Moran sat on the low ornamental wall of the unkempt front garden. “The hard disk is gone,” he told Phelps. He produced a brown bundle from his coat pocket and unwrapped a sandwich. Food stimulated his thinking. “But I’ve retrieved a couple of floppies. Can you take a look?” He handed Phelps the disks. “Oh, and find out which ISP he was signed up to? They can give us access to his email account – with any luck we might hear from our little flown bird.”
The Sergeant headed off to his car and Moran took a bite of the sandwich. Cheese and pickle; not his favourite but it would do. He chewed thoughtfully, enjoying the tang of the pickle alongside the waxy texture of the cheddar. Through the front door he caught the occasional snap of blue as the Forensic officers worked methodically from room to room. When they were finished he would spend time in there alone, soaking up the atmosphere, allowing any missed evidence the opportunity to present itself. It was the little things, always the little things that turned a case from mystery to revelation. What was it his old guv’nor had said? He could see him now; grey Yorkshire eyes creasing with the enjoyment of communicating a lifetime’s experience to a promising pupil – the next generation. ‘Moran, my lad, remember this if you don’t remember anything else: every case is like a large door swinging on a very small hinge. The detail, boy, get down to the detail.’ It could be a splinter of wood, the merest speck of paint that made sense of the strangest conundrum.
Moran took another bite of his sandwich and looked up. Two men were advancing along the narrow pavement towards him. Not Uni types. The first – tall, middle-aged – wore a long grey coat and covered the distance with measured strides. Perhaps a slight limp. The second, a younger man in a charcoal suit, walked a pace or two behind, eyes scanning the gardens and campus hedgerows as they walked. Professionals. American professionals. Well, at least he wouldn’t have to go looking. The CIA had come to play, and on his patch too.
“Morning.” The older man spoke. “I believe we have a mutual interest here. James Potzner, US Embassy.” He extended his hand.
Moran placed his sandwich carefully on the wall. “DCI Moran. Thames Valley. This is a crime scene, gentlemen. If you know anything about what happened, I’d like to hear it.”
Potzner squared his shoulders. “We have a US security issue here, Inspector. If it’s all the same to you we’ll take the lead on this one. I can get clearance, no problem. If you could let me have the name of your superior –”
“Actually, it’s not all the same to me,” Moran interrupted. “This is a police matter. A crime has been committed, and as far as I’m concerned it’s in the hands of the Thames Valley Police. Our normal procedures apply.” Moran spoke evenly. He’d met Potzner’s type before; a big man, using his presence to intimidate. Used to getting results.
The younger man in the suit spoke. He wore his hair slicked back, like Michael Douglas. “This goes a lot deeper than you’d be comfortable with, Inspector. If you’d allow us to explain, I’m sure you’ll have no problem with it. I –”
“My apologies,” Potzner interrupted. “This is Farrell, one of my senior operatives. He’s absolutely right. If we could have ten minutes of your time we can give you an overview of our situation.”
Moran stuck his chin out. “I don’t think I’ve made myself clear. I’m conducting a murder enquiry here. Your security situation will have to be taken up and attended to at a higher level. Until I hear otherwise I’m not handing anything to anyone, nor am I wasting time on subordinate matters that don’t concern me. What I would like to know is what you were doing at Professor Simon Dracup’s flat yesterday, and specifically what part you played in the explosion that followed.” Moran folded his arms. It was a punt, but the description fitted. And he was in the mood for a fight.
“Murder enquiry? We’d assumed a break-in.” Potzner looked genuinely shaken. He took a step towards the gatehouse porch.
Moran stepped in front, blocking the way. “This is police business, Mr Potzner. Unless you have anything useful to tell me I suggest you obtain a letter of authority to involve yourself in this case. I’d also like an answer to my last question. Perhaps you and your colleague would like to accompany my Sergeant down to the station and we can get to the bottom of it?”
Phelps had sidled up to the group and was hovering, hands in pockets, observing.
“The hell I will, Inspector.” Potzner glared. “Okay, if that’s the way you want it. I’ll be back. Very soon.”