Parchment: Ghost Part Three

By andrew fox

A brutal murder at Aberdeen University and intrepid detective Robert Ross is summoned to attend.

Michael Flannery infamous archaeologist and thief is dead.

A mysterious parchment potentially extremely damaging to the Catholic Church was discovered by Flannery. The murdered man’s home is burgled another murder an Egyptian thief.

The chase is on to find the parchment. Ross sends an SOS to Andrew Beveridge, his only trusted friend. They journey to Egypt to search for the parchment.

Ross is abducted and beaten for information leading to its recovery. He escapes incarceration inside a tomb.

Andrew travels to Italy, infiltrates The Abbey of St Stefano, cracks the code of the labyrinth and discovers the oldest library in Christendom with thousands of books and  parchments hidden from the Vatican.

A miracle occurs in Nazareth. Mary and Joseph flee to Egypt to escape the assassins of Herod. Discover the mystery of Jesu and Aaron, chosen by God to bring enlightenment to a terrible and violent world ruled by Rome.

Betrayal by the elders in the temple and a crucifiction, a tragic miscarriage of justice.

Ross is again threatened and Andrew fights to keep him safe and alive.

A brotherhood from the Vatican stalks Ross wanting the damning parchment that would turn conventional religion on it head!

Mystery and danger lurks around every corner. Deadly assassins and secret guilds, betrayal within his own ranks and Ross is at his wits end. Who to trust as he is constantly threatened.

• Language: English
• Publisher: andrew fox
• Release date: Jan 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386329831

andrew fox

Andrew Fox is an author and screenplay writer living in Bulgaria with his wife and a host of domestic animals

Book preview

-Chapter One.

Panting, face run with sweat and lungs burning, he finally made it to the top of the building. Crouching, limbs trembling with reaction, he paused to regain his breath. Shuffled forward. Here? No more to the left I think. He moved forward again, found a spot behind the base of a large water tank. His knees were beginning to hurt. In his struggle to remove a black back pack, his right knee pressed down onto the concrete of the roof. He unzipped the bag and removed a leather bound cylinder. His trembling, fumbling fingers removed a telescope from the holder.

The watcher lifted the telescope and peered through the lens. Turned the focus wheel and grunted with satisfaction, a smile on his face. The object of his scrutiny closed a file and threw it onto a growing pile.

He opened a fresh file and perused the contents of the first page, shook his head and then as an afterthought scratched his head. Abruptly, he stood up and walked round the large ornate desk towards a filing cabinet, and with agitated intensity opened a drawer.

The door was abruptly flung open. Just as quickly, he slammed the drawer shut and whipped around to face the newcomer.

The watcher grunted with frustration as a second figure leaped into the circle of the lens. The watcher saw the second man wildly gesticulate, point a finger at the owner of the office. He stepped past the first man, stopping in front of the cabinet. The drawer was ripped open. A bottle of whiskey extracted. The newcomer held the bottle in his hand waving it around like a game trophy. The bottle was placed on the desk between them.

The owner of the office stood mute. The glass lifted to his face. His mouth was hard and he appeared defiant with blazing eyes staring at the newcomer. A wild wave of the arms in the air then he ripped the bottle of whiskey from the desk. The top was removed and he drank, offered the bottle to his guest who made no move to accept the offer. Again the glass shifted. Shock registered on the face of the newcomer. The owner of the whiskey returned the bottle to the drawer and walked behind the desk, sat down and paying no more attention to the intruder apparently continued with his work.

The visitor leaned forward, hands on desk and shook his head. Was he talking, berating? It was impossible to tell. The visitor dramatically threw his hands in the air, turned and walked towards the door. Unexpectedly he returned to the centre of the room. The man behind the desk kicked his chair back, stormed around the desk and wagged his finger at the newcomer.

Dramatically, the newcomer threw a punch and struck the first man in the face. He staggered back but clutched at the desk and righted his balance. He rubbed his jaw and then grabbed the visitor by the shirt front. A struggle ensued where the newcomer was kneed in the groin. He bent over and a punch behind the ear drove him to the carpet.

The man who had been the subject of scrutiny then kicked his attacker in the side. He stood back and the attacker staggered to his feet. He was apparently injured but not subdued. At once he threw another punch. The owner of the office staggered back against the desk clutching his eye. With that, the newcomer left the office. The owner of the office sat on the edge of the desk holding his eye, apparently completely deflated.

The watcher shook his head again. What a volatile lot these people are. He returned to his scrutiny of the first man who had once again opened the cabinet drawer. The whiskey bottle was tilted and he was drinking from it. The watcher sighed with growing impatience. When is he going to leave?

Another half hour dragged by on crippled legs, with the owner of the office reading through files piled on his desk. At last the man stood up and ripping a jacket from a coat rack, he switched off the light and closed the door on his way out.

. . . .

He stood in the middle of the office and scratched his head with a latex gloved index finger. Where the hell could it possibly be? In the University archive or the storeroom?

The office resembled a rubbish tip. An enraged bull couldn’t have disassembled order in here more effectively! Papers, books, files were strewn across the office floor. Drawers ripped out and abandoned where they were dropped. The door opened! 

The owner of the office had returned. Shocked, he stood just inside the door staring first at the intruder and then at the mess that was his office. The intruder was holding a wooden drawer in his hand the contents lay at his feet. On impulse he swung it. The shocked man was struck along the side of his head. He cried out, staggered back and sat down – hard.

In an instant the intruder was upon him, the drawer still in his hand. As he approached the fallen, he turned the drawer round and held it by the smaller front facing side, the side that is inserted into the desk.

The man on the carpet was rising. He swung the drawer again.

The corner of the rear façade struck the man in the temple. He cried out and fell back, tripped over his own feet and crashed to the floor. Blood poured from his head.

