over to the wall. I kicked at the high skirting with my Docs, felt the oak panelling and slid along to the light switches. As I turned them on I was almost too scared to look. My breathing halted. In the silence of the night I could feel the cold breeze blowing from the banging window. It was nothing compared to the cold line of sweat that formed on my spine as I stared ahead.
In the centre of the stage, above a toppled stool, was Joe Calder. He was hanging by a thick rope.
‘Oh, Christ …’
I looked about, saw the window flapping in the night air. I ran over, looked out. Saw nothing in the darkness. Whoever had been here was well and truly out of sight now. I walked back to the stage, looked up at the hanging figure.
Calder looked smaller, more pathetic than I remembered him.
His grey flannels indicated he’d vented his bowels and bladder as the rope had tightened. His face was pearl grey and contorted. He didn’t look like a man who had died a happy death.
Chapter 12
PLOD’S RESPONSE FLOORED ME. If I saw one flashing blue light, I saw a hundred. They swarmed on the uni, had the grounds floodlit and taped off before I could blink. A power of uniforms spread out, taking orders from a small coterie of pot-bellied detectives in the sort of coats BHS specialise in. Wife-bought, no doubt. The hall was sealed off and all the exits guarded by barrel-chested thugs in high-visibility jackets. I watched one playing with the handle on his baton; it sat in a quick-release holster; he looked primed to crack a few heads. None of the campus bods messed: a couple of stragglers in dressing gowns floated about, approached the odd WPC and got pelters for their trouble. The word had obviously went out from on high: batten this one down, fast.
‘Right, eh … Dury?’ It was a balding fifty-something with a Magnum P. I. tache and a roll-neck that had been worn to shreds by his stubbly jowls.
‘Yeah, that’s me.’
I didn’t expect a hand to be extended, so I wasn’t disappointed. ‘Aye … you match the description.’
‘ Eh ?’
A grunt; some tea-stained teeth put on show. ‘You’re the talk of the station.’
My rep preceded me. Was hardly surprised; a chill passed throughme, though. I could recall being fitted up by these fuckers one too many times before. Three cold beads of sweat ran down my back like a cat’s claw.
‘Look, I gave my statement to the young lad in uniform. What is it you want from me?’
His dark eyes widened above heavy bags, stretched so much I could make out the cholesterol rings on his irises. ‘I’ll ask the fucking questions.’ He licked the tip of a pencil, brought it down to hover above his notepad. He was still staring at me, waiting for a tell, a twitch, any excuse to lamp me one, introduce me to the slippery steps, when a Daimler pulled up. The vehicle was flagged through the cordon. Thought: Must be top brass. I watched the car roll towards the main building, then glide to a halt a few steps away from us. As the door opened, I caught sight of a star and a crown on an epaulette. Wasn’t an expert on the filth but felt sure that kind of flash was reserved for the chief super.
‘Oh, fuck …’ said Magnum tache.
I looked back at him. He pressed the pencil tip into the notepad; the lead snapped.
The super made his way towards us with a purposeful stride. Silver-grey hair had been carefully parted on his head. He covered it with his cap. The badge shone in the flashing lights. Though it was the middle of the night, he was immaculately turned out; couldn’t do much about the furrows on his brows, though. He looked like a man ready to bust heads under his carefully polished police-issue shoes.
‘Detective.’ His clipped voice sounded out of place in this century.
‘Chief Super.’ I half expected to see bowing and scraping, genuflexion.
The boss man started to put on brown leather gloves. They clashed with the black uniform, but I wasn’t about to tell him. ‘What’s
In the centre of the stage, above a toppled stool, was Joe Calder. He was hanging by a thick rope.
‘Oh, Christ …’
I looked about, saw the window flapping in the night air. I ran over, looked out. Saw nothing in the darkness. Whoever had been here was well and truly out of sight now. I walked back to the stage, looked up at the hanging figure.
Calder looked smaller, more pathetic than I remembered him.
His grey flannels indicated he’d vented his bowels and bladder as the rope had tightened. His face was pearl grey and contorted. He didn’t look like a man who had died a happy death.
Chapter 12
PLOD’S RESPONSE FLOORED ME. If I saw one flashing blue light, I saw a hundred. They swarmed on the uni, had the grounds floodlit and taped off before I could blink. A power of uniforms spread out, taking orders from a small coterie of pot-bellied detectives in the sort of coats BHS specialise in. Wife-bought, no doubt. The hall was sealed off and all the exits guarded by barrel-chested thugs in high-visibility jackets. I watched one playing with the handle on his baton; it sat in a quick-release holster; he looked primed to crack a few heads. None of the campus bods messed: a couple of stragglers in dressing gowns floated about, approached the odd WPC and got pelters for their trouble. The word had obviously went out from on high: batten this one down, fast.
‘Right, eh … Dury?’ It was a balding fifty-something with a Magnum P. I. tache and a roll-neck that had been worn to shreds by his stubbly jowls.
‘Yeah, that’s me.’
I didn’t expect a hand to be extended, so I wasn’t disappointed. ‘Aye … you match the description.’
‘ Eh ?’
A grunt; some tea-stained teeth put on show. ‘You’re the talk of the station.’
My rep preceded me. Was hardly surprised; a chill passed throughme, though. I could recall being fitted up by these fuckers one too many times before. Three cold beads of sweat ran down my back like a cat’s claw.
‘Look, I gave my statement to the young lad in uniform. What is it you want from me?’
His dark eyes widened above heavy bags, stretched so much I could make out the cholesterol rings on his irises. ‘I’ll ask the fucking questions.’ He licked the tip of a pencil, brought it down to hover above his notepad. He was still staring at me, waiting for a tell, a twitch, any excuse to lamp me one, introduce me to the slippery steps, when a Daimler pulled up. The vehicle was flagged through the cordon. Thought: Must be top brass. I watched the car roll towards the main building, then glide to a halt a few steps away from us. As the door opened, I caught sight of a star and a crown on an epaulette. Wasn’t an expert on the filth but felt sure that kind of flash was reserved for the chief super.
‘Oh, fuck …’ said Magnum tache.
I looked back at him. He pressed the pencil tip into the notepad; the lead snapped.
The super made his way towards us with a purposeful stride. Silver-grey hair had been carefully parted on his head. He covered it with his cap. The badge shone in the flashing lights. Though it was the middle of the night, he was immaculately turned out; couldn’t do much about the furrows on his brows, though. He looked like a man ready to bust heads under his carefully polished police-issue shoes.
‘Detective.’ His clipped voice sounded out of place in this century.
‘Chief Super.’ I half expected to see bowing and scraping, genuflexion.
The boss man started to put on brown leather gloves. They clashed with the black uniform, but I wasn’t about to tell him. ‘What’s
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