‘Dr Kirby?’ Ben said.

‘Speaking,’ the voice panted.

‘Dr Lawrence Kirby?’

‘This is he,’ the voice replied jovially. ‘Who’s this?’

‘You don’t know me. I’m calling about Morgan Paxton.’

The phone went dead.

Ben swore. He tried again. This time, Kirby answered on the second ring.

‘We got cut off,’ Ben said.

‘No, we didn’t.’ Kirby didn’t sound so jovial any more. ‘I cut you off.’

‘Why did you do that? I was just trying to talk to you.’

‘I cut you off because I don’t know any Morgan Paxton.’

‘You remember his name pretty well, though.’

‘Listen, I don’t know who you are, or what you’re talking about,’ Kirby answered, sounding panicked. ‘You must have the wrong number.’

‘It’s the right number and, if you let me explain, you’ll understand why I need to talk to you. It’s important.’

There was a pause on the other end. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you. I don’t know who Morgan Paxton is.’ Kirby hung up again.

Ben turned off his phone. OK, if that’s the way you want to play it, Kirby, he thought. St Andrews. East coast of Scotland, just north of Edinburgh.

Fuck it. He could be there in a few hours.

Ben hammered the Mini the fourteen miles northeast to Paris Roissy airport and got on the first plane bound for Edinburgh. After a short flight, he stepped down on Scottish soil. The air was colder and crisper than France, but he wasn’t interested in taking in his surroundings. At the Avis car rental outlet he picked out a Mercedes SLK two-seater sports that seemed about right for someone in the kind of hurry he was. Settling into the snug black leather interior, he entered his destination into the sat nav and hit the road fast and hard. Edinburgh shrank away quickly to nothing in his mirrors. He blasted across the giant suspension bridge spanning the Firth of Forth and carved northwards up the twisting A roads of the east coast until he reached St Andrews.

He vaguely remembered from his theology studies that the old university town had at one time been the religious capital of Scotland, steeped in the blood of butchered, tortured and burned martyrs. Its violent past was hard to imagine as he drove through the quiet streets, past ivied university buildings, cafés and hotels. It didn’t take him long to locate the Faculty of History. He left the car and walked along a path overlooking the sea, with the ruins of the medieval cathedral behind him and the craggy remains of St Andrews castle and the coastline stretching out in a wide curve ahead in the distance. He filled his lungs with the fresh, salty air and tried hard, for the millionth time, to keep Zara from the foreground of his thoughts but knew it was impossible.

Arriving at the fine stone building that housed the Faculty of History, he walked in the iron gates, crossed a small car park and shoved through the front entrance into a large reception area. There was nobody at the desk. He glanced around him. A row of chairs, some historical prints framed on the wall, a broad staircase winding upwards. On a panel by the bottom of the stairs were the names of the academic staff with their room numbers and a little push-button LED that showed who was in. Ben ran his finger down the list until he found Kirby and a room number-42. The little light next to it was on.

He headed up the stairs, two at a time. A bunch of students were heading down, clutching books and folders, chatting among themselves. They glanced at him as he went by, and he ignored them. At the top of the stairs, a sign pointed right for rooms 21 to 45. He batted through a fire door and strode quickly up the narrow, neon-lit corridor. When he got to room 42 he checked the name-plate on the door: DR LAWRENCE KIRBY’.

Ben pushed in without knocking, and found himself in a large office. The place was a chaotic sprawl, books and papers and yellowing crumpled copies of the Guardian everywhere, piled high on the desk, stacked in heaps on the floor. At the back of the room was a dusty window, and between it and the cluttered desk stood the man Ben instantly recognised from the Internet page as Lawrence Kirby.

Kirby had been in the middle of stuffing a huge book into a crammed, battered leather briefcase on his desk when Ben burst in. ‘Can’t you kn-’ he started. His voice trailed off, and he froze, staring at Ben. He was exactly like his photo, except maybe a little scruffier, and the unruly shock of black hair hung even lower over his brow.

Kirby dropped the book and walked out from behind the desk. He was wearing frayed cord trousers, his shirt was hanging out under his tweed sports jacket. He was a few pounds overweight and moved awkwardly. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. His eyes darted up and down, as though he were nervously sizing Ben up.

‘I’m the one you didn’t want to talk to on the phone,’ Ben said. ‘Remember?’ The draught from the opening of the door had blown some documents off the desk, and he stooped quickly to pick them up. The top one was a car insurance renewal form with Kirby’s name and home address on it. ‘You dropped these,’ he said, trying to keep his tone more friendly. He could see Kirby was rattled, and he didn’t want to seem a threat to the man. He laid the papers down on the desk and smiled.

‘I was just leaving,’ Kirby said abruptly.

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘I told you, I have nothing to say to you,’ Kirby said, flushed. ‘I’d like you to leave.’

‘I came a very long way to talk to you, Dr Kirby. Just give me a few minutes. That’s all I ask, then I’m gone and you won’t see me again.’

‘I’m calling security.’ The historian made a grab for the phone that was half buried under the sea of paperwork on his desk.

‘Please don’t do that,’ Ben said.

Kirby’s hand stopped short of the phone. His eyes were round and staring. ‘Are you threatening me?’

‘I’m not threatening you,’ Ben said. ‘You don’t have to be afraid. All I want is to ask you some questions about Morgan Paxton and the Akhenaten Project. I need to know what you know.’

‘Morgan’s dead,’ Kirby said.

‘I know that. And your number was in his pocket when he died. Were you and he working on the research together?’

Kirby swallowed. ‘His father sent you here, didn’t he?’

The mention of Harry Paxton brought a fresh image of Zara into Ben’s mind. He felt his blood rise. ‘No. I’m not working for Morgan’s father. I was in the army with him. And until two days ago, I thought he was my friend. I was wrong. When this is over, I’m going after him. But right now I need your help. I need it badly, Dr Kirby’

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘My name’s Ben Hope. And I’m not here to hurt you. Trust me.’

Kirby hesitated, frozen by indecision and nerves.

‘Please,’ Ben said.

Kirby stared at him a second longer, then stabbed a button on the phone keypad. ‘Security? This is Dr Lawrence Kirby. There’s an intruder in my office.’

There was nothing Ben could do to stop him. He could have taken the phone off him, or ripped the wire from the wall. But strong-arm tactics weren’t going to get him anywhere. He knew he had only seconds before security arrived and he needed to make the most of that time.

‘I know that Morgan was looking for treasure. I need to know where it is.’

‘That’s a surprise.’

‘I haven’t time to explain,’ Ben said. ‘How much do you know?’

But before Kirby could answer, the door flew open and two security guards walked in. The older one was craggy, hardened-looking, the white hair contrasting with his red nose and the thread veins on his cheeks. Maybe a former boxer. His companion couldn’t have been more than twenty. Not long in uniform, Ben thought. Itching for some action.

‘This man burst into my office and has been threatening me,’ Kirby said, pointing at Ben. ‘I want him removed.’