Dead Romantic (30 page)

It’s so unfair. I have kept on top of my work. Better than that: I’ve excelled myself
and
managed to cope with a sudden psychic gift I never asked for or wanted.

I’m racking my brains to think of a way that I can prove what Simon has done, when the man himself breezes into the office as though he hasn’t a care in the world. With his golden hair swept back from his smiling face, and in his spotless cream cords, sky-blue shirt and newly acquired wire-framed glasses, he looks every inch the cultured academic. If he’s surprised to see me sitting here holding the statue he’s stolen, Simon doesn’t show it. There’s not even so much as a flicker of unease. He’s certainly very sure of himself.

The cat arches its back and hisses, leaping off the table and toppling the heavy pyramid paperweight. Aamon sticks out his tongue and I glower, but Simon doesn’t turn a hair.

“Ah, Simon, here you are,” says Professor Hamilton awkwardly. “Dr Carpenter and I have just been having a little chat about you.”

Simon plasters a smile across his insincere face. “No wonder my ears were burning while I was chatting to the guys at the Ashmolean. They’ve agreed, by the way, Paul. I’ll get Dawn onto organising the shipping. Sorry, Cleo. I’m getting carried away. How lovely to see you back. Are you feeling better?”

“You know full well I haven’t been ill,” I say, so coldly his gonads should have frostbite. “I’ve been visiting my father.”

Simon nods sympathetically but I see him slide his gaze to Paul’s and lift an eyebrow in resignation. “Of course, of course. Look, this is a little embarrassing, but I totally forgot that you wanted to keep those headaches of yours between us. How long are you back for?”

“Back? I’m not going anywhere,” I say through gritted teeth.

“But what about the sabbatical you wanted so much?” Simon’s eyes are big circles of innocence. “You were so keen to get back into the field again. I even spoke to Paul about it, although I know you didn’t want me to try and pull any strings on your behalf.”

My mouth falls open. He’s unbelievable.

“I never said I wanted a sabbatical!” I exclaim. Turning to the Professor, I say desperately, “This is all nonsense, Paul! He’s totally making this up. You have to believe me! He even stole my grandmother’s statue of Aamon.”

Simon shakes his head sadly. His blue eyes shine with candour. “Cleo, I did no such thing. I borrowed it as part of my research, just as we agreed I could. Don’t you remember arranging it?”

“Of course I don’t, because it never happened!”

Those blue eyes widen. “So you really think I went to your flat under false pretences and stole the statue? Cleo, your flatmate made me a cup of tea and gave me some biscuits. Would she have done that if I was stealing it?”

His hair gleams as winter sunshine trickles through the blinds and dances across his smooth face. Of course Susie welcomed him into the flat. Simon makes Ryan Gosling look plain, and I’m amazed she only gobbled up the biscuits rather than eating him alive.

“She had no idea what you were up to. You conned her too,” I say bleakly.

He sighs wearily. “Yes, Cleo. Of course I did.”

There’s a taut silence.

“You left me with your application too and your laptop,” he continues eventually. “Hardly what you’d do if you thought I was so untrustworthy.”

I have no answer for this. He has me well and truly cornered. Besides, I did still trust him at that point – sort of. Simon could teach Machiavelli a thing or two about duplicitous behaviour.

Knowing that he’s just moved his king into checkmate, Simon now changes strategy and plays the injured friend.

“Cleo, I’m very fond of you but I honestly can’t put up with much more of this character assassination. I’ve tried to be a good colleague and friend, I’ve saved you from doing some crazy things on more than one occasion, and I really appreciate the heads-up you gave me with the Aamon research, but this has got to stop.” He shakes his head sadly, the very picture of a man wronged. “If it carries on then I’m really sorry but I’ll have to take advice. I can’t have my reputation, professional or otherwise, ripped to pieces like this.”

“You’re threatening
me
? After what you’ve done?”

“And exactly what have I done?” Simon shoots back. His blue eyes bore into mine, gas-flame bright. They’re actually far too close together. Now that I look at him in detail I can see that the pieces don’t fit that well at all; he just does a great job of dazzling people so much that they don’t notice. He folds his arms and stares at me. “You’re accusing me of all sorts but where’s your proof?”

“On my laptop! The one you stole the research from!”

