Crime fiction: An archaeologist’s discovery of a mummy collides with her search for a missing niece

Gul was dreaming of Mahnaz when her phone rang.

Her eyes snapped open and she reached for it, her fingers fumbling around the bedside table. “Mahnaz?”

“Is this Gulfsa Delani?” It was a man, his voice cutting in and out, sounding lost on the wind.

“Yes. Who is this?” Gul squinted at her clock. 3.06 am.

“My name is Deputy Superintendent Farhan Akthar, from the Jackson Police Station in Keamari. I’m sorry to be calling so late, Madam.”

So this was it, then. Her knuckles were white against the phone. “You’ve found her?”

“Yes. We weren’t sure whom she belonged to. How long has she been missing?”

“Three … it’s been three years since we’ve had any word. Is she alive?” There was a pause.

“I cannot imagine why you would ask such a question, Madam.”

Despite the shock of the call, Gul was not entirely awake yet. She sat up and tried to focus. “Surely it is the only question that matters right now, Deputy Superintendent. You said you found my niece?”

The man coughed. “My apologies, Madam. I don’t know anything about your niece. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“No?” She swallowed down the tightness in her throat. What the hell was going on?

“We made a discovery earlier tonight, during a narcotics investigation. We are in need of your expertise. Can you meet me?”

Gul swung her legs onto the floor and switched on the bedside lamp. “Deputy Superintendent …”

“Akthar, Madam. DSP Akthar.”

“DSP Akthar. I think you have made a mistake. I’m not a narcotics expert.”

“I know that, Madam.”

“I am a museum curator. I work at the Heritage and History Museum.”

“Yes.”

Gul shook her head. Why on earth was this cop calling her? “For the last month, I’ve been excavating a Sassanian fort in the Indus Delta, so unless your narcotics are deep in the mangrove swamps, I don’t know how much help I can be.”

“I am aware of your work.”

“Then I really don’t understand.” Now that the adrenaline had passed, disappointment took over, leaving Gul feeling raw. The call was not about Mahnaz. Better to receive no news than bad news, but still.

“It’s a little difficult to explain on the phone,” DSP Akthar said. She could hear him barking orders at someone in the background. “If you could confirm your address, one of my men will escort you here. It’s a long drive out of the city, so please bring everything you might need.”

Gul pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. Her head was beginning to throb. This whole situation was bizarre. “You said you were posted in Keamari? I live on Bath Island. It’s twenty, twenty-five minutes. Faster if we take the bypass.”

“I’m not calling from Keamari, Madam. Please bring your things and expect to be here some time. I think you will find it worth the effort. This discovery … I believe it is unique.”

Gul tried to interject, but the policewallah didn’t seem inclined to provide any further details. Bloody man. What were the “things” she was meant to take with her, when she didn’t even know why he was calling? She forced all thoughts of Mahnaz away and tried to focus.

As she got out of bed, Gul wondered whether she should wake Rahim Raja, director of the museum. She decided against it. If he knew about this – whatever this was – he had chosen to make it her problem. And if he didn’t, he’d find out by morning, and she wouldn’t get barked at for disturbing him without providing any useful information. She closed her eyes for a moment. There was always a logical explanation to everything. This was what Gul Delani believed.

The police weren’t going to ask for her help without good reason. What had they uncovered? Some stolen artefacts, perhaps? Or maybe they’d stumbled into an ancient site. Though why that would require her presence in the middle of the night, she couldn’t even begin to imagine. But now she was professionally curious, as much as anything else. She gave DSP Akthar her address and hung up.

Gul jumped into the shower and emerged a few minutes later, blinking shampoo out of her eyes and twisting her curly, rebellious hair into a messy bun. She paused when she got to her cupboard. Her normal excavation attire consisted of a pair of comfortable cotton trousers, a loose-fitting long-sleeved shirt and a distinctly unfashionable vivid orange tie-dyed bandanna she had picked up in Kathmandu sometime in the early 2000s. But today she had no idea where she was going, or who she would be meeting. You never knew with the policewallahs. There could be all types of officialdoms hanging about, just making a nuisance of themselves. She opted for the safest option, an olive shalwar kameez made of khadi and an embroidered white dupatta. Simple enough to work in, yet versatile enough for any occasion, and sufficiently flag-matching and patriotic for any government cronies.

She made herself a cup of tea and located the pair of thickrimmed plastic glasses she used when doing close-up work at any dig, wondering whether she was meant to pack her excavation tools or not. She decided to pack everything – her picks and trowels, some ropes and markers, her laptop – everything that wasn’t still in her office, left there from the weekend before, along with her well-worn camping gear, which lived there permanently.

It didn’t take more than a few minutes to get ready. Once awake, Gul was brisk and efficient, so when a jeep with flashing lights pulled into the driveway, she was already downstairs waiting to meet it, wincing slightly at the thought of her neighbours. There were three flats in her building, and the cantankerous Mr. Dada, who had been ensconced in his for over fifty years, hated any kind of disruption. The man was the epitome of a curtain twitcher – though this being Karachi, he had to do it through metal grills rather than lace. Mr Dada, long widowed and disappointed with all his children, was already up in arms about Gul’s comings and goings “at all hours.” He often tut-tutted about her “excavations” – he said that word with distaste, as though it were akin to prostitution, a trade Mr. Dada made clear he detested.

It was bad enough suffering fools, Gul thought, but suffering the self-righteous ones really got her goat. Once, when he had railed about rumours of an illicit brothel opening in the neighbourhood, Gul shot him a sweet smile. “Well, it is the oldest profession, you know, so there is plenty for historians and archaeologists to learn. Do you have an address? Perhaps we should go and record their stories.”

If Mr Dada had ever worn pearls, he would have clutched them in horror. He had to settle for gripping his taveez instead, shooting her a dirty look and muttering under his breath. Just thinking about the incident made Gul smile.

The cop opened the jeep door for her, and Gul nodded her thanks. Once inside, Gul texted Mrs Fernandes to let her know what was going on. She didn’t know how long this would all take, but she had several budget meetings in the morning, plus the museum tour for the orphanage kids and the National Archives people coming in the afternoon. Mrs Fernandes would make sure that nothing fell through the cracks in Gul’s absence.

The roads were clear at this time of morning, no need for the cop to turn on his sirens, but he did so anyway. They raced through the city, the streets of Karachi glinting in the semi-darkness. She used the time to push all thoughts of Mahnaz away, but only after offering a brief prayer to the Gods – every single one of them. Amun-Ra. Vishnu. Zeus. Tlaloc. Izanami. Pele. Whatever their culture or creed, she invoked them all. Not Mahnaz. May it never be Mahnaz, not if it was bad news. For a moment there Gul had felt hope, but she was used to swallowing down her disappointment as every lead, every potential “sighting” turned to dust. And now here she was, in a police 4x4, driving into the unknown. What a start to the day. Whatever this artefact was, it better be worth it.

Excerpted with permission from The Museum Detective, Maha Khan Phillips, Tranquebar/Westland.