Holding the drawer in both hands it was brought down onto the unprotected forehead of the victim. A loud crack resounded in the office. The man lay on his back either unconscious or dead. Another strike was delivered, this time to the top of the cranium. A second loud crack!

He delivered a third strike and a final strike and then dropped the drawer. Panting from his exertion, he stared at the man at his feet. He stopped and held his breath, listening. No sounds came from the other side of the door that stood slightly ajar. He grunted and went down onto a knee next to his victim, avoiding getting any blood on himself. Blood had trickled from the side of his mouth. Deceased he decided.

Keys! Car keys and a second bunch went into his pocket. The intruder left, leaving the door still ajar.

It wasn’t here! Perhaps somewhere, in his house.

. . . .

He stopped approximately one hundred metres down the street and switched off the engine. His head swivelled left then right. All the windows in the houses on both sides of the street were lit.

Gravel crunched under his shoes, a stiff breeze buffeted him. He walked briskly towards the house he knew the professor occupied. It started to drizzle. He stared up at the darkened sky. No stars were visible.

The gate was wet but his gloved hands were impervious to the cold metal. The soft rain had dampened the hinges because the gate remained silent as he pushed it out of his way. He hurried up three steps to the front door. Studying the bunch of keys for a moment, he selected one and about to slip it into keyhole, he saw that the door was standing ajar!

The door was pushed out of the way, stepped into an austere silence, smelling of fragrant pipe tobacco. Somewhere deeper inside the house a clock patiently ticked away the evening.

Silence ascended the scales and seemed to drone in his ears that were alert to any change in the status quo. He hurried up another three steps and entered a study that was just as untidy as the office he had left in disarray, together with its deceased occupant.

A quick glance at his wrist watch and he pursed his lips. Time was running out! He studied the room in front of him. Where? Where? There was no safe in the office back at the University. The item would surely not be given to others to peruse! The contents potentially too inflammable!

He lifted a portrait and peered behind. Dust cascaded to the floor. It hadn’t been touched for many years. Another portrait gave up an equal amount of dust. The study had been turned upside down!

Upstairs he went, taking the stairs two at a time. He paused on the landing listening. It was surely not the professor who had turned his study upside down! He proceeded with caution and entered the home owner’s bedroom. Chaos in here too! The bed unmade, sheets on the carpet, two pillows lying at the foot of the bed. Bedside table – the drawer was lying on the carpet, the contents strewn or kicked around. He was late!

He negotiated the drawer lying on the carpet. A safe door stood open! He stepped forward. Glass crunched under his shoes. He glanced down. Shards of it lay in a pile around a portrait carelessly dropped onto the carpet below the safe. 

They beat me to it! He clenched his fists in helpless frustration. "Fuck!" He mouthed silently, his face distorted in helpless rage.

He stood absolutely still with perspiration running down his cheeks. He had clearly heard laboured breathing. Opposite the open safe frustratingly empty, was a row of built-in cupboards. He reached under his right armpit, withdrew a nine millimetre pistol with a silencer.

You have five seconds to come out. One, two, three... The cupboard door on the extreme left slowly creaked open. A dark shadowy figure appeared holding a document holder, in his left hand.

The pistol coughed once, twice. The man stepped back, staggered and then emitted a soft squeal of shock and surprise. With a deep sigh he collapsed onto the carpet at the second intruder’s feet.

No time to lose. He noticed that his most recent victim didn’t wear any gloves. Well that’s handy.

In a hurry, he scooped up the document cylinder. He removed one of the white caps and gently removed the contents. It was a rolled up parchment.

With trembling fingers, he pushed the parchment back into the holder and replaced the cap. The head rose eyes narrowing. A siren howled in the distance.

He left the house as silently as he had entered.

. . . .

Robert Ross stepped out of the shower and immediately started towelling his short cropped dark brown hair with a hint of grey at the temples. He was shorter than his fellow officers but was in possession of an extraordinary intellect.

Hair covered his chest and slipped onto his shoulders in wispy disarray. At one time several years ago he was somewhat overweight but an incident in his recent past had catapulted him towards serious weight loss and now he weighed in at a steady eighty five kilograms. He was no super athlete but another similar incident in Afghanistan had honed and toned his body into a hard police unit capable of tackling anything. Deep blue eyes almost violet, stared with undisguised distrust at an uncaring world. Firm mouth seldom given to smiling had earned him the name of stone face with his colleagues. His nose, long and slightly hooked was typically Gaelic. Strong chin, with a thin, hard mouth. He was absolutely honest and the consummate police officer!

It was a Sunday morning and he was at peace with the world. He sighed with deep satisfaction and smiled ever so slightly. In his bed lay an attractive brunette he had brought home with him. With no current relationship, he had met her in the local pub. Asleep now but the memory of her delights kept the smile on his face.

He quickly dressed and tied his shoe laces. The mobile phone on the bedside table played the opening bars of Smoke on the water the Deep Purple rock anthem. He ignored it. He was on leave! Perhaps it was a wrong number. Perhaps, perhaps. Oh for Pity’s sake he cried in a deep Glaswegian accent. Hello Ross. He sighed with resignation.

Oh right sur Where? The University of Aberdeen, history department, right sur.

Ross slowly placed the mobile on the table next to him. Only three days of his leave and now – back on duty! That thing in Afghanistan had taken its toll on him. A death at the University? Interesting. Ross stood up and walked into the bedroom. She was just waking from her post sex snooze. May turned onto her back and lifted her arms. Her breasts changed shape became rounder seemingly more voluptuous. He stirred and tension grew inside his groin.

Come back to bed Robert, I need some more cream. She purred. A pink tongue licked across her sensuous lips.

Ross ripped the shirt from his back and threw it at the wall. His shorts followed and then he got stuck with uncooperative shoe laces resisting his frenetic attack.

Ross crawled towards her, his erection leading the way.

