The Pharaoh's Code (ON HOLD)

The Pharaoh's Code

Prologue: The Little Black Book

Detective Carver frowned as he swallowed down a mouthful of tepid coffee and glanced over the file in his hands. He wasn't a man to get easily excited over cases; he was a dependable, likeable man of around thirty, who spent large portions of his time dealing with the unusual. But he couldn't deny that his interest hadn't been well and truly piqued by what had been presented to him that morning. Not only because this was the first exciting thing to land in his lap for a good few weeks (the unusual had not been obliging lately), but because there was something different about the whole thing. Something set apart from all the run of the mill domestic disputes and gun fights that usually graced the halls of the MPD's building. He'd had a boring weekend, after an equally as quiet and boring week, and he hadn't held out much hope for Monday. However, the second he had walked through headquarter doors, Sergeant Jimmy Kinsky had rushed over and handed him the manila file with eyebrows raised high.

"This one's for you boss," the young man had told him. "Can't get a thing out of her. Chief says this is more your jurisdiction anyway."

Carver had flicked open the file then and there like a desperate man, frowned over it with a puzzled expression before looking back to his friend and letting out an unintelligent 'Huh?'

"Tell me about it boss," Jimmy shrugged. "It's the quiet ones you gotta watch out for I guess."

Three quarters of an hour later, and he was striding down to the interrogation rooms still pouring over the file. He discarded his coffee cup, having downed the dregs of it, tossing the cup into the bin distractedly. When he rounded the corner of the final corridor, he saw another officer heading his way.

"Good morning Johnson," Carver said cheerfully, shutting the file and holding it to his chest.

"Morning Carver," the man said with a knowing smile. "Figured Chief would put you on this one."

"I guess he knows I like the funny ones," Carver shrugged, greeting the man with a smile of his own. "In here?" he asked, gesturing to the door next to them.

"Yeah, I'll just be next door if you need me," Johnson told him with a wink. He was referring to the cubby hole that adjoined the interrogation room where the recording equipment was kept, and hidden by a one way mirror. Carver nodded and gave him one last satisfied smile before he opened the door and went inside.

"Dr. Elizabeth Ward," he said brightly to the person who was sat at the small grey table in the dark, sterile room. "I trust you had a good night's sleep?"

The person whom he addressed - a slight woman about his age with tousled dark hair dressed in plain clothes - looked up from where she'd been absent mindedly staring and gave him a withering look. She'd obviously not slept at all; the fact that she'd been brought in very early this morning aside, the interrogation rooms weren't particularly comfortable.

"Very funny. I see they've sent a comedian to interview me," she said rather calmly, in a clipped British accent.

"Ah, close," he grinned, pulling out the chair opposite her and taking a seat. "My name's Jack Carver. I'm actually a police detective with the MPD of the District of Columbia. So you were almost there."

She didn't respond.

"Your credentials say you're a professor at a school in England," he remarked casually, playing with the file in front of him flicking it open and reading over it in front of her. "A history professor." She nodded impassively.

"Do you mind telling me, Dr. Ward," Carver continued with an inquisitive frown, "how a history professor might find herself in Washington D.C.?"

She paused thoughtfully and folded her arms. "I'm on a walking holiday."