Timelock

by R. G. Knighton

  Gillian was seething, but she knew the dean was correct and that the two of them must not be seen together as a couple. What really grated was his blunt way of putting things; there seemed very little compassion within his soul. She knew the scandal would headline the front page of every newspaper in the country, with her being the only daughter of William Taylor-Smith, Conservative Party vice chairman and Cabinet Minister for Education for the previous two years. While she walked, she passed the time visualising the newspaper headlines, wondering what picture would be used in bulletins on the national news, as hoards of reporters lay siege to her father in Westminster and outside their home in Kensington. Thinking that the dean really loved her, she wished they could disappear and start a new life, giving up everything so that they could just be together; foolishly believing she was the special one and not at all like the other tramps he had bedded over the years. Her stiletto heels clacked loudly on the pavement as she walked briskly through the chilly morning air, pulling her coat tighter and hoping to find an all night cafe or twenty-four hour cinema where she could avoid the situation and give her time to rehearse a reasonable alibi. The dean drove his car slowly by and he pressed a button in the armrest, lowering the passenger window to offer an apology, but Gillian ignored him, purposely looking forwards until he gave in and drove away. Gillian, suddenly feeling scared and alone, watched the car’s rear lights fade into the distance as he headed off to the university.

  When the dean arrived the place was buzzing with dozens of uniformed and plain clothed police officers who had cordoned off the area with blue and white polythene ribbon emblazoned with the word police every foot along its length. Door to door enquiries were taking place with nearby residents, hoping to find any witnesses to the incident. Across the road a media circus was already building up with satellite vans and reporters with TV cameras already getting in the way of the investigation. Behind the media, even at this early hour some twenty or thirty people stood watching the proceedings with ghoulish interest. In the centre of this melee a forensic team wearing white coveralls and shoe protectors were examining the crime scene that was hidden by a hastily erected large white protective tent.

  Furious at finding his reserved car parking space occupied by a police car the dean had to leave his precious motor in the public car park five hundred yards away giving him just enough time to calm his anger as he walked back to the scene of the crime. Before he even reached the setting a young reporter who recognised him from when he was a student at the university two years ago, accosted him, hoping for a scoop that would promote him from his lowly part-time junior post to full time reporter. The dean ignored the young man’s questions as he introduced himself to the uniformed constable guarding the outer cordon. When the policeman received acknowledgement over his radio he gave permission to advance and identify himself to Detective Inspector Baines. Taking 'no comment' was not an option for the eager reporter and he followed closely behind the dean from the perimeter almost to the inner cordon. He was abruptly stopped by another officer as he tried to take photographs of the crime scene; then cautioned before being led reluctantly back to his corral. The dean caught glimpses through the flap in the tent of the overturned milk float and the legs of the deceased illuminated by camera flashes as details were collated of the incident. All around him, lights shone from apartment windows as students woke to the noise and watched silhouetted and silent at the disturbance. Waiting patiently, the dean observed a smartly dressed woman who to his annoyance appeared to be in charge of the investigation. She looked up, spotted him waiting and marched over to introduce herself.

  “Ah Dean Sutherland I believe, I’m DI. Baines of Oxten C.I.D. I’m in command of this incident and would appreciate your full cooperation in this matter.”

  He nodded as she flashed her badge and I.D. while offering a firm handshake. The dean was slightly taken aback by the fact that the detective already knew who he was, and the complete control she had of the situation; he was used to being the one in charge, giving the orders not taking them, especially from a woman. The detective briefed him with all the necessary information currently available before stopping mid-sentence and turning to address her Detective Sergeant; who had just arrived with an update of the current situation. The dean, slighted by the snub, chose to ignore it as he eavesdropped on the conversation.

  “Upon our initial investigation the demise of the milkman appeared to be just an unfortunate accident. The milk float overturned when it clipped the kerb and the milkman tripped over in the dark impaling his self on a broken milk bottle, which pierced the right eyeball and entered his brain killing him instantly. The problem is that the lab guys aren’t fully convinced it was just an accident. The body was found face up with the offending article sitting on his chest. Now there may be a slim possibility that he rolled over and the bottle somehow slid from his eye and settled where it did, but forensics inform me that the eyeball should have remained in its socket or still be impaled on the broken bottle. The problem is; it’s missing!”

  The dean’s eyes widened in astonishment as the Detective Inspector replied,

  “Missing, are you sure it hasn’t rolled away or washed down the drain?”

  “No ma’am, there is a fine mesh grid across the drain’s entrance that would catch anything bigger than a pea and we have thoroughly searched a twenty yard radius with no result. At first we thought an animal or bird could have eaten it but the lab guys have found traces of woollen fibre snagged on the shard consistent with something being drawn along it as the eyeball was removed.”

