Doug thought for a moment. “Doesn’t ring a bell I’m afraid. Who is he?”
Bullock reached into his coat pocket and produced a photo. “What about this?”
It was a low-resolution black and white print taken from an elevated position with some kind of wide angle lens. It showed a short, wiry man, probably in his thirties, dressed in black with ponytail and goatee-beard. It looked a lot like a man he’d seen talking to Kal at the party.
“The picture is from a time-lapse security camera tape; that’s why it’s so grainy. Unfortunately, it’s the only one I have right now. Was this man at the party?”
“I'm not sure. Yeah, maybe. It was quite dark and I’m afraid I'd had a few drinks so I can’t be certain. Who is he anyway and what’s the connection?”
“I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say. Try to remember. Was this man there?” The car had stopped at traffic lights and Bullock was now turned and watching Doug’s face intently.
“Yes, I think so. I saw him talking to Kal.”
“Did you hear any of what was said?”
“No, sorry – the music was pretty loud.”
“Did you notice anything else out of the ordinary?”
Doug thought back. A few of the guests had been smoking pot and there were always plenty of suspicious looking people at Kal’s parties. Some were mature students, while others were just friends of friends from outside the campus, but nothing about this one had stood out particularly. Then he thought of Cindy. He had not seen or heard from her since she had abandoned him outside Kal’s tower, but feeling disinclined to share this with Bullock, he shook his head vaguely. “No, it was fairly typical really. Do you think there’s some connection between Kal’s….” he paused searching for the right word, “…accident …and this Markov guy?”
“I don’t think anything yet. We’re trying to look at this from every possible angle and not make any assumptions until we have a clearer picture of the events surrounding Mr. Gupta’s death. Did your friend strike you as someone who’d be capable or inclined to end his own life?”
Doug pondered a moment on the inspector’s choice of words; capable or inclined. There were no doubt people with the inclination to commit suicide, but who lacked the conviction to go through with it. But surely almost anyone was capable of it. Perhaps someone afflicted with vertigo would be incapable of jumping from a great height, but then there were plenty of other methods of self-destruction.
“Not at all, but what else could have happened? You don’t think he was pushed do you?”
“That seems unlikely given there were no signs of a struggle.” Bullock paused for a moment, “Was Mr. Gupta involved with drugs?”
Doug had seen this one coming, but still he hesitated. Part of him wanted to cover up for Kal even though he could see no benefit in doing so. What about his parents though? They were very religious. In their eyes it was bad enough that Kal was no longer a practising Hindu. They didn't even know he ate meat. Did they really need to find out he had occasionally dabbled with recreational drugs?
As if reading Doug’s mind, Bullock added, “There’s no point in trying to protect him now! He’s dead! I’m just trying to make sure nobody follows him, and that means I need to know everything whether you think it's relevant or not.”
“Yes all right!” said Doug finally, with an air of exasperation. “He had connections. He wasn’t a heavy user – just a little dope like everyone else, but he would get stuff for people.”
“A dealer?”
“Christ no! Well - no, not a dealer, but people would ask him to get them stuff for a party or whatever and generally, whatever they wanted, he could get.”
The two men fell silent once again as the car pulled into the visitors’ car park of Colchester General Hospital.
In the Accident and Emergency wing there was a small reception desk, but nobody visibly in attendance. Doug took a seat while Bullock went over to the vending machine in the corner. “Tea or coffee?” he asked.
“Tea please, white with sugar, thanks!”
A small boy of about ten sat opposite, proudly sporting a blood-stained bandage around his head. Next to him sat a balding man distractedly trying to read a newspaper. A tall, slim nurse walked by, but ignored them.
“Excuse me!” said the man, clearly frustrated. Do you know how much longer the doctor will be?”
The nurse stopped, sighed and turned round slowly. She stretched a thin smile across her face. “Not much longer now.” Then she noticed Doug and the expression broadened into a real smile that was both warm and friendly. She had shortly cropped light brown hair, blue eyes, gentle, well proportioned features and a perfect complexion. “Hello, I didn’t see you there. Has anyone checked you in yet?” Her accent had a slight antipodean twang, not quite harsh enough to be Australian, so Doug ventured Kiwi.
“I’m impressed! Finally someone with the intelligence and good judgement not to call me an Aussie!”
Bullock stood up. “I think I’ll leave you in the capable hands of this lovely young lady now, if that’s okay with you, Mr. Richards. Make sure you tell the doctor you were unconscious for over a minute. Your coach said he’d be along to pick you up later and take you back to campus.” He started heading for the door, then stopped and turned. He fumbled in his breast pocket for a moment and produced a card. “If you remember anything else about the other night, call me on this number.”
“Okay, will do,” said Doug. “Thanks for the lift,” he added, as Bullock pushed through the door.
The nurse took some details then disappeared down the corridor. Doug watched her as she left. What was it about nurses’ uniforms? This one certainly seemed to be tight in all the right places, and although not in the least revealing, seemed to beautifully highlight the contours of the shapely young body inside. As if feeling his eyes on her, she looked back over her shoulder and smiled. “I’ll be back for you in a minute,” she said flirtatiously.
