She could only assume that the robbers had used either children or tiny adults for this part. The passage was very narrow. Sideways movement was impossible. She stretched her arms ahead of her and pushed herself along with her feet because scrabbling at the loose rock only resulted in broken fingernails. She could hear her helmet scraping the ceiling. Her left shoulder rubbed painfully along the wall.

They must have been well-padded children, too. Her vest protected her to some extent, but her legs, arms and especially her knees were being scraped raw on the sharp chippings. Occasionally a jagged pain would stab at her knees or forearms as she put her weight on something particularly sharp.

Panting with effort, she pulled herself along, telling herself the passage couldn’t be more than twenty or thirty feet long. Not that she was particularly sure the tomb itself would offer any sort of reassurance when she did arrive. Now was not the moment to remember the Curse of Tutankhamun. The one that promised death to all who violated the tomb. And he had. Lord Carnarvon, the man who had led the expedition, had died. He’d actually died. She blamed Luke entirely for putting that thought in her head and then recalled his unexpected kindness. He had known she was terrified. Perhaps he too had a fear of enclosed spaces.

Sweat poured down her face and stung her eyes. Blinking rapidly did not help, and for a moment her vision blurred, the walls rushed in and the ceiling fell. Panic enveloped her.

‘Are we there yet?’ said Luke, chattily.

She took a deep breath and said shakily, ‘No, we are not.’

‘Well, get a move on.’

‘Got another date lined up, have you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Which unfortunate drew the short straw this time?’

‘Same one.’

‘She’s coming back for more?’

His reply was lost as, without warning, the stones shifted beneath her. For one moment she imagined herself disappearing under a sea of chippings, like a toddler in a ball pit, unable to fight her way to the surface; slowly suffocating as her lightstick failed and she died in the dark because they’d never be able to get her out. Apart from Farrell, there was no one else small enough. Unless they were prepared to enlarge the existing holes to the passage and they’d never do that. The noise, the danger of discovery . . . They’d have no choice but to abandon her here. And then the Medjay would return, bringing workmen with them, and they’d tidy up the damage and reseal the tomb, leaving her buried here forever. Alone. In the dark. Apart from whatever else might be here. Visions of walking mummies and jackal-headed gods filled her thoughts to such an extent that when she banged her head on the far wall, both the noise and the impact made her scream.

Luke’s voice was in her ear. ‘Jane? You all right?’