  The Inspector drew in a long breath at the thought of a murder investigation; she was due to go on holiday tomorrow and now knew it would be impossible to leave her team short-handed with such a major operation. The Sergeant waited for a comment; however the Inspector remained silent so he continued.

  “As you know ma’am a lot of serial killers take a memento from their victims, the only other explanation could be that it was still an accident or maybe a sick witness stole from the scene, either way we have a psychopath at large and...”

  The Sergeant paused as they both moved to one side as the deceased, zipped up in a black body bag was wheeled away to an awaiting van to be taken to the mortuary for further examination.

  The Detective Inspector pondered for a while then came up with a plan.

  “This is what we’re going to do. If we announce to the media that a murder has been committed the perpetrator, according to common form, will go to ground and with the little evidence we have at our disposal it will be almost impossible to trace him.”

  “Or her.”

  The Sergeant interrupted. The Inspector scowled briefly at the disruption to her flow, and then continued.

  “I doubt it, ninety-nine percent of people who commit this type of crime are male, and unless we unearth any evidence to the contrary, the investigation will proceed along these lines. Now this is what’s going to happen, I will release a statement to the media that this was just a tragic if somewhat bizarre accident and no one is being sought in relation to the event. We will keep a strong but low key police presence in the area, maintain door to door questioning and hopefully catch the perpetrator off guard. Any comments?”

  The Sergeant shook his head and they parted without another word leaving her with the dean who was trying to look disinterested in the situation.

  “Right Mr Sutherland your task will be to provide me with an entire register of the university students, teachers, and staff, full and part-time, going back at least twelve months along with any background information you might have no matter how trivial it may seem to you. That will be all for now, contact me on this number later when you have collated the requested information.”

  The Inspector offered her business card, which the dean made no attempt to accept, while he made his point.

  “It’s ‘Dean’ Sutherland, and is all this necessary; I thought it was just an accident?”

  He replied tersely, anno
yed at the lack of respect for his title. The Inspector, equally slighted, offered no apology.

  “Routine sir, just routine.”

  The Inspector replied as she slipped her card into the dean’s top jacket pocket then turned briskly away to talk to a waiting constable, leaving him fuming at being out manoeuvred.

  “Henry Jackson.”

  He said out loud, as an idea formed in his head. Inspector Baines turned back to face the dean as he spoke.

  “Did you say something?”

  She asked, believing she was being addressed and expecting a sarcastic retort. The dean just smiled laconically and then replied,

  “No nothing to you, nothing at all.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Tyler Morgan lifted the first lid of a row of silver breakfast dishes arranged on a side table in the breakfast room. He retched at the sight of freshly made porridge decorated with a swirl of strawberry jam as it had only been a few hours since the gathering and it further reminded him of the blood drenched scene that had repeated its self over and over in his head. He had only managed a few hours of tormented sleep and had dragged himself out of bed to join the family for breakfast, trying to act as normal as possible, although seeing Tyler up at this early hour was a more unusual sight. Trying each lid in turn, Tyler gave up and finally settled for toast and marmalade that was already laid out on the main table in the centre of the room. Triangles of white and wholemeal toast, lined up in a silver toast rack, with four different kinds of preserves to choose from just added to the complexity of his fragile state of mind. One of the three liveried servants in attendance poured him a cup of strong black coffee then returned to his place standing against the wall with the others. Tyler chose to sit near to the head of the table that was already occupied by his father Lord Tyler Morgan II.

  “Good morning father.”

  He greeted just before taking his first bite. His father just grunted in reply without even looking up from this morning’s copy of the Financial Times which he held in one hand while feeding a forkful of scrambled eggs into his moustachioed mouth with the other, getting some of it stuck in-between the coarse hairs, much to Tyler’s amusement.

  The juxtaposition between the two generations was incredible. Tyler’s father positioned at the head of the table, captain of industry and Lord of the realm. Sitting formally and well groomed, immaculately dressed in a tailor-made black Saville row suit and grey waistcoat, with matching black patent leather handmade shoes. A pure white silk shirt and a blue and white polka dot handkerchief jauntily placed into his top pocket completed the ensemble. Slumped in his chair, Tyler sitting next to him sported a two-day-old stubble, shoulder length curly unkempt hair and wore faded torn denim jeans, grubby trainers and the customary rock group t-shirt depicting a skeleton riding a motorbike chasing a semi-naked woman through a graveyard.

  Tyler’s father finally looked up from his newspaper and was shocked at the sight of his only son and heir. He decided that it was best not to react to the obvious rebellion and hoped that in time Tyler would come to his senses and toe the line. In an effort to maintain communication he finally spoke.

  “How are your studies progressing?”

  “Fine, just fine father. Everything is well in order.”