No foreplay this time, I need you inside me. She whispered and parted her thighs. Ross fell between them.

Aghhh! He sighed as he penetrated deep into her body.

. . . .

He pursed his lips and ground his teeth. Instantly his mood underwent a change. Today the Chief Superintendent had phoned him. "Robert, we haven’t seen you for more than a year. Now that you’re on leave, you can come down and pay us a visit. What is your problem anyway? Mother asks about you every week. He pulled a face as he mimicked his overbearing father. See to it that you come over on Sunday, after service, his father had commanded.

At once he felt weak and feeble. His heart pounded in his ears and his head throbbed like a cannibal’s dinner drum. For a moment his father’s forceful personality cowed him, reducing him to a feeble child, obedient and frightened. A moment later however, he snarled with defiance. One of these days he was going to give his father a piece of his mind.

Ross climbed the steps up to the third floor. It reminded him of his time at Glasgow University. No lifts only staircases. He reached the landing and saw the pacing figure of a security guard furiously puffing on a cigarette. Ross removed his warrant card and held it up for the disturbed man to peruse.

Did you phone the Police sur? he asked with his dark drown  voice and deep Glaswegian brogue.

Yes officer. I only went into the office to see why the door was standing ajar.

All right sur calm down. I want you to stand here and prevent any access to the office until you see me again... do you understand?

The security guard nodded.

Are you all right sur, you look a little pale. Ross studied his face.

It’s the body, the corpse. Gave me a start, I’m not...

Accustomed to the dead? I understand sur. Who is the occupant of this office? Is it Professor Michael Flannery?"

Yes sir.

Right, remain here please.

Ross stepped into the office and immediately looked for a switch. Pale and insignificant light lessened the gloom. The carpet had an Eastern pattern perhaps Persian, he thought.

Ross removed a small recorder from his pocket and switched it to record. Clipped it to his top jacket pocket, sniffed softly and glanced at the corpse. This was once a living, breathing human and he involuntarily pulled a face. Violent crime was becoming more common in the United Kingdom. Although he had seen his fair share of the dead, every one of them still provoked a sympathetic response in him. Death is a daily occurrence but traumatic death was nevertheless shocking even to a professional such as him. At sight of the cadaver, Ross could see that violently was how Michael Flannery had died.

The deceased is lying face down and has recently shaved his head. A bit odd isn't it? The skin under the hairline is pale, whereas the neck and face appears tanned. The difference in the skin tone is clearly, starkly visible. A holiday perhaps? Ross noisily exhaled through his mouth and knelt next to the deceased. "It lies, clothed in an expensive jacket and trousers, with brown leather shoes on the feet. I can't see the shirt except the collar and part of the left cuff. Light grey, with stripes. The left leg is bent at the knee, the other straight. Fingers of the left hand grabbed at the carpet. Perhaps this took place ante mortem, in his throes of agony or death? It is difficult to distinguish. Two fingernails are torn away, but still attached to the skin of their respective fingers. This led to substantial bleeding from his fingers. Yes, definitely anti-mortem."

He grimaced, imagining the agony the man had endured, during his last moments of life. To perform such an unprecedented feat of strength he thought, Professor Michael Flannery must have experienced unspeakable agony! A chill touched his spine and he pursed his lips. 

He squinted and pulled a face. The fingers of the right   hand are clenched into a fist, The late Michael Flannery must have been struck down here," Again he grimaced. A second chill touched his spine and ran its cold finger down his back. 

A single staring eye was wide open in shock. "The right side of his face is resting on the carpet. There is a large laceration, running across the skull, in front of the left ear!" Assuming Flannery was facing him, the attacker swung his weapon from the right. Therefore it follows that he was right handed or conversely - if he was facing away from Flannery and struck him with a left-handed backward blow – this however is unlikely for obvious reasons. I’m certain the attacker was right handed.

He shook his head and continued to dictate to the recorder. Blood spilt from the aforementioned laceration, covered the left eye and spilt down over the left side of his face, covering the cheek, down the side of his mouth and chin then onto the carpet, where it has pooled. Hmmm, Ross pursed his lips.

He could see that the eyeball was displaced. The forehead is a mess! Congealed blood had pooled on the carpet, on either side of the head, spreading outward down past the ears. The blood had soaked into the carpet. It seemed that he had received the first blow there, in front of the ear? He pointed. All the other blows appear to indicate a frenzied attack, he speculated. 

Ross rubbed his chin with the back of his gloved right hand and his bristles scraped across the latex. Several blows were delivered post mortem. Evidence of this is the absence of bleeding from several of the points of impact at the rear and left side of the skull, Ross sighed and exhaled through his nose.

A dark sticky mess was all that remained of his head. The deceased had not died immediately, he noticed. Bodies that died immediately, seldom haemorrhaged as much as this one did. He chewed at his lower lip.

Ross paused a moment, glanced once again over the corpse and pulled a face. It was quite common for the dying in their last throes, to turn their heads, either to the left or right. Although, subsequent blows to the skull could also inadvertently, turn the head. Again he sighed.

He frowned. There appears to be a lot more blood on the carpet than what had spilt out of the wound in front of his left ear. Blood had spilt outward from under the skull and had pooled around the head. He closed his eyes for a moment, licked suddenly dry lips. He swallowed and cleared his throat. I am lifting the right shoulder slightly with my left hand. The head droops slightly, which would indicate a state prior to rigor mortis having set in. Vomit has mingled with blood from the mouth, He lowered the shoulder. Looks like he has a swollen jaw and cheek, the bruising under his eye would suggest an altercation of some kind prior to death.

Ross wasn’t a pathologist, but he had been around long enough to know what signs to look for. On-scene speculation or analysis aside, he knew within a few degrees of error when a person had died.

Fundamentally, the body feels cool externally from a very early stage, depending on the ambient temperature and of course, what the victim was wearing at the time of death.

