“Schlaf.” The word reverberated through the room and the thunder ceased abruptly as the female intruder closed her eyes to mourn the life lost at her feet. To her the fallen security guard was a loss for dying to defend something that was not his, for giving his life to protect objects that did not even belong in his world.
Chapter 2
Bruich lazily lapped his tail across Sam’s 5 o’clock shadow. It was immensely annoying to the man suffering a brutal hangover and being too lethargic, too weak, to even attempt at cussing for the animal’s not-so- subtle call for breakfast. He managed an ‘f’, but his tongue rebelled against the effort of even such a well-practiced uttering. Sam, now freelancing at the suggestion of his psychologist, who thought he needed to utilize his talents in less deadly pursuits than investigative journalism, had been subjected to the jovial festivities of a Czech brewery the night before.
He had never known that their culture was steeped deeper in beer-ology than the damn Bavarians and Namibians put together. Altogether, it was great fun and very informative, enough to furnish his article with plenty of information on the trade itself and the country in general, giving it a lustrous tone of culture thrown in. This was the sort of work Sam wanted to do for now. Even his best friend, Detective Chief Inspector Patrick Smith, indicated that Sam had not changed one bit in his insatiable curiosity of deeper things, but he had noticed that his friend was visibly more serene in nature.
Pity he could not stifle that appetite for destructive habits. If anything, they seemed to serve as an exciting spark in the mundane happiness of his current situation. Even Sam’s image had shifted: from the at times scruffy, maverick journalist writing for the Post to a freelance writer just short of a literary Jim Morrison. Only projects he wanted to engage in, got his attention. There was no more yielding to public duty to inform, but instead he elected to indulge himself in the interesting matters of life. Not three days before, he attended the Cowal Highland Gathering in Dunoon and got himself into an embarrassing, but merry bout of Highland Dancing, kilt and all. He learned quickly that it was not something one should try even with a clear mind of focus, let alone with an inebriated brain with no natural sense of coordination.
Wanting to keep things authentic, he had worn his kilt the proper way. As one could have expected, he regretted it sorely after taking a tumble from the makeshift stage of tables when his left foot caught on the crossed swords. To the delight of the onlookers, the attractive journalist modestly pulled the hem of his blue tartan kilt down to cover his thighs again and like a true Scotsman, bellowed for more Whisky.
Oh yes, Sam Cleave was an all-round hit with the clans present and even more so with the tourists, who thought this behavior part of the culture. They were not entirely inaccurate with the assumption and took note of the dark haired man’s mannerisms and quickly simulated his rambunctious passion. It made for quite the party, even by Highland standards.
Sam had never been this happy, not since before the death of his beloved Trish. He lost her to the cruel intervention of fate as reward for his involvement with the Whitsun arms smuggling ring in his attempt to expose them.
Not even since he befriended the petite and feisty historian, Nina Gould, had he felt this free and hopeful. Nina. His heart felt warm at the thought of her, even after their ups and downs. After he had been through so much with her on so many perilous endeavors, he had only grown more protective of her. Even when she broke his heart with her constant alienation of his affection, her selection of unlikely suitors above him, just the mention of her name instilled the sensation of warm whisky over a parched gullet on a cold winter’s evening.
Sam smiled.
“Yes, I will serve without question, Bruich,” he groaned as the large cat pawed his moving lips inquisitively. Sam sat up on the couch where he keeled over a few hours before, shivering at the slight chill in the summer air that permeated through his slightly parted curtains. For the entire duration of his slumber, he was perfectly comfortable in his boxers and socks. Now that he was awake, sitting up, his body decided to start shaking from the cold. It reminded him of a show he saw on TV the night before, a show about how the presence of the supernatural could drop temperatures in a room within seconds. He looked at Bruichladdich. His wise feline roommate simply perched himself on one of the living room chairs and ran his coarse tongue over his right back paw, stroke by stroke.
“Well, you are unperturbed, as usual. You are a sad indicator of ghostly presences, Bruich. Truly,” Sam announced at the cat’s indifference to the chill he felt. “Maybe I should get a dog instead,” he muttered as he headed for the kitchen, grabbing his knitted sweater from the table as he walked. The wool was welcome on his cold skin and as he shot a glance to Bruich, the cat eyed him keenly. Sam was not sure if this was a disdainful look over the dog reference or if Bruich was simply watching what his human slave was going to feed him.
He reached for the remote control on the nook counter and pressed the power button. Sam still kept track of more serious developments, but hardly entertained them anymore. Lighting a cigarette, he switched on the kettle and waited for the water to boil so that he could soften the cat’s food and make himself a much needed cup of black tea. Sam ran his fingers through his wavy shoulder length hair, the curls at the ends rounding his fingertips. His dark eyes scrutinized his cell phone screen as he opened his mobile e-mails.
Apart from some spam and pointless notifications of change in conditions of services, there were no messages worth checking. Nothing from Paddy. Nothing from Nina. Somehow those two were the only reason he bothered to check his mobile anymore. Bruich leapt up on the counter and stalked his bowl before his food was even ready. Wincing, the big cat pecked at the steaming pellets, each time recoiling from the heat and licking its lips profusely.
“Aye, Bruich. I know what that is like. You are as impatient as I am, but nobody sends you to a shrink, hey?” Sam spoke earnestly, but his conversation was interrupted by the reporter on the television screen pointing to the British Museum in the background. He turned up the volume and listened to the report of a theft and the unfortunate consequential murder of a night watchman, one Emile Jeffrey, aged 42.
Apparently his colleague, Henry Williams, aged 37, was absent during the incident. The reporter told of how Williams had raced to get help because their radios were faulty. She imparted on the public audience how he returned with two other guards and found the body of Mr. Jeffrey, slain, in the room where several Viking artifacts had been stolen. The robbers entered the museum through the wall by way of a hidden crawlspace between two sections of the building.
“Museum authorities have been unable to establish how the wall was broken though,” the reporter announced as Sam sat down on the couch with his cup of black coffee, spellbound by the account. “A forensic team has been summoned to determine the method and materials used to penetrate the thick wall of the Department of Prehistory and Europe here at the British Museum in London.”
Pictures of the missing Viking hoards flashed onto the screen, prompting members of the public and traders of antiquaries to keep an eye out for the stolen artifacts. Sam sucked on the last bit of tobacco he could manage and snuffed his fag, but his eyes remained glued to the TV screen. For a moment his heart skipped a beat, just as it used to when he heard of some high profile case and jumped at the chance to cover it. His zest for investigating arcane and dangerous cases came back with a jolt and he switched on his laptop to tell Nina all about it. But, as he had been programming himself with the psychological help of a professional, the very urge triggered a back-up response from his own reasoning.