“I’ll be ready!” replied Doug in a similar tone. The balding man huffed.
As Doug waited, he thought of Cindy again. For two days now, he had heard nothing. He’d tried calling her mobile, but the number had been disconnected. Was she in some kind of trouble? Had she had an accident? Did she know something about Kal’s death? Was that why she had run away before the police had turned up? For all Doug knew, she could be dead herself. For forty-eight hours, such questions had plagued him day and night, but almost as strong as the curiosity to find answers, was his desire to feel her naked body against his, and conclude what they had started. This was more than a usual case of lust. This was pure, wild, unbridled animal attraction. He just had to have her.
“Mr. Richards? Dr. Singh will see you now,” said the nurse. “Down the end here, and it’s the second door on the right.”
Doug stood up and started down the dimly lit corridor. Suddenly, he felt his stomach churning. He stopped, looked around dizzily and threw up on the floor. Within a few seconds the nurse was at his side with a waste bin and some tissues.
“I’m sorry,” said Doug. “I think I must have got up too quickly.”
“No worries, let’s just sit you back down for a moment. Put this on the floor like this and put your head between your knees - that’s right. Just stay like that for a few minutes, while I get someone to clean this up.”
A little later, a rather gaunt looking man in his thirties or early forties appeared wearing overalls and carrying a mop and bucket.
“Thank you Pavel” said the nurse, appearing from around the corner. The man nodded and started slowly cleaning up the mess. She then led Doug to a nearby examining room where he lay on the bed and waited.
Dr. Singh was a slight man, probably in his mid forties with short hair and a moustache. “How are you feeling, Mr. Richards?” His voice was quiet and confident, and carried a heavy Indian accent.
“My stomach still feels a little delicate, and I still have a headache.”
Singh’s face darkened. He took a p
en light from his pocket and shone it into Doug’s eyes while asking him to explain exactly what had happened. As Doug recounted the salient points leading to his blackout, the Doctor examined his neck and torso, then tested his reflexes.
“And they said you were unconscious for over a minute?”
“That’s what they said, although for me it didn’t seem as if any time had passed at all. One moment I was diving for the try-line, and the next I was lying on my back looking up at a ring of faces.”
“Hmm. I think I’m going to keep you in for a little while. If the head-ache disappears, and you don’t suffer any more nausea, you’ll be free to leave in a couple of hours.”
“Is that really necessary? I mean, I just banged my head. Isn’t it natural I’m going to have a headache?”
“Yes, the chances are you’ll be fine, but any concussion resulting in loss of consciousness needs to be taken seriously. I want to keep you under observation a little longer, just to be sure. If any other symptoms present, we may have to schedule a scan, but for now you should rest. Did you have plans for this evening Mr. Richards?”
“Well no, not really I suppose. I could do with finishing a computing assignment, but with this headache, I probably wouldn’t be able to concentrate enough anyway.”
“Right! Well, Nurse Baker will get you some ibuprofen for the headache and I’ll come by and see you in an hour or so.”
Doug was moved to another room where he was able to lie quietly while the headache subsided. He texted Dean to let him know he wouldn’t be ready for another couple of hours and then settled down for a nap.
He was finally awoken by the Doctor and examined again.
“Okay, I think it’s safe enough to let you go home now, but if you experience any further disorientation, nausea, headaches or any other problems at all, then call this number and get yourself back here at once.”
Doug thanked him and wandered out to the reception, where Dean was busy chatting up the nurse.
“Still alive then?” said Dean, looking round. “Come on then you clumsy oaf. Let’s get you back to campus.”
CHAPTER 5
The “Fox and Hounds” was an old-style, spit-and-sawdust country pub, ten minutes walk from The Fields on the way to the village. The clientele, a mixture of farm-worker and country gent, chatted and drank while some hit from the seventies rattled from an old jukebox. Some were playing cribbage, others bridge, and a strong sense of community could be felt among them. Peter once again thought how different things were up here - different in a good way. It took a while before he realised what else was missing; the incessant buzzing, whistling and pinging of fruit machines that had invaded so many of the pubs down south, were pleasantly absent.
Roger was sitting in the far corner, nursing an empty glass and looking expectantly at the door. When he saw Peter, he sprang to his feet and ordered two pints from the bar. “So how are you getting on with the den?” he asked.
“Pretty well, thanks,” replied Peter, wondering whether to mention the audio files. “Just routine correspondence mostly,” he added, deciding to hold out until he understood what he was dealing with.
Roger nodded absently. “It must be a big help for Isabelle, having you there.”
“I hope so.”
“She’s an extraordinary woman, Isabelle, isn’t she? Incredible knowledge of the classics ... and quite a theologian too.”
Peter nodded hesitantly, an uncomfortable silence ensuing, in which they both took large swigs from their glasses.
“Beautiful day today!” exclaimed Roger. “Did you manage to get out at all, or was it all work?”
Peter smiled. When all else fails, talk about the weather. “Yes, glorious! Isabelle and I went for a stroll down to the post office this afternoon. The scenery around here is quite stunning isn’t it? How long have you lived in these parts?”