Michael Flannery is fully clothed he was even wearing a jacket, when he was murdered. The lapels of the jacket are stained with blood spatter, he noted.

... The corpse’s body temperature falls, by about one and a half to two degrees per hour, for the first twelve hours, then by one degree for the next twelve hours. A sure sign that the death had occurred twelve hours or more previously was the onset of rigor mortis.

Approximately two hours after death, the natural acid state of the tissue changes to an alkaline one. This causes the muscles that had been relaxed, to stiffen.

This process starts with the eyelids, then the muscles of the face and jaw, the arms, the trunk and finally the legs. 

It must be that laceration on the side of the left temple, where most of the blood came from, he realised.

Prior to death, the body releases adrenaline into the bloodstream, brought about because of the injury to the body. The presence of the adrenaline would accelerate the heart and pump great quantities of blood out of the wound or wounds.

The entire left side of his face was covered in congealed blood. He carefully pulled down on the right eyelid of the deceased. It resisted. He lifted the right hand. It was still in the process of advancing rigor mortis. He pulled a face. About eight, perhaps even nine hours ago, he estimated. I'll get the exact time of death from the forensic pathologist, Craig Kirkwood. he reassured himself.

His jaw worked constantly, repeatedly clenching his teeth. He looked at the forehead and top of the skull of the victim’s head. He could clearly see the shattered cranium bone, caved in. Greyish goo had collected in several shattered spots encompassing the strike zone of the murder. Blood spattering? The light bulb was a soft 60 watt glow and hardly lit the scene enough to examine the body, together with the uncertain light from the early morning sun, filtering dubiously through the fixed blinds the presence of blood spattering in the area immediately around the body was unseen. Ross fished in his pocket and extracted a small torch.

He played the ultraviolet beam from left to right and saw the evidence of blood on the suit, the shirt collar and wooden desk next to which the deceased had fallen. 

He audibly sighed. Someone was extremely fed up with you, lad. he said tonelessly. 

The heart stops pumping blood immediately, at the point of death. His experienced eyes moved across the crime scene. No blood spatter here, It looks like the secondary, ultimately fatal blows were delivered in a frenzied attack. Some are intrusive, some not - cranium bone intrudes into the brain tissue and death ensues, Ross looked up, shaking his head. Murder weapon? His eyes alighted upon a desk drawer carelessly discarded. One of the sides had blood spatter on it. "A desk drawer? Good grief! He pointed the torch at the ceiling and clearly saw blood spatter.

Well, enough from me I'll wait for Kirkwood’s professional opinion, before drawing any conclusions. Now then, the rest of the crime scene - so someone was searching, for something. The office is a mess.

He came to his feet with creaking knees and carefully stepped back away from the body, so protecting the immediate crime scene and adjacent to the body, the scene of the crime.

The pungent odour of congealed blood and the unmistakable smell of faeces served to make him nauseous. Without the hair, the gaping wounds probably looked worse than what they really were. 

He stood near the window and in the dubious light one cheek was burnished, while the other remained aglow.

The office dimly illuminated as it was, held a mystical secret he thought. He frowned and switched off the recorder. Right, time to call in the troops. He remarked to the silence around him. In a short while the office was going to be swarming with white coated men from the Home Office Forensic department.

He heard a commotion outside and turning left the office. It was the team from Forensics.

Hello Doctor Kirkwood. He greeted.

DCI Ross what a pleasure to see you back at work. Did you enjoy your brief leave?

Yes all three days of it! Ross smiled. "A nasty one Doctor with a most odd murder weapon - it appears to be a drawer from the desk.

Still on leave Robert?

I was until an hour ago.

Super phoned me at home told us to zip our cake holes and not a word until you’ve concluded your findings.

Our Professor Flannery was a member of his guild, assistant chairman. Top man at the University but a proper hothead who had several punch ups with his fellow history boffs.

Well that certainly makes things a lot easier for me Doc, how did you know him so well?

I am also a member of the guild. Mum is the word DCI. Mum is the word. He placed a gloved index finger in front of his mouth.

I should have known he said to himself. Bloody favouritism is what I call it! Ross turned away and fished out his mobile. Still wearing the latex gloves he punched the keyboard. Hello DS Earnock, Ross. Could you get yourself down to Aberdeen Unie? You’ll find me in the history department. We have a murder. He rang off. He was not a man to suffer fools gladly and certainly expected those he dealt with not think him an idiot. A bloody guild this time! The presumption that everything must be kept hush, hush and no word to anyone made his blood boil.

I’ll appreciate your analysis ASAP Doc. Thank you.

Ross pursed his lips with rising impatience his mouth a thin line as he mulled this over in his head. With every passing moment he became more annoyed.

Doctor Kirkwood had recognised in the sound of Ross’ voice a rising anger and a signal to depart. He knew Ross well and had several times suffered the lash of his tongue.

We’ll start at once DCI. I’ll see you back in the lab in a few hours. He picked up his box of paraphernalia. This bloody thing gets heavier every time I use it.

You’re getting old Kirkwood.

Bollocks Ross, I can take you any day of the week.

Sure you can - make certain it’s not more than a few hours Doctor, I’m becoming impatient. Ross growled.

Crystal clear DCI Ross, we’ll be ready for you. The Forensic team scuttled out of his way and into the office and immediately went to work.

. . . .

Doctor Craig Kirkwood slowly approached the victim but stopped. He looked towards the fixed metal Venetian-type blinds along the eastern side of the office. Disappointed at the available light, he turned back to his team, waiting for him.

Pale lighting from the ceiling, fixed blinds but I can at least see the crime scene. Kirkwood stopped two metres from the cadaver. He pulled a rubber swimming cap over his head and attached a microphone to his lapel. It transmitted back to the controlling unit. The head mounted camera and light unit hugged his right ear and cheek. He donned latex gloves and over his shoes he slipped soft plastic anti-static elasticised galoshes. 