With slumped shoulders and a defeated expression, Simon turns to the Professor. “You asked me to lock the laptop away, Cleo. It’s in your office. Go and check it if you don’t believe me.” He passes a despairing hand across his face. It’s Oscar-winning stuff, that’s for sure. Johnny Depp should be very afraid. “I can’t win here, Paul. It’s Cleo’s word against mine, isn’t it? I know she’s had a head injury, but this has got to stop. My academic reputation will be wrecked.”

I know he’s copied the files from my laptop. Of course he has – but I have no idea how I’m going to prove this. Simon’s been planning this for months. No wonder he always seemed so solicitous and kept wanting to check on me in my office. He was on the rob.

“What academic reputation?” I ask incredulously. “You’ve stolen my work!

“Where’s your proof, Cleo?” Simon repeats softly. “Or is it fair to say there isn’t any? That this is all in your head?”

The proof would have been on my laptop, of course – the same laptop that I was stupid enough to let Simon take from me last week. I bet he was thrilled when I did that. I already know, without even looking, that he’ll have copied my work and wiped it, using my own passwords so that it looks as though I had a mad moment. He’ll have done this within minutes of my handing it to him, so that I can never prove he did it.

“You know I can’t prove it,” I say bitterly. “You’ve made sure of that.”

The Professor, who’s been listening intently to our exchange, runs his hand through his unkempt grey hair and clears his throat.

“Dr Carpenter, I know you’ve been unwell lately so this one time I’m prepared to overlook your erratic behaviour, but be assured I won’t continue to be so tolerant. Consider this a verbal warning. I don’t want any more accusations flung around the department. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” I mutter. Resentment and anger threaten to choke me.

“Maybe you should think about that sabbatical,” he adds. “You could leave after Christmas. It might be a good idea all round.”

I stare at him, horrified. “You want me to leave?”

“Not leave, just take some time out. Recover from your injury and take the pressure off,” he suggests kindly. “Think about it, and see what you might be interested in doing. I’ll have a word with contact in Luxor and see what they’ve got coming up in the field. Now, if you would please excuse us, I need talk to Simon about a few matters.”

He’s dismissing me, making it abundantly clear that he doesn’t believe a word I’ve said. Stunned, I haul myself to my feet and head back to my office, with Aamon and the cat trailing after me. I’d have hoped that the Prof would have known me well enough to trust me after working with me for almost three years, but it seems that he too has been hoodwinked.

Am I really taking a sabbatical after Christmas? There was a time when I would have leapt at this idea, but not now. I don’t want to depart under a cloud and I don’t want to leave my father either – or, more terrifyingly, Rafe. But unless I think of something pretty fast, it doesn’t look as though I’ll have much choice.

Right, think hard, Cleo. It’s December now. There’s less than two weeks to Christmas. Under two weeks for you to find a way of proving what Simon did. That should be long enough, surely? Then I have a brainwave. Of course! The office computer! Everything was backed up on that, and if it’s mysteriously deleted itself the backup copies are saved on the USB stick I keep in my desk. All I have to do is produce that and it will prove everything. Suddenly elated, I sprint along the corridor – nearly knocking Dawn flying, and wanting to whoop and cheer every bit as loudly as Aamon, who’s ahead of me.

As I enter my office I’m filled with determination. There’s no way I’m letting Simon get away with this. No way at all. He’s a cheat and a liar and I’m not going to be bullied by him out of a job I love. I boot up my trusty old PC and while it beeps and whirs into life I spin around on the office chair, much to Aamon’s delight.

“You’ll make yourself dizzy, young lady,” Henry Wellby remarks disapprovingly from his telephone corner – but I ignore him, spinning faster and faster when Aamon leaps onto my lap. “And you should have a little more dignity, Your Highness,” Mr Wellby adds.

I’m not in the mood to be nagged by ghosts in my own office. In fact, I’m through with being bossed about today.

“Chill out, Henry,” I say. “We’re just having some fun.”

He shakes his head and tuts. “You used to be such a sensible girl, Cleo Carpenter. Don’t think I haven’t been keeping an eye on your career since you’ve worked here. That young Alex has been a very bad influence on you.”

I’m starting to think Alex has actually been a very good influence on me, and that his brother has been an even better one. My lips still tingle from Rafe’s kisses, and every time I think of him my stomach tangles itself up in the most delicious knots. It’s probably best not to share this information with Mr Wellby though. He’s from another era, after all.

