Dying Fall

university, working with his colleagues. In some ways he seems further away than ever. He was sleeping with several women but didn’t love any of them. He had friends but didn’t seem to take any of them intohis confidence. He felt an outsider, as indeed he was. The only emotions with which Ruth can completely empathise are the professional feelings – the sense that his career has stalled and then the incredible excitement of a new discovery. She can imagine the febrile, intense atmosphere of the days surrounding the excavation. It must have been something like the henge dig all those years ago when she was falling in love with Peter. Although she hadn’t known it at the time, Erik, Cathbad and Shona had also all been conducting clandestine business of their own. Strange how a dry academic exercise like an archaeological dig can arouse such violent human emotions. Both excavations, in their way, led to murder.
    She is out of breath by the time she reaches the fourth floor. She should have started going to the gym again after Kate was born. Oh well, plenty of time for that when the new term starts. She takes a deep breath and heads for the door marked Prof. C. Henry.
    Clayton Henry is sitting at his desk. It is some moments before Ruth notices the silver paper knife protruding from his chest.

CHAPTER 31
    Ruth stands in the doorway, frozen with shock. She thinks of the occasion, last year, when she went into a deserted museum and discovered a dead body. For some reason, she is reminded, not of the corpse, but of a waxwork figure in one of the galleries, a man seated at his desk, quill raised, dusty eyes unseeing. Perhaps it’s the absence of blood, perhaps it’s the almost comical expression of shock on Clayton Henry’s face, but the scene does not seem quite real somehow. It’s like a tableau: posed, unconvincing. She steps closer. The knife’s hilt is embedded in Clayton’s smart pink shirt. A darker pink stain is slowly spreading but that is all the blood she can see. She touches Clayton’s hand, still – like the waxwork – holding a pen. It’s warm. She feels for a pulse but can’t detect anything. She reaches for her phone.
    *
    Nelson is sitting outside The Swan With Two Necks when he gets the call. At first he can’t take in what Ruth is saying. It seems so at odds with the idyllic village scene,the perfect country pub, the stream running the length of the street, the tables and umbrellas, the two pretty women in front of him.
    ‘Clayton Henry? Murdered?’
    Michelle looks up, almost crossly, as if it’s bad taste to mention
that
word in this setting. Two elderly women at the next table lean forward avidly.
    ‘Are you sure he’s dead? Have you called an ambulance? OK, love. Listen. Don’t stay there. Get into your car and lock the door. Don’t get out until the police get there. I’ll ring Sandy and the local boys. Yes, I’m on my way.’
    He looks up at his spellbound audience and spreads his hands apologetically.
    *
    It is not until Nelson tells her to get into her car that Ruth realises she might be in danger. Clayton Henry’s killer might still be in the building. In fact, probably is, given the warm body and the still spreading blood. She stands still, listening, thinking of all the hundreds of rooms in this huge old industrial building. The killer could be anywhere, in an office, in one of the labs, hiding in the students’ Common Room, lurking behind one of the scientific displays in the atrium. She listens. Silence except for the traffic outside and the dim mechanical whirr of computers and plumbing and alarm systems. Then she hears something. A very faint tap like the hooves of a tiny horse. Someone is running about on the floor above. Someone in high heels.
    She turns and runs, down the stairs, skidding on each landing, through the atrium, bumping off the display cases. She flings herself through the double doors and doesn’t stop running until she reaches her car. Then she locks all the doors and sits slumped in her seat until the ambulance and police cars arrive.
    *
    ‘For Christ’s sake, put your bloody foot down!’
    Tim, who is already driving at ninety miles an hour with sirens blaring, grits his teeth and presses the accelerator even harder. They got the call about Clayton Henry when they were already on their way back from Lancaster, but now all thoughts of a leisurely pub lunch have vanished and Sandy is in full Sweeney mode. He knows that the local boys will