His crime scene suit crackled in sympathy with his knees, as he knelt down on the carpet. Removed his spectacles, placing them in a special pocket in his suit. His special magnifying glasses appeared on the bridge of his nose.

Are you receiving this, MacTavish? Kirkwood tested the Video recording unit.

Yes Doc, almost immediately the reply. William MacTavish their sound and recording specialist was outside the office controlling the video recording and sound equipment.

How are the images, Mac? Kirkwood inquired again.

Crisp and macabre Doc - what a mess, he concluded.

He was firstly looking for trace evidence like hair and synthetic fibres. Unfortunately, for investigators hair samples from different parts of the body have significant variations in their structure, so the incumbent would have to take samples from the widest possible range. Hair from head, eyebrows and eyelashes have a circular cross section. Hair from beards generally have a triangular cross section and armpit hairs, by comparison are oval.

On the back of his left hand, Doctor Craig Kirkwood wore a set of tools, a set of miniatures normally associated with watchmakers or jewellers and even electronic engineers and the like. Kirkwood selected a pair of tweezers and peeled off an evidence bag from a ready supply, attached to his left forearm, above the tiny tools. Special white filter paper evidence bags were utilised to avoid the samples sweating and thereby losing their efficacy.

Kirkwood placed the samples into relevant bags and one by one passed them to Derek Browne his assistant who was systematically labelling them. He directed his attention to the other side of the body. He had noticed soil on the carpet. Barely visible were two footprints. He had recorded the evidence, so had no problem with taking a soil sample. Aha! His voice softly entered the short void of silence. "One this side, let’s see, nothing to disturb here. Blood spatters! Jeesus! The poor sod didn’t know what hit him," he muttered under his breath.

Aloud, he barked an instruction. Browne? The digital temperature jobby...device, if you please? Kirkwood reached his hand out and took it from his colleague. He inserted the device into the corpse’s ear and spoke softly into his microphone. "Eight and a half hours ago this fellow died. Please inform Detective Chief Inspector Ross if you would Mr MacTavish, Kirkwood concluded. He handed the device back to Browne, who placed it in the large metal bag Kirkwood had earlier complained about. Right, another evidence bag, he muttered to himself. Scalpel, tweezers, he slowly extracted the items, one by one. Clearly, the victim’s blood having issued from... horizontal laceration on left side of skull - below hairline in front of ear. Sample of victim’s blood taken, he spoke softly. Browne take the bag. Kirkwood had seen gruesome scenes of violence in his often colourful career but he had seldom seen anything so brutal and premeditated. He shook his head slightly and the camera was inadvertently panned from left to right. MacTavish frowned and was about to ask if anything was wrong, but instead held his tongue. He too, was shocked at the brutality of the murder.

Kirkwood was continuing. Yet another evidence bag, He   continued his muttering. He scraped small bits of dried blood off the carpet, with the scalpel. Hair samples mixed with blood. A clump almost as if... Ye Gods! Kirkwood exclaimed. A sliver of skin, with hair attached. Shaven skull, so... Aha! He nodded. From the eyebrow," he confirmed audibly.

Where is the photographer? You need his assistance of course.

He hasn’t arrived yet, Mr Kirkwood. MacTavish replied from his position as sound and visual controller.

Samples of skin and fabric. Mr Ross will by now have done the initial checks. Extremely sharp, our Mr Robert Ross. he said. Only his tongue is sharper. Browne turned and left the office. Now let’s see, he carefully lifted the left hand. All the fingers are partially curled, talon-like.

Kirkwood sighed and continued his narrative. In his agony, the victim clenched his fingers into a fist, clutching at the carpet. Two fingernails are torn from the flesh. The index and middle fingernails apparently ante mortem, because haemorrhaging from the fingers is quite pronounced, he frowned. Some blood on the carpet. Kirkwood cleared his throat. Right nothing between fingers. Fibres under fingernails on ring finger and small finger, together with grass and sand particles consistent with what might be found on the carpet. Let’s see if the other side of the late Mr Flannery yields a footprint, he spoke into the silence. Somewhere outside he heard the voice of a male person. Perhaps that sick looking security guard. Aha just as I thought, the other foot, he wriggled his nose. Smells bloody awful but another odour intrudes. What’s that I smell? Jasmine? No, He sniffed. Of course, it’s Sandalwood! Kirkwood called out. This is a crime of passion or surprise! Brush and pan Mr Browne. Are you listening, MacTavish?" Kirkwood enquired.

Yes, Doctor Kirkwood. came the reply. Ready to assist and contribute to the investigation, Doc.

Right, silver lifting film. Footprints. Look for latent prints and also lift those, he pursed his lips as he worked.

Kirkwood raised his eyes to the ceiling. The powerful, miniature torch attached to his magnifying lens cast a narrow beam of light, illuminating further evidence of the violence and emotionally charged murder scene.

The ceiling was festooned with blood spatter.

Previously... many years ago, Scotland Yard employed the rather clumsy method of string webbing, at the scene of a crime to determine, in a visual three dimensional image where the victim stood or was proceeding, at the time of the attack.

Blood splatter is a vital part of crime scene investigation. Shape and size of droplets of blood determine velocity and angle of impact. The angle of rise and trajectory of murder weapon and secondary blows, to the victim.

A series of tiny droplets, indicating high velocity splatter, may indicate that a firearm was used in the crime. Blood splattering which is slow, large and round almost certainly indicates a punch, while mid-speed droplets would indicate blunt object impact.

Drops of blood that fall from high surfaces such as ceilings are called crown droplets, depending on which surface they land. These drops of blood strike the surface... such as a table top, an occasional table, tiled floors and the like. They actually bounce and at times smaller drops of blood issue from the original drop and form a succession of tiny droplets around the mother drop of blood.

