides.'

'Never, my dear chap. No idea why those two – Gavalas and Ionides – were here. Making jobs for themselves, I suspect…'

'We must go,' Partridge interjected. 'We'll talk later.' He headed for the end of the corridor. 'Funny type.'

'We've given him a nickname. Cuckoo.' Higgins chuckled.

'I'll lead the way,' Partridge suggested tactfully and began to climb the stone spiral staircase. It was very narrow, curving sharply, and there was no lighting. He felt his way up the wall with one hand, emerging suddenly on to the rooftop.

It was flat, enclosed by a waist-high wall with an iron rail on top. Higgins led the way, heading for one of a row of cabin-like structures erected on the rooftop. Taking out a key, he opened the door, switched on the light and showed Partridge his sleeping quarters. Alongside either wall leading from the door to a window at the far end was a camp bed neatly made up with Army blankets. Higgins indicated the one to his right.

That's where Clanger sleeps. Luckily we arrived at the unit early enough to grab a cabin. Better than being billeted in Kasr-el-Nil Barracks across the road. No privacy in that madhouse. I'll show you round. Not a great deal to see. Except the Pyramids.'

Partridge made for the side of the roof at the back. Behind him he heard Higgins relocking the cabin door. His macabre experience had shaken the ex-tank commander to the core. Partridge placed a hand on the iron rail perched half a foot above the wall-top, gripped it, tested its strength and peered over. The dark canyon facing the squalid tenements of the native quarter was like an abyss. It was very quiet as Higgins joined him and made his remark.

'I heard you hadn't been out here long, sir. Going into the native quarter is forbidden. For a very good reason. Lord knows how many squaddies have staggered in there dead drunk. They never come out. The body is found days later by Military Police patrols. Throat slit. Wallet gone.'

'So it would take a brave man to go in even stone cold sober?'

'Sober – and armed – he'd probably be all right. Let's look at something more savoury.'

They walked across to the wall overlooking the front entrance. Below, Humble was smoking behind the wheel of his jeep. Higgins pointed south. 'There they are.'

In the far distance, by the light of a waxing moon, Partridge saw the dark silhouettes of the Pyramids of Giza. He pulled at his shirt. He was sweating but the temperature seemed to have dropped suddenly.

'My Gawd! Look at that. Here she comes,' Higgins commented.

What seemed like a black cloud was blotting out the moon, the Pyramids below. Partridge had the impression smoke from a huge forest fire was sweeping into the city. It was a sight which stayed with him for the rest of his life.

' Khamsin. Sandstorm. Ever seen one?' asked Higgins. 'You've a treat in store. Inside ten minutes that cloud will blot out Cairo like a London pea-souper. Better get back to your jeep – you'll be lucky to make it back to GHQ…'

Humble had the engine running when Partridge ran down the steps of the building. He glared and moved the gears as Partridge jumped aboard.

'I was about to leave without you. Khamsin coming.'

'How did you know?' Partridge asked as the jeep rocketed down the deserted streets, exceeding the speed limit.

'That breeze that's flapping your shirt, you stupid bugger. What kept you?'

'I think I know now how the murderer escaped without being seen.'

'Great! And you know who the murderer is?'

'No. No idea…'

'Great again! I think my hunch was right. We'll not be solving this one.'

And Humble was right. Up to a point. The case might never have been solved but for a man who hadn't even been born as they raced through the streets. A man called Tweed. Over forty years later.