to the supermarket and stock up on packet meals but that could wait until tomorrow.
* * * * *
‘Yes sir . . . no sir . . . couldn’t agree more, sir . . . I’m sure we will sir . . . very good sir.’ Giles put down the phone.
‘Chief Super?’ asked Morley.
‘Wishing us well with our inquiries,’ said Giles.
‘That was nice of him . . .’ Morley faltered as he saw the sour look appear on Giles’ face.
‘If we don’t crack this and get the Press off his back real soon he’s going to have us both on school crossings for the foreseeable future.’
‘It’s not for want of trying; we interviewed nearly thirty animal rights suspects today,’ said Morley.
‘All of them adamant that the Crick affair was nothing to do with them or their responsible, law-abiding organisation and most of them with alibis.’
‘You have doubts?’ asked Morley.
Giles shook his head. ‘No, it takes a special sort of nutter to do what these bastards did to Devon and none of that lot fit the bill. They might be up for a bit of placard waving and hunt sabotage, maybe even stretch to car scratching and tyre slashing but cold blooded murder? Nope. We’re looking for outsiders. Our only hope is that they are not complete outsiders . . .’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’m hoping they at least made contact with local activists for information, if for no other reason.’
‘And that these locals contact us?’
‘You got it. I’m counting on them shitting themselves when they find out just what they’ve been accessories to. It’s my guess the weakest link will already be in a bad way, unable to eat or sleep, conscience screaming at them to get it off their chest. He or she will want to contact us and tell all. The strongest on the other hand will argue the case for saying nothing – just keep your trap shut and they can’t possibly touch us . . . just keep your nerve . . . keep your nerve.’
‘Who’ll win?’ asked Morley.
‘The desire to confess will be strong. But going down for life is a powerful deterrent however bad they’re feeling.’
‘We need a break.’
‘That’s right. Someone who notices their brother or sister, their boyfriend or son or daughter falling to pieces before their eyes for no known reason. Loss of appetite, constantly watching the news on telly, jumps down your throat at the most innocent of inquiries.’
‘Let’s hope he breaks soon,’ said Morley.
‘I think the Chief Super just might agree with you on that,’ said Giles. ‘By the way, there’s a bloke from Sci-Med in London coming to see me in the morning, a Dr Steven Dunbar.’
‘What about?’
‘Just a general chat about the Crick business, I’m told. Sci-Med takes an interest in everything concerning science and medicine. Devon’s death must be right up their alley.’
* * * *
Giles was woken at 3a.m. by the phone ringing. He found the receiver at the third fumbled attempt.
‘There’s been a murder, sir. The body of a man has been found in a lay-by near Melton Constable. It was discovered by a young couple who’d gone there to . . .’
‘Play chess,’ interrupted Giles. ‘Has Dr Ryman been told?’
‘On her way, sir.’
‘Anything else I should know?’
‘Yes, sir. The dead man is Robert Lyndon, known to his pals as, Stig. He was a known hunt saboteur, arrested three times over the past two years for breach of the peace.’
‘Was he now?’ murmured Giles, getting out of bed and cradling the phone between neck and shoulder. ‘Was he one of the ones brought in for interview yesterday?’
‘No, but he was on the list. He wasn’t at home when we called first time around.’
‘Tell Sergeant Morley I’ll meet him there.’
Giles pulled up his collar as he stepped out the car and walked over to the taped off area of lay-by. Marjorie Ryman, in white coveralls was already there, kneeling by the body: the scene was lit by portable lighting being run off a noisy generator. ‘We can’t go on meeting
* * * * *
‘Yes sir . . . no sir . . . couldn’t agree more, sir . . . I’m sure we will sir . . . very good sir.’ Giles put down the phone.
‘Chief Super?’ asked Morley.
‘Wishing us well with our inquiries,’ said Giles.
‘That was nice of him . . .’ Morley faltered as he saw the sour look appear on Giles’ face.
‘If we don’t crack this and get the Press off his back real soon he’s going to have us both on school crossings for the foreseeable future.’
‘It’s not for want of trying; we interviewed nearly thirty animal rights suspects today,’ said Morley.
‘All of them adamant that the Crick affair was nothing to do with them or their responsible, law-abiding organisation and most of them with alibis.’
‘You have doubts?’ asked Morley.
Giles shook his head. ‘No, it takes a special sort of nutter to do what these bastards did to Devon and none of that lot fit the bill. They might be up for a bit of placard waving and hunt sabotage, maybe even stretch to car scratching and tyre slashing but cold blooded murder? Nope. We’re looking for outsiders. Our only hope is that they are not complete outsiders . . .’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’m hoping they at least made contact with local activists for information, if for no other reason.’
‘And that these locals contact us?’
‘You got it. I’m counting on them shitting themselves when they find out just what they’ve been accessories to. It’s my guess the weakest link will already be in a bad way, unable to eat or sleep, conscience screaming at them to get it off their chest. He or she will want to contact us and tell all. The strongest on the other hand will argue the case for saying nothing – just keep your trap shut and they can’t possibly touch us . . . just keep your nerve . . . keep your nerve.’
‘Who’ll win?’ asked Morley.
‘The desire to confess will be strong. But going down for life is a powerful deterrent however bad they’re feeling.’
‘We need a break.’
‘That’s right. Someone who notices their brother or sister, their boyfriend or son or daughter falling to pieces before their eyes for no known reason. Loss of appetite, constantly watching the news on telly, jumps down your throat at the most innocent of inquiries.’
‘Let’s hope he breaks soon,’ said Morley.
‘I think the Chief Super just might agree with you on that,’ said Giles. ‘By the way, there’s a bloke from Sci-Med in London coming to see me in the morning, a Dr Steven Dunbar.’
‘What about?’
‘Just a general chat about the Crick business, I’m told. Sci-Med takes an interest in everything concerning science and medicine. Devon’s death must be right up their alley.’
* * * *
Giles was woken at 3a.m. by the phone ringing. He found the receiver at the third fumbled attempt.
‘There’s been a murder, sir. The body of a man has been found in a lay-by near Melton Constable. It was discovered by a young couple who’d gone there to . . .’
‘Play chess,’ interrupted Giles. ‘Has Dr Ryman been told?’
‘On her way, sir.’
‘Anything else I should know?’
‘Yes, sir. The dead man is Robert Lyndon, known to his pals as, Stig. He was a known hunt saboteur, arrested three times over the past two years for breach of the peace.’
‘Was he now?’ murmured Giles, getting out of bed and cradling the phone between neck and shoulder. ‘Was he one of the ones brought in for interview yesterday?’
‘No, but he was on the list. He wasn’t at home when we called first time around.’
‘Tell Sergeant Morley I’ll meet him there.’
Giles pulled up his collar as he stepped out the car and walked over to the taped off area of lay-by. Marjorie Ryman, in white coveralls was already there, kneeling by the body: the scene was lit by portable lighting being run off a noisy generator. ‘We can’t go on meeting
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