  Tyler replied, lying through his teeth. He had not done a scrap of work all term and was paying another student to do his thesis. Going to parties and socialising took priority in Tyler’s life right now, hoping soon to lose his virginity. This pursuit was hampered by his weight problem and lack of self confidence with the opposite sex. Holding a conversation and being the life and soul of the party was easy, but to seduce a woman properly seemed impossible. He sweated profusely and stammered, losing all his confidence, always ending in failure. There was now also the matter of the gathering and the strong possibility that he carried the spirit or two of a lost soul.

  Not wanting to be questioned any further Tyler looked at his watch, it was a little after eight thirty.

  “Time to go to work!”

  He announced, dropping his napkin onto the table and jumped up. His father watched out of the corner of his eye as Tyler batted the toast crumbs off his t-shirt and onto the table and offered no reply Tyler left the room, he was too engrossed in a report into the far eastern futures market.

  After retrieving his genuine World War II flying jacket from his rooms Tyler proceeded down to the garage, which housed an impressive collection of luxury cars including a gleaming silver baby Bentley, Rolls Royce Phantom and a rare duck egg blue Aston Martin DB4. He smiled when he looked at a vintage Norton Commando motorcycle that his father rode during his younger years, and nearly died in, when he had a race with the driver of an E-type Jaguar who in his eagerness to win, ran him off the road and he crashed into a haystack in a farmer’s field. It seemed incredible that the boring crusty old man he just had breakfast with could ever have been young and reckless. He finally stood in front of the latest addition to the family garage, a brand new Jujitsu Diablo. A four wheel drive monster; bought reluctantly by his parents for his twenty-first birthday. His mother considered it hideous and his father hated buying anything foreign, which made it simply irresistible. He obtained the keys from Jenkins his father’s chauffeur who kept the keys for every vehicle locked away for safekeeping.

  Tyler climbed into the driver’s side as Jenkins opened the garage doors, waiting patiently as the massive six-litre turbo charged engine fired up, deafening the poor man in the confines of the garage. With a nod of thanks, Tyler eased the beast out into the stark morning sunlight and then thundered off down the gravel driveway scattering the wildlife on the way. When he reached the main road he put on his seat belt and turned the radio on, tuning it in to ‘Oxten FM, your favourite radio station.’

  He was just in time to hear a news bulletin on the death of a milkman in the grounds of the halls of residence of Oxten University. He apparently crashed his milk float and stumbled over in the dark fatally wounding himself on a broken bottle. Police were conducting enquiries regarding the incident. Tyler wondered if there was any connection to the gathering and the possibility of a lost soul being the cause. When the bulletin finished Tyler tried to clear his head, turning the volume up to listen to the latest chart topper. Singing tunelessly, while drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he slowly dismissed the fear gripping his belly which did nothing to aid his digestion. At the approach to the city centre he had to slow down for the congestion of the early morning traffic through the town so he decided to take a shortcut through the grounds of the university but he probably wished he had not as the place was alive with police and news reporters blocking the roads with vehicles of all sizes, slowing his progress down to a crawl. Just as he thought he was through the worst a young police officer spotted the university parking permit badge affixed to Tyler’s windscreen and gestured for him to pull over to the side of the road. Tyler was in no mood to be questioned and as he lowered the electric window, the interview got off on the wrong foot from the start.

  “Is this your car sir?”

  The officer began after writing down Tyler’s personalised ‘Morgan III’ number plate then leaning against the driver’s door almost placing his head into the car. He had been trained to smell for the effects of alcohol on the breath of suspected drivers, but in his eagerness he had already gone a little too far invading Tyler’s personal space.

  “Yes it is and would you mind not leaning against it, you’ll scratch the paintwork?”

  Feeling a little affronted at Tyler’s attitude the young officer slowly lifted his body away from the car but kept one hand resting firmly over the housing of the open window.

  “Do you have any documentation to prove it sir and do you have any forms of identification?”

  Tyler glared at the officer and before he made a move for his wallet he looked at the numbers on the officer’s epaulettes then asked a question of his own.

  “I would like to see your identification first, officer
number 481.”

  The policeman’s eyes narrowed as reached into his breast pocket then passed Tyler his warrant card. Tyler purposely made no move for his own documents.

  “Are you refusing to comply with my request sir? If you are I shall have to ask you to step out of the vehicle. Tyler offered no reaction as he methodically studied the warrant card then purposely ignored the policeman’s outstretched hand while he retrieved his own documents and passed them over along with the officer’s card.

  Tyler drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel while he waited for his documents to be checked, and after what seemed like an age, the officer, playing Tyler at his own game, finally returned them. Even during his short time on the force, he recognised the Morgan surname and the weight it carried. The last thing he wanted was to cause any upset without due cause to the son of the police commissioner’s golfing partner so as he placed his hand back over the window housing, he chose his words very carefully.

  “Everything seems to be in order sir, if you could just answer a few questions you can soon be on your way.”

  Tyler nodded, noticing a change in the officer’s demeanour so he kept his cool.