I didn’t say anything. The events of the past week were unrolling in my memory like a foreign film I hadn’t understood the first time I saw it. The captions Feisal had supplied cast a different light on every scene.

He had put on a pretty good act in public, but I might have noticed he never used a term of endearment or touched her if he could avoid doing so. In private . . . Knowing Mary as I now did, I felt sure she had enjoyed goading him into dangerous and ultimately futile outbursts of anger. The bruises on her arms were a graphic demonstration of at least one occasion on which she had succeeded, and she had retaliated, promptly and effectively. If Schmidt’s loud concern about my phobia hadn’t alerted her, my own behaviour would have done so.

That incident had been a joint project – Larry getting me down into the tomb, Mary or one of the others bollixing the lights. John must have suspected something was going to happen, but he had been helpless to prevent it. All he could do was get to me as quickly as possible.

That wasn’t the only time he’d managed to find an excuse to be around when he feared I might be in trouble. Seeing Schroeder-Max at the rest house had aroused his suspicions; he had invited himself along on that stroll from the Valley to Deir el Bahri because he was afraid to leave me and Schmidt alone with Larry and Ed. And he had prevented Mary from accompanying us, not only because she was an additional threat to me, but because . . . Because getting away from her, by any means and for any length of time, would have been like a breath of clean air to a man trapped in a sewer.

But the memory that would haunt me longest was the one of that night he had followed me out on deck while Schmidt was dancing with Mary. By that time he must have been half-crazy with worry and frustration and disgust, and the necessity of hiding those emotions. No wonder he’d lost control of himself. But only for a few moments. Realizing we were being observed, he had deliberately provoked me into a demonstration that would prove we were still at odds, and that would get me off the deck, back into the comparative safety of my room.

There had been time, that night and on a few other occasions, for a brief private exchange. ‘Oh, by the by, Vicky, I’m not really married to that little bitch, this is a setup and you are in desperate danger, so when I give you the signal just trot off and go into hiding and stay there. And take Schmidt with you.’

Of course I’d have obeyed, without question or argument. As would Schmidt.

Right.

Feisal slowed and pulled off the road. He turned, his arm over the back of the seat.