Bone Gods

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The dead man lay in repose at the feet of Ramses II. His blood had dried long ago on the marble floor and left a rust-colored halo about his head. One of the dead man’s hands stretched outward, his fingers curled like an oak leaf in the dead of winter.

Pete Caldecott watched the dead man from the doorway of the Egyptian Room. Early morning light lit the white-suited crime scene investigators and the somber blue-jacketed Metropolitan Police officers like a cluster of ghosts, even though every one of them was flesh and bone.

Involved in watching as she was, she jumped when a hand touched her arm. “Got you a tea,” Ollie Heath said, passing over a cardboard cup. “Not that shite stuff we have down at the nick, either—posh British Museum tea.” He swigged from his own paper cup, a bit of brown liquid dribbling out to land on his shirt.

“Cheers.” Pete took a sip, noting in passing that the tea was, in fact, quite good. “What’s all this, Ollie? Your boys can’t handle a bit of straightforward murder amidst the mummies?”

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