A drop of blood striking at an angle changes shape. The leading edge will remain round, but the following edge will be deformed or elongated. This indicates the direction in which the drop was travelling when it struck.

Blood splatter will be dealt with later lads when the photographer finally arrives, Kirkwood unnecessarily advised.

The photographer had specialised photographic equipment and a computer, with a back-track software package used in Blood Splatter Pattern analysis.

The software drove the laser beam gadgets, he used in the   analysis of the ‘blood fly-off velocity and direction’.

He was a complete arse, as far as Kirkwood was concerned but he really was indispensable. He was a pioneer in laser beam analysis that had replaced the strings and protractor, cum mirror technique that was antiquated and time consuming. 

Mr Kirkwood the Photographer has just arrived, MacTavish informed his superior.

"Think about the Devil. Oh, an ode to punctuality. I sometimes wish that I could select my own team," was all he said in reply to the much anticipated news. 

He sighed dramatically while moving further from the body. I daresay DCI Ross would have given Johnny-come-lately a thick ear a long time ago! He chuckled again. Kirkwood removed the evidence bag from his supply and the tearing sound of him ripping it off the stack reverberated in MacTavish’s ears. The sound equipment was extremely sensitive. Kirkwood’s steady breathing was a constant companion, to his auditory senses.

Once more he returned to the body, checked and saw that it wore leather shoes. Four additional hair samples were collected. Soil samples from the sole of the deceased’s shoes were collected. The victim had walked through an area, where the floor had been worked on by workmen. Raw, unmixed cement was in evidence. Red demarcation paint and the yellow variety was also bagged and marked. PVA was discovered on the carpet near the body together with what looked like pigeon droppings. 

Ohh horrible - cut lip slight haemorrhage. Punch must have done that. Inside of the mouth filled with vomit, he spoke into the microphone.

Outside the office, MacTavish’s recording equipment was faithfully recording all the images as they appeared with Kirkwood’s progress across the crime scene.

The expression on the dead man’s face was almost one of surprise. Kirkwood stood up. Right Browne move your UV light across the scene, adjacent to the body. Check for latent footprints we need photographs. Soil sample of the material captured within the footprint, he instructed.

Liaise with our Jimmy-come-lately and cover the entire scene, MacTavish, Kirkwood instructed. Right, I must get on, he advised. He looked up. The deceased was obviously meticulous about personal hygiene, he spoke into the microphone. 

Kirkwood stepped back from the body of Michael Flannery. Right let’s conclude lads. Mr Ross isn’t a man who likes to be kept waiting!

. . . .

Detective Sergeant Ella Earnock climbed into her unmarked Ford Focus and drove towards the University of Aberdeen. She had every respect for Ross but was intimidated in his presence. His reputation exceeded that of anyone she knew - even the Assistant Commissioner who was her Uncle and the Chief Constable her father. Ross was simply a giant in the CID. He was probably also the most disliked Detective Chief Inspector in the Service. His sharp tongue had laid her back bare on many occasions and no-one in the team of Detectives liked to work with him.

Ella was a plain yet somehow pretty girl with red hair and green eyes. Slim and athletic, she represented the Police Service in track athletics. Specialising in the 800 metres and triple jump. She was the proud owner of a degree in Police Procedures and Common Law and had topped the class in Crime Scene Investigation.

She stopped the car in the Unie car park and noticed that DCI Ross’ car was parked some distance from hers. She ran up the stairs to the front door. Ross was on his mobile, standing adjacent to a Police Officer who barred the way but at sight of her, he quickly stepped aside.

Ella Earnock possessed a fiery temper and was probably the only one to match Ross word for word in the art of berate and chastisement. They worked well together as long as both knew where they stood. Ella’s heavyweight relatives in the Service more than matched, Ross’ enormous reputation.

DS Earnock furtively stepped into the office and drew in her breath. The office was a mess, seemingly the victim of a passing hurricane. Blood was splattered across the carpet and had splashed onto the top of the desk, down the front of the same stick of furniture and pooled where the victim had obviously collapsed and died. A lighter red dye, ample evidence of the victim’s cranial haemorrhage.

Ross stepped into the office behind her, standing on her left.

Hello DCI Ross. Earnock greeted.

Morning Ella - are you well?

"At the moment shocked Mr Ross. This office seems somehow familiar to me, who was the victim?

Professor Michael Flannery head of the history...

Oh God, no! Earnock covered her mouth with her hands, the car ignition keys falling from her hand.

It is a shocking scene but not that bad – surely, Sergeant? Ross came closer, a frown on his face. He bent forward retrieved her keys and handed them to her.

He was my Godfather. She whispered and tears rolled down her face.

Sergeant I am sorry, I had no idea. You had better get yourself home. I’ll call another DS to replace you. You know of course that with intimate knowledge of the victim you stand compromised as it were. Ross said. Go home, don’t worry aboot it, I’ll keep you informed. See me on Monday morning and we’ll talk aboot it. Ross sounded final and Ella nodded, still weeping. Thank you Mr Ross.

Think nothing of it. He watched her go.

When he was once again alone, he fished out his mobile. I want Beale on this. Ross cleared his throat. Hello Sergeant Beale, Ross.

Mr Ross, how are you sur?

I would be a wee bit better if you were here Martin. Get yourself doon to Ubberdeen and I’ll explain.

I’m on a case with DCI Potter, sur. He’ll kill me if I shy off.

Nonsense, I’ll clear it with the Chief Constable. You just get down here. Call Connery and tell her to accompany you. Bye. Ross rang off. It was settled. Every time Ross had a tricky case, he simply requisitioned the Officers he wanted to work with and they came – no questions asked. He usually got what he wanted and as this seemed to be a politically sensitive case no-one would deny him the pleasure, of selecting several officers in addition to those officers, at the station!

