His computer dinged with a notification. He opened his email and saw a message from the coroner. He clicked on it and read it carefully.
The email was longer than necessary and full of details that didn’t matter much to Tim. He was looking for one word and found it.
“Exsanguinated.”
His blood was drained.
Tim looked up again and watched the billiard game as he thought through the implications of this news.
It wasn’t unexpected news, but it changed everything.
Exsanguination was unusual in murder victims. Tim knew of cases involving satanic cults where victims had been sacrificially killed and their blood ceremonially drained. That might be possible here but based on everything Tim already knew about the small town of Bicester, there was a much more plausible explanation.
Vampires.
Tim took another pull on his pint, which was nearly drained. He’d need another soon, but not just yet.
He thought about Scarlett. She was his most likely suspect, based on witness testimony. She had been seen talking with Bill Knight right here in this pub on the night the man was murdered and buried. If she hadn’t done it, she must know something. And her denial of ever having met him implied either that she was guilty herself or was a possible accomplice.
But now it appeared that the victim’s blood was drained. That meant a vampire attacked him.
Was it possible that Scarlett was a vampire?
No, he thought.
Tim had noticed the scratch on her neck below her chin. Tim’s study of vampires indicated that they had remarkable powers of healing. It was probably the main reason that they lived so long. They could be killed, but they never died of old age. In theory, they were immortal, because they healed so rapidly.
If Scarlett were a vampire, her scratch would have healed immediately.
Okay, so let’s rule that out.
What were the other possibilities, then? Was it possible that the blood loss was unrelated to the murder?
Tim knew vampires did not necessarily kill their victims, so it was possible that his blood loss was not the cause of death.
Perhaps a vampire attacked him, but he survived, and was then killed by someone else.
No, he thought, that doesn’t make sense. Too complicated.
Occam’s razor stated that the simplest solution was most likely the correct one. Imagining multiple attacks by multiple assailants only increased the unlikelihood.
The blow to the head had to be taken into account. Bill Knight had been struck in the back of the neck and he had also been exsanguinated.
But which came first? What if the blow came well before the exsanguination?
Scarlett was no vampire, which meant she probably did not drain the victim’s blood. But she was young and healthy and strong enough to render a man unconscious by hitting him in the neck with a rock or a club or some other hard object.
Tim continued down this line of thought for a while.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the scene. It was late at night. She had been drinking at the White Hart and she meets Bill Knight. She didn’t know him, but he was friendly at first, and he chats her up. She’s not interested in him, so she goes home.
What does Bill Knight do then?
Tim knew that Knight had a reputation for being aggressive with his questioning. He had been a professor, but when he started acting erratically after his daughter went missing, investigating her case himself, they had to let him go. Knight’s colleagues had told Tim that Knight was nothing if not persistent.
And he’d been drinking, Tim noted.
Tim imagined Knight following her out of the pub. Or maybe he offers to walk her home and she accepts. But then he gets too aggressive, or Scarlett gets scared, and she feels she has to defend herself. So she hits him with something, and he falls.
What does she do then? Tim asked himself.
She didn’t call the police, or an ambulance. That much was clear.
Tim imagined her running home, locking the door, and trying to forget all about it. That would explain her nervousness when Tim questioned her the next day. She would have recognized the man in the photo, thought back to the night before, and known she might be responsible for his disappearance, even if it was in self-defense.
Okay, that makes more sense.
But then what happened to Knight?
Tim imagined him lying on the ground. Not dead. Stunned, unconscious maybe. Helpless.
And that’s when the vampire comes, he thought.
Like all predators, vampires were attracted by the smell of blood. Bill Knight could easily have been bleeding.
The scenario seemed plausible enough, based on the limitations of what Tim knew. First, a night out on the town. Second, an act of self-defense. Third, an opportunistic vampire.
That didn’t answer everything, of course.
Who buried the body?
If a vampire happened across a wounded man and drank his blood, why would he bother to bury him? What was the motive?
Something else bothered Tim. The coroner. With the discovery of the body, and the involvement of the police, the coroner was required by law to issue a report.
Tim picked up his phone and dialed the coroner’s office.
A receptionist answered. “Doctor Stansfield’s office.”
“This is Tim Clarke. Is Fred in?”
“He was just leaving. Let me see if I can catch him.”
“I’ll wait.”
Tim finished his beer.
A moment passed, and there was scuffling and muttering on the other end of the line. “Tim?” It was Fred Stansfield’s voice. “You get my email?”
“Yeah, just now. Wanted to follow up.”
“Sure.”
“I know this isn’t the full report, but I just wanted to check something with you.”
“What’s that?”
“Did you find any signs of struggle?”
“You mean apart from the blunt force trauma?”
“Yeah, besides that.”
“Nothing definitive. Why do you ask?”
“Well,” said Tim, trying not to sound accusatory, “I don’t see any mention of the fingernails. Did you check that?”
