The Trespass (22 page)

The fireman wiped sweat away from his forehead. His face was covered in soot and grime. “I suppose. There’s no structural damage as far as we can see - it’s a right mess, though. We’ve turned the electrics off at the mains. You’ll need a torch – the windows are black. Hey! Careful with that!” He barked out an order to a subordinate. Turning back to Moran he said, “No naked flames either. Gas is off, but you never know.”

Moran nodded and went in. The sofa was upended in a corner of the room and fragments of furniture were scattered across the floor. Moran moved amongst the debris, his feet crunching on the littered parquet. The kitchen area had escaped most of the blast, probably due to the screening effect of the utilities wall. He looked over. Ah, perhaps not. The sink had been blown out of the other side and a makeshift bung prevented water escaping from the exposed pipe.

He retraced his steps to the lounge area. The sofa was studded with what appeared to be shrapnel. He reached into his pocket and produced a penknife, winkled out a shard of metal.
Grenade?
Surely not. This was the Thames Valley, not Seventies Northern Ireland. He went back outside and found a neighbour. Five minutes later he was satisfied. Americans. And one Middle Eastern guy, got away in Dracup’s car. This was beginning to stink. Moran smiled to himself, quietly pleased. A routine tug-of-love child abduction this was not. This had CIA written all over it. Question now was, where would he find them? Which part of Dracup’s life would they take as their next lead? Wife, girlfriend, colleagues? Wherever they popped up next, he’d make sure he was there. This was his jurisdiction and no one was going to trample all over it without his say-so.

Charles Sturrock was busy. Since returning from France his friend’s predicament had taken centre stage. His subconscious had been churning away, worrying at the missing connection, looping and retrying his memory like some dogged computer program. It was on the return flight that all the pieces had finally come together; two thousand feet above the ground his brain seemed to achieve maximum efficiency. Perhaps it was the oxygen.

He remembered the apocryphal ‘Cave of Treasures’ manuscript he had read many years ago.
Me`ârath Gazzê
, a Syriac manuscript dating back to 306 AD. Many scholars had rejected the manuscript as a mere collection of ‘idle stories’ and ‘vain fables’, but Sturrock had never been that convinced. As with all the apocrypha there was some truth to be found amongst the many embellishments and fanciful additions – if you were careful with your interpretation. They were not canonical texts and so were not authoritative in the way that the New or Old Testament manuscripts clearly were. Sturrock was very sure of his ground with the latter texts – and for good reason: he was in learned company. The council of Nicaea had recognized apostolic writing for what it was, and the gospels had been continually treated as such from their first appearance – in a sense the council had only confirmed what was already understood and accepted as authentic. Far from reinventing Christianity at Nicaea, the Emperor Constantine’s signature had merely rubber stamped the gospels, thus facilitating their global acceptance.

But you digress, Charles
. Sturrock shook his head and allowed himself a little smile.
Or do you?
He poured himself a diluted refill and thought about the apocrypha. Now these writings had to be handled very differently. The centuries had produced many religious writings claiming veracity, but Sturrock understood that scholars down the ages had taken great care to expose fraudulent and misleading texts. He sipped his brandy and contemplated
Me`ârath Gazzê, The Cave of Treasures
. Was the author’s intention to deceive? He thought not. More likely the opposite: to highlight the wonder of it all. Sturrock grunted. He spent many solitary hours in his study and found vocalizing his conclusions helpful.

The carriage clock on the crowded mantelpiece struck ten. No matter; the night was young. Charles gazed at the ceiling and ordered his thoughts. So: a wonder book indeed, the purpose of which was to reinforce Christian doctrine and introduce detail of a secondary nature – necessarily excluded from the canonical scriptures. Nevertheless, caution was Sturrock’s watchword. As he had begun his investigation he reminded himself that much of this particular apocrypha was founded on nothing more substantial than good old-fashioned myth and legend, but he also reminded himself that remnants of truth lay scattered within if you knew where to look. Willis Rudge was the scholar in question here and Sturrock could only agree with his summary:

‘
The ‘Cave of Treasures’ possesses an apocryphal character certainly, but the support which its contents give to the Christian Faith, and the light which the historical portions shed on early Christian History, entitle it to a very high position among the apocryphal Books of the Old and the New Testament.’

Sturrock typed in a new search string and waited. He read for several minutes, but hesitated before scrolling to the next paragraph. In that moment he had guessed the truth. He reached for his brandy with shaking hands.
My God, Simon. My God
... He took a long pull, set his glass down with trembling fingers and pasted the text into a new email message. As his conclusions tumbled onto the screen he prayed that his friend would check his email account. He reread the message and clicked on the address book icon.
Disley, Donnington, Dracup
. The doorbell rang.

“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.”

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.