Ross telephoned Detective Superintendent Ruari Flood. Hello sur, Ross. He said.

DCI Ross I was just thinking about you. Where are you Ross?

At Ubberdeen University sur. He replied. He found to his dismay that whenever he spoke to Flood, his immediate superior his accent deepened.

Splendid, Ross. Now listen carefully – this is an extremely sensitive matter. Not least because the man who was killed was a friend of mine – but because he had in his possession a document that would turn conventional Catholicism on its head.

I see - I’ll bear that in mind sur.

Thank you, is DS Earnock working the case with you?

No, I sent DS Earnock home, too close to the Professor. I contacted Beale and Connery from Glasgow and asked them to come over sur.

Fine, I’ll clear it with DCS Tillet in Glasgow. Proceed with utmost care Ross and if in doubt use this office to pave the way. Good luck.

Well, well the blot thickens. Fancy this Flannery fellow knowing all the big wigs in toon. He placed the mobile to his ear for the umpteenth time that morning, phoning Information at the Station.

Hello MacKaskill, Ross. Yes fine, thank you for caring. Yes get me the residential address of Michael Flannery, lecturer at Ubberdeen Unie quick as you can. Use my mobile number.

Ross recorded some notes on his mini recorder and then left the office. Outside in the sun, he squinted and placed darkened glasses on his face.

I’ll see you later Kirkwood. Ross walked down the steps his mind already working on the murder. He drove away from the University expecting his phone to ring at any moment. He was not disappointed! Yes, MacKaskill, Fifteen Loch Street, I know it, thank you. Ross gunned the Ford and shot down the road.

. . . .

He parked outside the house and was not surprised to see several homeowners washing their cars despite the light drizzle. Down the road on the left, a father was playing footie with his son. Two lads were playing in the street with skateboards. The road sloped towards him and the two in question flew past, both eyeing him.

Ross studied the property he had come to visit and how it was by comparison to all the others, off-set from the road. It was surrounded by a tall brick wall with many tall shrubs and two pine trees growing next to the house. A sense of dark foreboding seemed to ooze from the house and its gloomy looking garden.

On his right was a double gate and a short driveway leading up to a single vehicle garage with the door closed. He opened the smaller side gate, walked along a short paved path, his rubber soled shoes remaining silent. Up three steps to the front door landing and turned the door handle.

It was unlocked! He stepped inside and was greeted by a deep silence. The house had multi-levels, so he climbed higher – another three steps. On the left was the living room, on the right... Ross stepped into the study that was in a state similar to the Professor’s office. 

He quickly glanced around but was certain that whatever was the target - the document in question perhaps, wouldn’t be kept in the study – surely? There was no sign of a wall or floor safe in here!

Ross sniffed and pointed his nose at the living room.

Who are you and what the hell are you doing in Michael’s house? The neighbourhood watchman held a cricket bat in his hands and was pointing the toe of it at him.

Ross turned round and eyed the newcomer. Reaching into an inside pocket.

I assure you mate I’ll lay this bat across your heed if I have to.

"Be still man, I’m Police. Ross growled and shoved his warrant card in the surprised man’s face. The bat dropped to hang from his hand.

Do you know Mr Flannery? Ross enquired.

"Of course I know him you pillock – he’s my neighbour!"

Yes – and you are?

Gordon Irvine.

He postured his contempt by half turning away from the man with the cricket bat. Well, please step outside sur and remain there. Ross dismissed the man with a wave.

Right Officer is everything all right here?

"Please, just go oot sayd sur!" His accent deepened as his anger rose. Ross climbed the stairs to the upper level. At the landing he turned left looking for the master bedroom.

A thought occurred to him. He hadn’t seen Andrew for two years. They had parted in Oslo, at the International airport. Their one time violent association had started in much different circumstances. In the intervening years, he had become extremely fond of Andrew - like a brother he never had. This extraordinary man had changed from being his quarry, to a close friend. That they respected each other was beyond doubt. Ross had a nasty feeling that things were going to get out of hand again and he would feel much more comfortable if he knew that Andrew... the most dangerous man he had ever met, was beside him. He sighed and refocused his attention on the matter at hand.

It was the last door on the right. He paused at the open doorway. Death wafted towards him. He pushed the door out of his way and stepped into the bedroom of Professor Michael Flannery.

On the rug at his feet lay a second corpse, on its face, head turned away from the door. Blood had leaked out of the slacken mouth and had pooled around the face.

Ross shook his head. Something about this stinks. I think it would benefit me if I did some research into the business of this group - as you were - guild!"

Ross phoned Forensics and then had a peek in the safe. One book, on a single shelf inside. Hmmm. He grunted and removed it. Sitting on the bed, he removed a rubber band and opened the book. Aha, a diary it seems.

. . . .

He had the parchment and at last Ensio Baptiste was a happy man. Now with the blessing of the Holy Father he would go to heaven and all his sins would be forgiven him. He glanced down at the brown cylinder. His eyes remained on the cylinder for longer than he anticipated. He was driving towards the coast. Soon he would arrive in – he punched the GPS and nodded. Peterheada He grinned supremely pleased with himself.

Ensio was driving a hire car, a Renault Megane. His elation at acquiring the document and the certainty of a huge bonus momentarily overwhelmed him and, he glanced once more at the cylindrical document holder. He smiled again keeping his focus and attention on the precious cylinder for just a second longer than was safe, while driving at high speed!

Inadvertently, he had strayed into the lane of oncoming traffic! His eyes grew out of their sockets. The grill of the lorry filled his vision. The cacophonous sound of the horn deafened him.

Mamma!

Too late he swung the wheel but the car was struck head on.

. . . .

Traffic unit 15 Control - come in over.

Roger Control, this is traffic 15 - pass your message.