There was a silence on the other end.
“I’m not telling you how to do your job,” Tim assured him. “Just clarifying.”
“Well, Tim, I’m not gonna tell you how to do your job, either. I know you have to follow up on these things.”
“No offense.”
“Oh, none taken. I appreciate your candor, as always.”
“Well?”
Tim heard the man sigh.
“You understand what I’m asking?” Tim said.
“Of course.” The doctor paused. “Tim, let’s put it this way. In light of this most recent evidence, I’m going to rule it an animal attack.”
Tim smiled. Fred Stansfield knew how the game was played.
“Thank you, Fred. I appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
The line went dead.
Tim set his phone down. He wanted to move. His butt was hurting. He could go back to the hotel for dinner or stay here. If he stayed, he needed to change to another seat.
He closed his laptop and looked around. It wasn’t too crowded, and he found a tall two-person table in the corner near the big screen monitor, which was playing the news with the closed caption and the volume turned off.
He was about to go to the bar to order another pint when he saw Scarlett enter with her friend Amanda.
+++
The White Hart Pub, Bicester, England
Scarlett stepped into the pub, with Amanda following closely behind her. The twilight evening outside was chilly and they had walked briskly to counter the effects. Now the warmth of the pub hugged her like a blanket.
“Table or bar?” she said to Amanda.
“Bar, I think.”
“Me too.”
There wer
e only a few people at the bar: a bald gentleman with a triangle beard on his chin and a couple of middle-aged ladies gossiping at the end. They were early for the night crowd.
Scarlett had always liked this place, with its dark wood décor, stone fireplace, decorative Jameson barrels, pockmarked dartboard, stone support columns, and friendly staff.
“What can I get you ladies?” asked the bartender.
“Half a lager for me,” Scarlett said.
“And one for me, as well,” said Amanda.
“Two halves, coming up.” The bartender poured their beers and served them.
Scarlett saw Amanda reach for her purse and touched her arm to stop her.
“First one’s on me,” she said.
Amanda smiled. “I’ll get the next then.”
“Should I open a tab?” the bartender asked.
“Not if she’s getting the next one,” Scarlett grinned.
She paid in cash, and the bartender drifted to another customer.
“What are we toasting to?” Amanda asked.
“Friendship.”
“To friendship.”
They clinked glasses and took their first sips.
Scarlett set down her pint. “It’s the most important thing, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“Friendship.”
Amanda’s expression was quizzical. “One of the most important, certainly.”
“I feel like I never see you anymore,” Scarlett said bluntly.
“You’re seeing me now.”
“I just feel like I need to schedule our time now. It didn’t used to be like that.”
Amanda’s face stiffened. “Before Ronnie, you mean.”
Tell her now, Scarlett.
She took a deep breath. “I wanted to see you tonight, so I can could say I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For last night. At Ronnie’s. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Apology accepted.”
“Thank you.” Scarlett took another sip.
“Though honestly,” Amanda said, “you don’t need to apologize. You’re not going to lose me over a silly little argument, you know.”
“I don’t know what got into me,” Scarlett confessed. “I’ve been feeling really strange lately. Anxious. Scattered. And I can’t remember for the life of me what we were even arguing about.”
Amanda studied the bottom of her pint sitting on the counter. “You still having nightmares?”
“What nightmares?” Scarlett asked.
“The one you told me about the teeth and the body.”
Scarlett didn’t remember having any nightmares about teeth and a body.
“I… I don’t remember anything about…I’ve been feeling kind of… scattered lately,” she repeated.
Amanda nodded. “It’s probably because you haven’t been sleeping well, with everything that’s been going on. You just need to get some more rest, that’s all.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Well, listen,” Amanda said with warmth in her voice, looking directly at her friend now. “I know I haven’t made it easier on you, either. I jumped to Ronnie’s defense last night without even considering what you were saying. I should have listened more and not been so defensive about it. I didn’t need to escalate it like that, and I’m sorry. I know it probably sounded like I was choosing Ronnie over you, but that was never my intent. You mean so much to me, Scarlett. You don’t even know.”
Scarlett felt a tightness in her chest and tears beginning to well in the corners of her eyes. “I think I do know.”
“You’ve always been my best friend, and that’s never going to change. No matter what happens with me and Ronnie, or anyone else, we’re still a team. We said we could tackle the world together remember?”
Scarlett nodded and wiped her eyes.
“And we did,” Amanda continued. “We still do, every day. And even if I’m away at Ronnie’s or at my parents or whatever, you know you can reach out to me and I’ll be there for you, for a chat or anything. You’ve been my lifeline more times than I can possibly count, and God knows I never would have survived uni without you.”
Scarlett laughed at that, recalling their madcap adventures, getting in and out of trouble together and always shouldering life’s burdens together when things got tough.