The computer is up and running now so I tip Aamon off my lap and squiggle the mouse about to open my files. The desktop is empty – I’d expected that – but I also save my files on the network. Maybe, just maybe, Simon has overlooked them? The seconds that it takes me to log into our network are painfully slow, and then I’m into the system, clicking through the levels of security required until finally I’m in my own area and opening up my personal folder. Any minute now…

“No!” I stare at the screen in dismay. Rather than seeing hundreds of beautifully indexed documents charting all my hard work for the last twelve months, I’m staring at a screen blanker than Dawn’s brain. Everything has gone.

“Bastard,” I breathe. Somehow Simon has got into the computer system and deleted everything. I click the mouse frantically but there’s still nothing. Everything has been well and truly wiped. “Total and utter bastard.”

“Language,” reproves the eminent Egyptologist in the corner, tutting at me again through his moustache. “There’s a child present.”

“Sorry,” I say hastily, “but I think you’d resort to bad language too if every single piece of your research had been stolen.”

“My dear! That’s appalling.” Abandoning the phone, Henry Wellby joins me at my desk and peers at the blank screen. “Were the papers inside this magical knowledge box?”

“Something like that,” I say. There’s a lump in my throat. Aamon’s chilly hand creeps into mine and the cat winds itself around my ankles. It says it all when the dead are nicer company than some of the living around here.

“Your young gentleman colleague was in here on many occasions. He spends a great deal of time examining the magical box,” Mr Wellby tells me. He takes off his top hat and scratches his head thoughtfully. “My dear, I fear he may be the culprit. He even locked the door while he was in here.”

“I bet he did,” I say grimly. It’s frustrating in the extreme that my only witness to Simon’s theft is a ghost. I suppose I could demand that the IT department look into the issue, but what will they find except that I’ll appear to have had a mad five minutes and deleted all my own files? Simon’s bound to have logged on as me last Sunday, so this is only going to confirm all the Professor’s fears that I’m not of sound mind.

There’s only one hope left: that the USB stick is still in my drawer. But as I open the drawer and slide my fingers in, I have a horrible feeling that I’m not going to find the memory stick. Simon’s been far too clever to let a little detail like that wreck his plan. With a growing sense of dread, I recall how I’d noticed before that the contents of my desk had been disturbed. I’d thought it was the antics of Aamon and his pals, but no: Simon had been rummaging. Sure enough, the memory stick has vanished too – and along with it my last hope of proving beyond all doubt that Simon’s stolen my work.

“He’s taken everything.” I place my head in my hands. My temples are throbbing. “It’s all gone.”

Aamon wails, the cat yowls and Henry Wellby paces the room furiously, tugging at his moustache.

“You can’t let him get away with this,” he says finally.

“He’s already got away with it.” I feel utterly defeated. I have no idea what on earth I can do now, except pack my bags and push off to Egypt. At the thought of this my heart lurches – and not with the excitement that the idea of a dig would normally bring, but with the dread of having to leave. If I’m on sabbatical in Egypt how will I see Rafe again?

What? That’s ridiculous. There’s nothing between me and Rafe – nothing agreed and permanent, anyway. Maybe we’ve had our moment, and that’s the end of it. He never mentioned seeing me again and he hasn’t got my number. He’s a rock star, for heaven’s sake; he probably does this kind of thing all the time. This idea is even more painful than the loss of my research, and I close my eyes despairingly. How is this even possible? What’s happening to me?

“You can’t just give up!” Wellby barks, ripping me out of my misery. “Show some backbone, young lady! Would Howard Carter have discovered Tutankhamun’s burial chamber if he’d adopted that kind of defeatist attitude? ‘Give up,’ they all said. ‘It’s not there.’ Lord Carnarvon even considered pulling the funding, but Howard never let people’s doubts grind him down. And what about me? I kept going, held my head up when it looked as though I would never find the lost city of Nephet. And what happened? I persevered and I found it in the end. I’m famous for my finds there. Stiff upper lip, Cleo my dear! That’s the spirit on which the Empire was built.”

I listen patiently even though I’ve heard these stories a million times. They’re the stuff of every Egyptologist’s dreams, after all – and besides, I don’t have the heart to tell him the Empire is long gone. Anyway, a stiff upper lip in twenty-first century Britain? Thank goodness he’s not seen people caterwauling on
The X Factor
or airing their very dirty linen on
The Jeremy Kyle Show
.