Blood On the Wall by Jim Eldridge

taking a chance to smoke a cigarette. As the uni buildings were strictly non-smoking, and as many of the students looked like they’d be at home in a vampire movie, with their death-white skin and black clothes, Seward guessed it was the latter.
    At the reception desk, they asked to speak to Eric Drake.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ said the receptionist apologetically. ‘I don’t think he’s in today.’ She frowned, and then added: ‘In fact I don’t think he’s been in for the past few days.’
    ‘You know him, then?’ asked Seward.
    ‘Oh yes,’ replied the receptionist, smiling. ‘Everyone knows Drake.’
    ‘In what way?’ asked Taggart.
    The receptionist seemed to suddenly realize that these two women were officials of sorts, and she suddenly clammed up.
    ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I just meant that he’s well known.’
    ‘He must be,’ said Seward, ‘if you can remember him out of the hundreds of students here and know that he isn’t in.’
    The receptionist looked momentarily flustered.
    ‘In that case, can we speak to Paul Morrison?’ asked Taggart.
    The receptionist studied them carefully, aware now that something was up.
    ‘Who shall I say wants him?’ she asked.
    ‘Just tell him it’s the police,’ said Taggart.
    The receptionist picked up the phone, tapped out an extension, and then said, ‘Is Paul Morrison there? It’s reception.’ She waited a moment while someone obviously went to call the lecturer to the phone, then she said, ‘Mr Morrison? There are two police officers here to see you.’ A pause, then she added, ‘No, they didn’t say what it was about.’
    She nodded, then hung up and told them, ‘He’s on his way down.’ Then she added with a sigh: ‘It makes a change being able to get hold of him. Usually with these lecturers they’re either teaching, or out.’
    ‘Then it’s a good omen,’ said Taggart, smiling.
    They moved aside from the reception desk to wait, and a few moments later a man appeared, out of breath andlooking worried. He went to the reception desk, and the woman behind the desk indicated Seward and Taggart.
    ‘Paul Morrison,’ he introduced himself, his tone whining as well as slightly aggressive. ‘Look, if it’s about my car tax, I’ve already told your office this is a matter of civil liberties—’
    Paul Morrison was a short, balding man in his forties, with three earrings in his left ear and two in his right. What little hair he had was pulled back into a ponytail. He was wearing a striped suit and sunglasses. Seward wasn’t sure if Morrison was going for the Hip Film Guy look or the Second-Rate Gangster. Whichever it was, at first sight she agreed with Taggart’s friend’s description of him: a pretentious wanker.
    ‘No,’ said Seward abruptly, cutting him off, ‘this is about one of your students. Eric Drake.’
    ‘What about him?’ asked Morrison suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’
    Both Seward and Taggart showed him their IDs and introduced themselves.
    ‘Perhaps if we can go somewhere more private to talk?’ suggested Taggart. She had already picked up Seward’s tone and had immediately switched to ‘nice cop’ to Seward’s ‘hard cop’. ‘Your room?’
    ‘I don’t have a room,’ snapped Morrison angrily. ‘I’m only a part-time lecturer and so I suffer accordingly. Absolute victimization. This is a truly dreadful place as far as trying to get one’s own space. You wouldn’t believe it! We’re even forced to share lecture rooms.’ He looked towards the refectory. ‘We could always go in there and talk. Have a cupof coffee while we’re doing it.’
    Seward looked through the glass doors of the refectory. It was filled with students.
    ‘We’d prefer to go somewhere where we can’t be overheard,’ she said.
    ‘In that case, the only place is outside,’ said Morrison. ‘Fortunately today is sunny.’ As he led the way outside, he was still complaining. ‘It’s an outrageous way to treat professional people, not