Roger explained how he’d moved into the parish four years earlier, after graduating from theological college. Peter was initially surprised, the curate being at least in his mid-thirties - too old to have graduated so recently. He then remembered the change of career from research chemist to clergyman.
Quite out of the blue, Roger asked, “So Peter, what made you lose your faith?”
The directness unnerved him. “Is it that obvious?”
Roger nodded with a grin.
“To be perfectly honest, what I had before was not so much faith I think, but acceptance. From as early as I can remember, we had always been taught that God existed and for the most part, I never much bothered to question it. But as I learned more about science and natural history, the role of God as creator had to be constantly adjusted. I suppose the crux came around the time I was doing my A-levels, and I happened to read Richard Dawkins’ 'Blind Watchmaker'. I already thought I understood evolution by natural selection, but somehow the world around me had seemed just too remarkable not to have required occasional moments of divine intervention. Dawkins’s book dispelled these doubts completely.”
“I’ve read some of his other stuff,” said Roger. “They’re very persuasive. For the most part I actually agree with what he says.”
“So you’re happy to consign God to the sidelines and let natural selection account for all life on Earth?”
“Not the sidelines exactly. I believe He plays an active role, but not necessarily one of creator. Don’t quote me on that though. It’s not exactly the official line of the Church.”
“No, I can appreciate that, but if He’s not on the sidelines, then He must be intervening, but why would He need to intervene if the laws of science can already explain things?”
“Well I'm not sure they explain everything.”
“Not yet, but we're getting there.”
Roger shrugged.
“What about the Universe then?” Peter continued. “Are you comfortable with the Big Bang theory of origin?”
“Well, yes. The evidence seems irrefutable. I’d like to think that He had some part in the selection of initial conditions, but I’m painfully aware that that just throws up all sorts of other problems.”
“But if God isn’t needed to explain any of creation, why invoke the concept of a Deity at all? This is exactly why I ceased to believe. At first, there seemed to be gaps in our knowledge that required an explanation beyond science...”
“A God of the gaps!” interrupted Roger, smiling again with an air of smugness.
“Exactly, except that as new discoveries are made, the number of gaps is getting smaller all the time.”
“I agree that science is far better at answering the ‘how’ questions, but it doesn’t do so well with the ‘whys’. For example, why are we here? Why is there something rather than nothing?”
“But to ask why we are here presupposes a purpose, which only makes sense if our existence is the result of a deliberate act of creation by some conscious being. You might as well ask why this beer is wet. It just is. Just because something can be phrased as a question doesn’t mean that it’s necessarily a sensible question to ask.”
“I suppose I’m just saying that you shouldn’t be looking for God in the gaps.”
“I don’t feel as though I need to look for God at all. With so much of the Bible clearly false or contradictory, what reason is there to believe in Him in the first place?”
Peter had been watching Roger’s face intently as he said this, looking for signs of anger or at least disapproval, but there were none, his features remaining composed and compassionate.
“It’s probably true that parts of the Bible simply reflect the views of old men thousands of years ago, and therefore should not be interpreted literally.”
“But either it is the word of God or it isn’t. To base your faith on something and then admit that parts of it are probably wrong is just illogical.”
Roger took a long thoughtful sip of beer. “Actually, I didn’t base my faith in God on the Bible, but that’s not to say I don’t believe the vast majority of it, or at least t
he vast majority of the New Testament.”
Peter thought for a moment, draining his pint, while Roger looked on, waiting for the words to sink in. Peter raised his glass. “Fancy another?”
Peter ordered another two pints and stood thoughtfully at the bar as the smooth dark ale filled the glasses. He usually found conversations like this frustrating, but he was intrigued by the curate’s apparent rationality. He took the drinks back over to where Roger was sitting in eager anticipation.
“But if God had nothing to do with the creation, what is His role and why?”
“That, I don’t know. But for me, knowing His role is not a necessary condition for knowing He exists, and I know with absolute certainty that He does exist.”
Roger went on to describe in some detail how, following the death of his mother, his father had succumbed to Alzheimer’s. The burden of caring for his father alone, while holding down his research job at a large pharmaceutical company, had forced him to consider a nursing home. There, his father’s condition, both mental and physical, deteriorated rapidly. One cold winter’s night during a nasty bout of pneumonia with various complications, Roger had received a telephone call urging him to come at once.
***
The evening had begun much like any other Friday evening. Roger Shepherd, twenty-eight year old research chemist from Leicester removed his shoes, and took the brown paper bag containing his Chinese take-away into the kitchen. Setting the meal out neatly on a tray together with a pint glass and two cans of beer, he carefully carried his dinner into the living room. It was a small apartment, but tastefully furnished and more than adequate he thought, for a young single professional such as he. Tonight he had rented the film “Moulin Rouge” and was looking forward to it enormously. He loved musicals and had heard some of his female colleagues at work raving about this one. Roger was well enough liked, but at the time had few close friends. He generally tended to get on better with women than men, but had never been tempted to ask any of them out.
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