‘I wouldn’t have thought so, going back to an old name was seen as unlucky, and anyway, Alexander was born in the same year and it would have been an insult to him. No, this is one of the reasons I think this is a fake, the coin was minted by a different culture who perhaps got their names or dates wrong.’
‘Okay,’ said Phillip, ’What about the other side?’
She didn’t bother using the magnifying glass for this one, just picked up the sheet.
‘This is something altogether different,’ she said ‘And is wrong, wrong, wrong.’
‘How?’
‘Wrong country, wrong period, wrong culture.’
He looked at the picture on the coin. To him it looked like a crude attempt at a matchstick man, the type often drawn by young children in their first attempts at drawing. A large round head sat on two vertical thick lines depicting the body and legs, whilst the arms were held tight against the sides.
‘Go on.’
‘Where do I start?’ she asked, ‘This image is a symbol recognised by many different cultures across the world. It refers to an ideology shared by thousands of religions from Christianity to Catholicism and ranges from the dawn of time right up to modern day. It is Pagan in origin and represents the universe itself or more recently, an actual person or should I say, Deity.’
‘Who is it?’ he asked, ‘Do I know him?’
‘Not him, her. The image is called the Tyet’ she explained, ‘The original meaning is unknown though it probably undertook different variances throughout time. In particular it is associated with one of the greatest female deities of all time. Her name was Aset, and she lived about nine thousand years ago in the area now known as the Black Sea.’
‘I’ve never heard of her,’ he said.
‘I expect you have,’ she answered ‘But the more recent incarnation. You see, this design, the Tyet is also known as the Blood of Isis.
‘Isis, wasn’t she an Egyptian queen?’
‘Not quite, more a Goddess though she was based on a real person.’
‘And is there a link between Phillip and Isis?’
‘Not at all, there is almost a seven thousand year gap between them.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Nope, except, as I said, this coin seems to be no more than a few hundred years old. That would explain the mistakes but why anyone in the middle ages wanted to represent these ancient characters is beyond me. Actually, come to think of it, most of what we know now only came to light in the last hundred years or so. People in the middle ages would have known virtually nothing about ancient history.’
‘So we are no further forward then.’
‘No, sorry.’
‘Sod this,’ he said, ‘Come on I need some air.’ He stood up and led the way towards the door.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Victoria Station,’ he said, ‘Let’s see if there’s anything the police missed there.’
An hour later Brandon and India left the station managers office and descended a private staircase into a maintenance tunnel. They stood before a metal door as the manager fumbled with a set of keys.
‘It’s here somewhere,’ he said, ‘After the incident we had this door specially installed. Staff have to sign for the key now, here we go,’ He pulled the door towards him and stood to one side, ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you detective?’
‘No, we will be fine thanks.’
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘The tunnel is about two hundred yards on your left and the linesman’s room is a further one hundred yards along. You can’t miss it; there is still police tape over the door.’
‘It’s still sealed?’
‘Yes, you are the first people down there since the incident. You’ll need this.’ He retrieved another key off the ring, ‘And these.’ He picked up two torches from a side table and handed them over along with high visibility vests and safety helmets. ‘The side tunnel has no electricity,’ he explained.
‘Thanks,’ said Brandon, ‘We’ll probably be no longer than an hour.’
‘If you’re not back by then,’ said the manager, ‘We’ll send someone to get you. Don’t worry, you can’t get lost, the tunnels are blocked at the other end, have been since the forties.
‘Why?’
‘Wrong ground type,’ said the manager, ‘The engineers discovered a fault at the time and they had to be abandoned.’
They thanked the manager and started down the dimly lit tunnel carrying the torches. As soon as the door shut behind them Brandon discarded the jackets and helmets.
‘You really don’t like health and safety, do you?’ laughed India.
‘It’s the bloody principle,’ stated Brandon in frustration, ‘If they were there for us to pick up, then I would probably have used them, I just don’t like people telling me how to look after myself.’
Within a few minutes the entrance to the side tunnel loomed darkly on their left and they turned on their torches, the beams cutting through the darkness as they made their way to the linesman’s room. Suddenly Brandon stopped and held his hand up.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked India.
‘It’s open,’ he said and India aimed her torch past him onto the door sticking out into the passage.
‘I thought he said it was sealed?’
‘He did,’ he said, examining the door. Reaching across the full width was n industrial hasp, hinged at the end to drop over the looped staple fixed to the frame. A heavy duty padlock lay on the floor, one end of the shaft forced from the body. ‘It’s been forced,’ he said and entered the room closely followed by India.
They shone their torches around the small room. There was a mess table, a wooden locker and two benches. A crowbar lay in the dirt floor, obviously left by the person who had forced the door. A dozen or so cables fed trough the wall at head level and terminated in a large distribution cupboard, the doors hanging off the hinges.
‘What are we looking for?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘I just need to get a feel for the place, to see where that poor girl spent the last days of her life.’
‘How old are you Brandon?’ asked India, as she examined her side of the room.
‘Thirty, why?
‘Aren’t you a bit young to be wearing Brut?’
‘Sorry?’
‘My father used Brut; I thought you would be more of a Paco Rabhan sort of guy.’
‘What are you on about?’ he asked.
‘Your aftershave,’ she said, ‘I recognise the smell.’
He spun around and stared at her, blinding her with the beam of his torch.
‘Oy,’ she said, ‘Get your light out of my eyes.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Your light…’
‘No, about the aftershave!’
‘Oh for God’s sake, there’s no drama here, you’ve just used a bit too much that’s all.’
‘India,’ he said,’ I’m not wearing any.’
A noise outside made them both spin around, but before they could do anything else, the door slammed shut into its frame. Brandon lunged for the door in vain.
‘What’s happened?’ shouted India, ‘Who’s there?’
‘Someone’s closed the hasp,’ said Brandon, ‘They must have dropped something through the staple, probably the shaft of the broken padlock.’
India banged on the door.
‘Let us out,’ she shouted, ‘Hello, whoever you are, open this door right now.’
‘You’re wasting your time,’ said Brandon, ‘Calm down.’
‘What do you mean calm down? Some creep has locked us in.’
‘I know, and do you think that just by shouting at him is going to change his mind. Anyway, he’s probably long gone.’
‘No, problem,’ said India, ‘The station manager said he would send someone for us in an hour and we’ve been gone half of that already. All we have to do is wait for him and we will be okay, right?’
‘Right,’ said Brandon, ‘May as well make ourselves comfortable. He pulled up the two benches and they sat opposite each other across the table. ‘Turn off your torch. We need to conserve our batteries.’
‘Who do you think it was?’ asked India eventually.
‘No way of telling. Obviously someone who doesn’t want us snooping around.’