by Tim Heald
The airport signs said five kilometres to go. Tudor couldn’t wait.
‘Perhaps I shall be your Moriarty,’ said Ashley.
‘I’m not with you.’
‘The Napoleon of crime. Unsinkable. An arch-enemy. An adversary too powerful. And never too far away. Liable to crop up any moment at crime conferences around the world ready to test and torment.’
‘That makes me Sherlock Holmes,’ said Tudor, ‘and I hardly think–’
‘Oh come, come,’ said Ashley, mocking.
‘Actually to be honest, Ashley, I don’t care if I never see you again.’
‘Dear boy,’ said Ashley, shook his head and lapsed into silence until they arrived at Hobart International, one of the world’s great little airports, not much more than a windsock and a couple of portacabins.
He parked under a No Parking sign immediately in front of the main departure gate. Tudor remembered that when Brad met him just a few days earlier he had parked immediately under the No Parking sign at arrivals. There was obviously something in the local genes – a distaste for authority, he supposed. The cases were easily unloaded. He had arrived travelling light and, as usual, had acquired little or no moss. He realized, with an unexpected stab of regret, that Basil the dog was the one new acquaintance he would really miss.
‘Don’t come in,’ said Tudor. He was afraid they were going to have to shake hands. He didn’t want to but that crippling English dislike of unpleasantness and confrontation made him accept Ashley’s proffered palm of peace.
‘No hard feelings, old boy,’ said Ashley.
Tudor couldn’t bring himself to say anything articulate but grunted in as non-committal a manner as possible.
‘Well,’ said Ashley, releasing his hand, ‘Life’s full of surprises. I’m sorry you have to leave. Maybe we’ll get together in Cincinnati. Have a good flight meanwhile. You deserve a rest.’
He laughed not altogether pleasantly. ‘Back to peace and quiet eh?’ he said, waving farewell. ‘No more surprises for a while.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Tudor, wishing he could have thought of something cutting. On the other hand ‘goodbye’ had a crisp finality to it.
There was no going back on goodbye. Curtain. End. Finis. Part of his life brought to an end with a jolt. But at least and at last, Thank God, it was finally over.
He walked through check-in, security and passport control in a daze of relief. He took off his shoes, emptied his pockets, confirmed that he’d packed his bags on his own, had never been a member of the Communist Party, had never been convicted of a crime – hollow laughter – shut his eyes in the departure lounge, walked out across the tarmac when the flight was called, shuffled up the steps into the aircraft, flopped down in his window seat, fastened his seat belt, sighed with gratitude for a release from stress and shut his eyes again.
He dozed and was comatose through takeoff only opening his eyes as the aircraft banked past the craggy Wurlitzer, turned left over Hobart City and headed out across the ocean in the direction of home.
‘Thank God for that!’ he murmured, as he looked down on the Tasmanian coast and the seat-belt sign went off.
‘Well, hi!’ said a familiar voice. The seat next to him was empty, but the aisle seat was occupied. The words came from there. ‘What a coincidence,’ said his fellow passenger.
He turned and saw the pouting, dangerous smile and the shrewd, scheming eyes of little Miss Burney.
Actually not a coincidence,’ said the girl. ‘I specially asked to be put near you. I need someone to hold my hand. Never been out of Tasmania before and now I get to go all the way to Great Britain. Real exciting.’
‘Huh?’ said Tudor.
‘Didn’t Professor Carpenter explain? The college has these travelling scholarships. And I’ve been awarded one. Well, between you and me, the scholarship committee’s very small. I’m not even sure there’s anyone else on it apart from the Professor. And just guess what else he’s fixed up for me?’
The girl felt in a bag and produced a letter on official St Petroc’s paper which she handed to him.
She smiled gleefully. It was from Professor Ashley Carpenter, Department of Criminology, University of Tasmania and it was addressed to The Vice Chancellor, University of Wessex, Casterbridge, Wessex, UK.
It was short, brutally so.
Dear Vice Chancellor;
Further to our telephone conversation, this is to introduce Elizabeth Burney, one of my most talented and interesting students. She is much looking forward to spending at least one semester with you at Wessex and studying for modules which will contribute to her final degree here at Tasmania. Tm sure you will find her a stimulating presence. As discussed, Dr Cornwall and I will liaise over the details of her tuition.
The girl giggled softly.
‘I guess Ashley forgot to tell you. Surprise, surprise!’
About the Author
Tim Heald is a journalist and author of mysteries. Born in Dorchester, he studied modern history at Oxford before becoming a reporter, and columnist for the Sunday Times. He began writing novels in the early ’70s, introducing Simon Bognor, a defiantly lazy investigator for the British Board of Trade. Heald followed Bognor through nine more novels, including Murder At Moose Jaw (1981) and Business Unusual (1989) before taking a two decade break from the series, which returned with Death In The Opening Chapter (2011).
Heald has also distinguished himself as a biographer, writing official biographies of sporting heroes like cricket legends Denis Compton and Brian Johnston among others.
Also by Tim Heald
Just Desserts
Murder at Moose Jaw
Masterstroke
Red Herrings
Brought to Book
Business Unusual
Death and The D’Urbervilles
A Death on The Ocean Wave
Denis Compton: The Authorized Biography
Brian Johnston: The Authorized Biography
The Character of Cricket
Published by Dean Street Press 2015
Copyright © 2004 Tim Heald
All Rights Reserved
The right of Tim Heald to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2004 by Robert Hale
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 910570 22 7
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk