that England made a mistake; if not, then the mistake is ours and we will have to discover the true identity of the man who died here.’
‘Very well.’
‘Shall I apply for permission for exhumation, or will you, señor?’
‘It will be best if I do. Otherwise, there’s every chance that the exhumation order will name Tutankhamen.’
A sectional ladder had been eased inside the mausoleum and then down the shaft; two men, working with great difficulty in the confined space, had coupled up the four hooks of the rope sling to the coffin which had been eased into the shaft and then hauled up by block and tackle. Boards had been slid underneath the coffin, across the mouth of the shaft, and it had been lowered on to these. Four men lifted and eased it out into the open and the harsh sunshine.
The undertaker and an assistant unscrewed the lid. The undertaker said: ‘We’re ready when you are.’
Alvarez nodded.
They raised the lid. He looked down and swallowed heavily. ‘OK. Put it back on for the moment.’
He turned and walked back along the dirt track, round the corner of the cemetery, to his parked Seat. Taylor was standing by the passenger door. ‘Are you ready?’
Taylor’s face was heavy with strain; he was sweating heavily and kept brushing the sweat away with the back of his hand.
‘Señor, it will be brief ‘But not bloody brief enough.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘Let’s get it over with, then.’
They walked down the dirt track to reach the coffin. Alvarez motioned with his hand and the coffin lid was lifted once again. Taylor stared down at the dead man for several seconds, his face working, then he made a choking sound, turned away, and hurried over to the low drystone wall which marked the limit of the cemetery land.
Alvarez nodded and the coffin lid was replaced; the undertaker and the assistant prepared to screw it down, but he checked them. ‘Hang on until I’ve had a word with him.’
He walked over to where Taylor stood, staring out over the land, and brought a small flask from his trouser pocket. ‘This is brandy. Drink.’
Taylor took the flask, unscrewed the cap, raised the flask to his lips and drank. He passed it back.
‘Was he your father?’
Taylor nodded.
‘Thank you . . . I have to give one more order and then I’ll drive you back.’
Taylor once more stared out, his gaze unfocused. Alvarez went back to the group of men and gave orders for the coffin to be returned to its tomb.
As Alvarez entered the guardia post on Monday morning, the duty cabo, seated behind the desk, looked up. ‘There’s someone waiting for you in your room; getting downright impatient. He’s rung down twice to ask where the hell you’ve got to.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Borne.’
‘Borne . . . Borne.’ Alvarez thought for a moment, his brow furrowed. ‘The name seems vaguely familiar, but I’m damned if I can think why . . .’ Then a disturbing thought suddenly occurred to him. ‘He’s not the new comisario, is he?’
‘Damned if I know, or care. But if he is your new boss, I reckon you’d better pull your finger right out.’ The cabo looked at his watch. ‘What time are you supposed to start work?’
‘I was held up,’ replied Alvarez defensively.
‘Yeah. By oversleeping.’
He went up the stairs and along the corridor to his room. Inside, standing by the window, was a tall, thin man, with a long, narrow face whose sharp features expressed a strong measure of moral dyspepsia. He studied Alvarez, then said, in a voice which chilled: ‘Are you the inspector?’
‘Yes, señor.’
‘I have been waiting here for the past twenty-two minutes. Are you not supposed to report for work by eight?’
‘Indeed. And I left home well before then, but I didn’t come straight here because I’ve an inquiry to pursue and since I couldn’t find the man yesterday evening, I was hoping to do so first thing this morning.’
‘You succeeded?’
‘Regretfully, no. Once again, he
‘Very well.’
‘Shall I apply for permission for exhumation, or will you, señor?’
‘It will be best if I do. Otherwise, there’s every chance that the exhumation order will name Tutankhamen.’
A sectional ladder had been eased inside the mausoleum and then down the shaft; two men, working with great difficulty in the confined space, had coupled up the four hooks of the rope sling to the coffin which had been eased into the shaft and then hauled up by block and tackle. Boards had been slid underneath the coffin, across the mouth of the shaft, and it had been lowered on to these. Four men lifted and eased it out into the open and the harsh sunshine.
The undertaker and an assistant unscrewed the lid. The undertaker said: ‘We’re ready when you are.’
Alvarez nodded.
They raised the lid. He looked down and swallowed heavily. ‘OK. Put it back on for the moment.’
He turned and walked back along the dirt track, round the corner of the cemetery, to his parked Seat. Taylor was standing by the passenger door. ‘Are you ready?’
Taylor’s face was heavy with strain; he was sweating heavily and kept brushing the sweat away with the back of his hand.
‘Señor, it will be brief ‘But not bloody brief enough.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘Let’s get it over with, then.’
They walked down the dirt track to reach the coffin. Alvarez motioned with his hand and the coffin lid was lifted once again. Taylor stared down at the dead man for several seconds, his face working, then he made a choking sound, turned away, and hurried over to the low drystone wall which marked the limit of the cemetery land.
Alvarez nodded and the coffin lid was replaced; the undertaker and the assistant prepared to screw it down, but he checked them. ‘Hang on until I’ve had a word with him.’
He walked over to where Taylor stood, staring out over the land, and brought a small flask from his trouser pocket. ‘This is brandy. Drink.’
Taylor took the flask, unscrewed the cap, raised the flask to his lips and drank. He passed it back.
‘Was he your father?’
Taylor nodded.
‘Thank you . . . I have to give one more order and then I’ll drive you back.’
Taylor once more stared out, his gaze unfocused. Alvarez went back to the group of men and gave orders for the coffin to be returned to its tomb.
As Alvarez entered the guardia post on Monday morning, the duty cabo, seated behind the desk, looked up. ‘There’s someone waiting for you in your room; getting downright impatient. He’s rung down twice to ask where the hell you’ve got to.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Borne.’
‘Borne . . . Borne.’ Alvarez thought for a moment, his brow furrowed. ‘The name seems vaguely familiar, but I’m damned if I can think why . . .’ Then a disturbing thought suddenly occurred to him. ‘He’s not the new comisario, is he?’
‘Damned if I know, or care. But if he is your new boss, I reckon you’d better pull your finger right out.’ The cabo looked at his watch. ‘What time are you supposed to start work?’
‘I was held up,’ replied Alvarez defensively.
‘Yeah. By oversleeping.’
He went up the stairs and along the corridor to his room. Inside, standing by the window, was a tall, thin man, with a long, narrow face whose sharp features expressed a strong measure of moral dyspepsia. He studied Alvarez, then said, in a voice which chilled: ‘Are you the inspector?’
‘Yes, señor.’
‘I have been waiting here for the past twenty-two minutes. Are you not supposed to report for work by eight?’
‘Indeed. And I left home well before then, but I didn’t come straight here because I’ve an inquiry to pursue and since I couldn’t find the man yesterday evening, I was hoping to do so first thing this morning.’
‘You succeeded?’
‘Regretfully, no. Once again, he
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