“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.
“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.”
“Have a nice day, gentlemen.” Moran raised a hand in farewell. He watched Potzner and Farrell retrace their steps along the perimeter of the campus. To Phelps he said, “Get onto the Chief Constable, Phelps. Tell him to expect a call. I’ll fill him in when I get back.”
Phelps nodded and made his way back to the squad car. He exchanged a few words with a uniformed officer, who nodded vigorously and started the engine. The car departed, siren ululating, into the distance. Moran found his place on the wall and unscrewed the lid of his Thermos. He reckoned on a day or two’s grace before Uncle Sam got the all-clear to muscle in. He sipped his coffee with satisfaction. Something big was going down and, for once, Brendan Moran was in the right place at the right time.
Chapter 21
The hotel foyer was cool in contrast to the baking street outside. A large rotating fan swished soundlessly above but Dracup still felt a trickle of perspiration run down his collar. He took another sip of iced water and replaced the glass carefully on the brass tabletop.
“So what brings you to Addis, Prof?” Dan Carey grinned. His main feature was a wide, roguish smile, enhanced by a long vertical scar that ran from one side of his mouth to the corner of his right eye. It gave him a rakish, dashing look. He was a wiry, tough-looking man in his mid to late thirties.
“It’s a long story,” Dracup replied. Where could he begin? Better to stick to a simple explanation. “I’m interested in Lalibela and its religious background. I want to spend a few days gathering information, taking photographs.”
Carey nodded. “Research project, is it? Charles seemed pretty excited.”
“Of a kind,” Dracup agreed. He felt uneasy at his economy of truth; there was something about Carey that invited openness.
“Well, I’ve been to Lali a couple of times and I can tell you this much — you won’t get a lot out of the priests and holy men. Their lips are sealed, especially to Westerners. Start asking too many questions and they clam up like old maids with their dentures stuck together.”
Dracup forced a laugh. “I’ll be persuasive.”
“You’ll need to be.”
“And you’re okay with tomorrow morning?” Dracup fought to mask his agitation. Tomorrow wasn’t soon enough. Now wasn’t soon enough.
Carey shook his head. “It’s not a problem. I’ve been wanting a weekend off for a while — the school’s been busy. I need to get out of town, rough it a bit.” He laughed. “It’s in my nature. I’m a bit of a nomad. I’ll pick you up first thing and we’ll head off.”
“How long will it take?”
Carey shrugged. “Couple of days — the roads are pretty bad. We’ll stop off at Dessie and maybe Weldiya — that’ll be an experience for you.” There was a glint in the Kiwi’s eye. He knocked back his drink and stood up. “Right now you’ll have to excuse me, Prof — I have to get to a meeting. Someone’s got to cover for me while I’m away.”