“Just a minute.” Sturrock replaced the brandy bottle on the mantelpiece, muttering and shaking his head. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand it was interruptions. Some student after a stay of execution for a late assignment, probably. Why had he let the housekeeper go early? Perhaps he should have moved off campus as he had originally intended.
He unchained the bolt and swung the door open. His mouth opened in surprise. He turned and stumbled back into the hall. The computer was a long way off. He wouldn’t make it. Sturrock let out a yell as he felt hands catch at his clothing. He shrugged off his jacket and fell forward, lunging for the keyboard. Something cold entered his back, a probing metallic sharpness. And then came the pain, savage, permeating. He twisted in his agony and looked into the face of his attacker. The eyes were dark, relentless. Sturrock’s vision began to fade; an overwhelming blackness was descending. He focused on the row of control keys and stabbed a finger out, feeling for the small, concave button: F9. Send/Receive.
The first thing Moran noticed was the smell. He knew it before he stepped over the threshold. A thick, cloying scent that pervaded the entire house. He stepped gingerly into the hall, one hand on the door frame. The lock was intact – no sign of forced entry. Nice old building, good solid stone. Moran had made this his first port of call, deferring a visit to Yvonne Dracup in favour of the Professor’s oldest friend, Charles Sturrock. Eccentric, but brilliant. Internationally famous for his archaeological aptitude, but probably better known around the campus for his odd predilections. Moran smiled grimly. He had seen Sturrock on the box only a few weeks ago, some time slip series about Roman Britain.
The door to the study was slightly ajar. Moran approached and listened. All quiet. He pushed the door a fraction and the smell hit him full on. He found a handkerchief in his pocket and advanced purposefully once he saw the body. You couldn’t miss it.
Charles Sturrock lay across the desk, his throat a gaping hole through which blood still oozed thickly onto the green leatherette surface. The eyes were open, shocked. Moran winced, leaned forward and closed them. Always the worst bit, the eyes. Another wound caught his attention: a neat perforation in the corpse’s back, ringed with dried blood. A two-pronged attack, then; a knife in the back, another across the throat. Moran’s nose twitched. There was something else. Spirit. He lifted the archaeologist’s arm. Glass fragments were embedded in Sturrock’s flesh, the tumbler crushed by the weight of the corpse’s body.
The computer had been given similar attention; its guts had been ripped out. The flat screen stared blankly at him. Moran poked around in the drawers. A couple of floppies – did people still use these things? He slipped them into his jacket. All sorts of sundry items fell under his gloved fingertips. Moran ejected them without ceremony. He hated an untidy mind, brilliant or otherwise. Sheaves of papers came out and were consigned to the floor. Magazines came next. Moran picked up the first and groaned aloud. Its title was artistically shaped into the outline of a jet fighter. ‘Flying Magazine.’
He clapped a hand to his head. Moran, you’re slowing down. Using his handkerchief he picked up the phone. Two rings. Come on. They answered. “This is Moran. I need a SOCO team and a squad car pronto.” He told them the address. “And get me Sergeant Phelps.” He tapped his foot until Phelps came on. “Phelps – I want you to check all local airfields in the south east – Blackbushe, White Waltham, Old Sarum, whatever. I want to know who went where over the last few days, especially one Professor Charles Sturrock.”
Moran listened to his Sergeant’s reaction and curled his lip. “Yes, Phelps. Dracup’s friend was a blasted pilot. Yes, I did say ‘was’.”
Moran watched Forensic pick their way through the contents of Sturrock’s flat, dusting, picking, bagging. The body had been taken away and he felt the usual relief. Now it was just a crime scene, not a morgue. He went outside and found his Sergeant, a lugubrious-looking officer in his late thirties; a plodder, but more often than not that’s what you needed. Who said police work was glamorous?
Phelps strolled over. His eyebrows reminded Moran of the forward and backslash keys on a computer keyboard. It gave the man a sad, put-upon look, as if he carried the world’s weight on his thin, raincoated shoulders. “Any joy, Guv?”
“Not so far. Messy killing. Looks like he put up a fight – for a small bloke. You?”
Phelps shook his head. “Nope. Closest neighbour is down the road and round the corner. Didn’t hear a thing – well, they wouldn’t have.”