RTA on A92 five kilometres outside town – please attend, an ambulance is on the way over.

Roger that - out.

Ten year veteran Traffic Officer Rory Lillington, stopped the car and switched off. The ambulance had not arrived yet. A lorry stood parked on the shoulder of the road. In the growing gloom of evening, he briefly studied the front of the vehicle. Minimal damage to the bumper, some denting above and a broken headlight was all.

The eerie blue sweep of the police light on the roof of his car illuminated the scene in flashes.

The driver was sitting on the road looking sick. He walked across and stopped in front of the man.

Evening sir, are you all right?

No, I’m not all right. I have a pain in my chest and I feel nauseous.

You might be suffering from shock sir. An ambulance is on the way. They’ll give you a check-up. Where’s the other vehicle involved in the RTA?

Off the road, he crossed over into my lane. I saw him too late I swear.  

Not to worry sir, remain sitting, I’ll go and see if the other bloke needs any assistance. He turned away and crunched his way to the other side of the tar road. He identified the impact sight. Glass from a shattered windscreen, bits of orange and red plastic from light clusters. A bent and buckled headlight reflector. Blimey! Skid marks in the fading sunlight. Where is the other vehicle? He frowned. Oh God! He approached the Renault Megane or what was left of it. The engine appeared to be situated where the driver and his passengers would normally be. The car was crushed beyond recognition.

Nobody could survive such an impact. He gasped. He peered into the car. A headless corpse mangled beyond recognition was sandwiched between the back seat and the dashboard which had disintegrated during the accident.

Officer Lillington covered his mouth was rising horror. With a shaking hand he fumbled in his trouser pocket and extracted a tissue. The stench of blood and intestinal matter momentarily got the better of him. He pursed his lips and for a moment needed to close his eyes. Taking a tainted breath, he pulled himself together and searched for the head. There under the seat. Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph - what a mess." Everything inside the car appeared to be painted with blood. Similar to the detonation of a bomb where all matter within the blast perimeter is transported outward, the occupant of the car was likewise exploded.

Lillington pushed his fingers through latex gloves and slowly searched through the chunk of meat that was once a human being for some form of identification. Inside the leather jacket which had almost succeeded in keeping the driver together, he found a passport and wallet.

The passport was encased in plastic. The wallet was soaked through with blood. The stench inside the car was by now too much for him to take. He turned away and deposited the contents of his stomach on the ground next to the car.

Lillington returned to his car. He glanced over at the driver of the lorry who was still sitting on the ground, back against the front wheel of his heavy duty vehicle.

Car 15, to Control - over.

Control come in over.

"Roger we need a special ambulance for a deceased Italian national.

. . . .

Monday morning and DCI Robert Ross walked into the Home Office Pathology lab in search of Doctor Craig Kirkwood. He found the Chief of Pathology in his office on the computer.

Kirkwood, top of the morning, to you.

And to you Chief Inspector, I was about to send you this report but now that you are here, I’ll simply hand it over. I received a third body yesterday evening - RTA outside Peterhead. Their path lab is temporarily closed so they sent us the cadaver.

I suppose you’re going to tell me the interesting part soon enough Doctor Kirkwood. Ross growled.

Now, now Ross keep it friendly lad. I was just getting to that. You might recall Professor Flannery had a swollen upper cheek and bruise under the left eye.

Ross nodded. Go on.

"Ah, you see that was ante-mortem. It appears that perhaps an hour even less before his death he had an altercation with someone. Perhaps even someone from the University. The contusion on his cheek was so fresh – recent, that the death and bruising almost coincided with each other. I would hazard a guess that someone from the University punched him.

Hmmm that is interesting, by all accounts he wasn’t a popular man, had a tendency to argue a lot. Rubbed people up, the wrong way. Anyway, I’d like to chat - no I wouldn’t - have to rush. Thanks Doctor, I’ll see you again soon.

Kirkwood pulled a face. Today Ross was even more grumpy than usual. I would hate to be his wife! Oh no, he isn’t married! I wonder why? he joked shaking his head.

. . . .

Ross walked into the Incident Room and was pleased to see Detective Sergeant Martin Beale talking to Detective Constable Jane Connery both from Glasgow CID. He smiled to himself and approached the couple. He had heard rumours about these two.

Martin, Jane good to see you again. He shook their hands. As always we have a sensitive case to solve. Take a seat - Jane place this on the Action board if you would. Ross handed her the disc Doctor Kirkwood had given him.

Good Morning Detectives. This is DS Beale and DC Connery from Glasgow here to assist us and pass on invaluable experience to you more junior sleuths. He waited for Connery to load the file and focused on the information on the Action Board.

This is Professor Michael Flannery late of the University here in Aberdeen. Killed yesterday he was. Ross saw surprise from some and horror, on other faces. So Flannery was well known.

He was murdered for something we haven’t a clue aboot. His office was turned upside down. A second victim was discovered in his house. Shot through the forehead from close range. Killed perhaps an hour after Flannery – again the professor’s house was a tip, indicating that they were searching for something. The second victim was an Egyptian national. Ross pressed the forward arrow on his keyboard. Notice the markings on his chest. Some cult, or other. DC Connery you can research this for us. The rest of you, I want teams at the University talking to people who were associated with the late Professor. I want a complete list of every single person he had ever made acquaintance with. I want to know every person he met abroad. Every wee lass he got his way with, every waiter he tipped, every barman he ordered a Scotch from. Wives, friends, lovers – I’m certain you get the idea. Think laterally! I want teams up and down the road he lives on. Talk to residents. Ascertain if someone saw something, heard something last night, or yesterday evening. Go to the supermarket where he shopped, the corner shop where he bought milk and bread – the newsstand! The Professor was clearly in an altercation of some kind just prior to his death. Given the time scale and his death shortly thereafter – perhaps, with someone at the University and perhaps a member