She set her pint on the bar and opened her arms. Amanda hugged her tightly, and now they were both crying. Scarlett knew they were quite the spectacle, and she felt someone watching them in the pub, but she really didn’t care. What she needed now was to reconnect with the one person in the world who really understood her. She needed the security of that embrace, and the warm feeling of two best friends reconfirming their unbreakable commitment to each other.
When the tears had ebbed and their heartbeats had fully synchronized, they drew back from each other and laughed, feeling so much better for being open and honest.
“Finish that,” Amanda said, pointing at Scarlett’s glass. “I owe you one, and you’re not leaving here until I make good.”
Scarlett chuckled embarrassed. “You’ve already made good, silly.”
She took another swig of her beer and set it down on the wooden bar with a solid thunk.
“That’s the spirit,” Amanda said. “Let’s get rip-roaring tonight.”
Scarlett grinned. “Let’s!”
Amanda waved at the bartender, who saw and acknowledged her but was in the middle of making change to another patron.
Scarlett watched the bartender count out some bills and coins and carry them to the other end of the bar. She handed them to a man who looked oddly familiar.
For a moment, Scarlett didn’t recognize who it was. The bar was moderately dark, and he was wearing a plain light-blue button-up shirt open at the collar. The man smiled at her and waved.
“I think he likes you,” Amanda observed.
Scarlett didn’t wave back. His face confused her. He was handsome in a familiar sort of way, like she’d seen him on television or in the movies maybe. There was a sort of unearned intimacy in the way he smiled at her, and she found it rather presumptuous, considering that they hadn’t even met.
Or had they?
Scarlett looked away from him, trying to settle her thoughts, and her gaze fell on the approaching bartender, Sarah. Sarah had been serving them for years now. They didn’t know the other guy’s name who had served them their first round, but they were on familiar terms with Sarah. They liked Sarah. She was friendly and efficient, even under pressure in the Saturday night carnage that was The White Hart.
“What’ll it be, then?” she asked Amanda, who had been the one who’d signaled her.
Amanda looked to Scarlett. “Same?”
“Yes, perfect.”
Sarah fetched new glasses and poured their drinks.
Amanda’s gaze shifted, and her eyes widened. “He’s coming over,” she hissed, grabbing at Scarlett’s arm from beneath the bar.
Scarlett looked up and saw the handsome man approach.
Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god.
Her stomach did a somersault.
“Hello, ladies,” he said, sidling up to them. “I’d like to get this one, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind,” Amanda replied. “I’m buying my roommate a drink.” She had raised her chin indignantly, but the man seemed amused by it, and smiled pleasantly. “Roommate? You must be Amanda. Scarlett told me about you.”
What?
Scarlett’s mind raced. She felt like she knew him from somewhere but didn’t remember talking to him. But he knew Amanda’s name, so maybe…Maybe she had.
That’s it. I’m losing my marbles. It’s the only explanation…
Amanda was looking at her now for confirmation. A moment later Scarlett realized that Amanda wanted an introduction.
Scarlett froze. She recognized him but couldn’t place him or remember his name.
The man extended his hand to Amanda. “I’m Tim
.”
Tim… Tim Clarke!
That’s why she didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t in uniform.
“Soldier Tim,” Scarlett clarified.
Amanda brightened. “Oh my god. You’re Soldier Tim?”
He raised one eyebrow at her, giving her what was probably his stock James Bond look. “Flight Lieutenant Clarke, if we’re going to be official about it.”
Amanda tried not to smile too much. “I’d rather not be too official,” she said, low and sultry.
Scarlett shot her friend a stern look.
Don’t flirt with him! Traitor!
Too late. Amanda had locked hands and eyes with Soldier Tim, and she was smitten.
“Amanda,” she said. “But you know that already.”
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Amanda caught Scarlett’s look and her own expression sobered. She let go of Tim’s hand as the bartender set their new glasses down in front of them.
“This is on me,” Tim told the bartender, reaching for the wallet in his back-left pocket.
“Keep it in your pants,” Amanda ordered. “I got it.”
Tim laughed, and Amanda paid.
Scarlett turned to face him. “What are you doing here?”
Tim remained standing, though there was an empty stool next to Scarlett.
“Working,” he said, innocently.
Scarlett studied him with narrowed eyes. “Spying, you mean.”
He chuckled. “I wouldn’t be much of a spy if I walked right up to my targets, now would I?”
Scarlett felt her hackles rise. “So now I’m a target, am I?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What am I to you, then?”
“A beautiful woman I’d like to talk to,” he said rather plainly, but with a look that hinted at more.
What game is he playing? Scarlett wondered.
She remembered talking to Tim twice at the shop, now. He was investigating a missing person, who was… what?
Found dead, she recalled, and felt a shadow fall across her heart. Murdered.
The memory disturbed her. Even worse, she couldn’t seem to keep her thoughts straight. She hadn’t recognized him at first, and her memories of him didn’t leap immediately to the forefront of her mind.
I can’t possibly be drunk…
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