Blood On the Wall by Jim Eldridge

windows were closed, others had been replaced with a sheet hanging down, partly shielding the occupants of the room from prying eyes. They were responsible, though: in the small area at the front of the house one wheelie bin had a homemade label stuck on it which said ‘Can recyling’. Taggart lifted the lid and revealed a bin filled to the top with empty beer cans.
    ‘Any bets they’re all male students?’ she said as she shut the lid.
    ‘You think women students don’t drink beer?’ asked Seward.
    ‘Not this much,’ said Taggart.
    She rang the bell, and after a moment the door was opened by a bleary-eyed young man of about twenty in jeans, T-short, bare feet, and a woolly hat.
    ‘Yeah?’ he asked.
    Taggart and Seward showed him their police ID.
    ‘Police,’ said Seward. ‘Is Eric Drake in?’
    The young man seemed to be struggling with this sudden appearance of the police on his doorstep, and whatever was going on in the house.
    ‘What time is it?’ he asked.
    ‘Our question was first,’ said Taggart. ‘May we come in?’
    ‘Er …’ began the youth.
    ‘Thank you,’ said Taggart, and she and Seward stepped inside. There was the definite smell of cannabis clinging to the inside of the house.
    The youth looked at them, unhappy.
    ‘Shouldn’t you have a warrant?’ he demanded.
    ‘That depends if you’ve got anything to hide,’ said Taggart. ‘Have you?’
    ‘No,’ said the youth defensively.
    ‘Fine,’ said Taggart. ‘So, where can we find Eric Drake?’
    ‘He’s … he’s still in bed.’
    ‘Then I’m sure he won’t mind us calling on him,’ said Taggart. ‘Where’s his room?’
    The youth hesitated.
    ‘Of course, we could always go knocking on all the doors and look for him,’ said Taggart. ‘Who knows what we might find?’
    The thought of the two policewomen searching through the different rooms in the house made his mind up for him.
    ‘Top of the stairs. Second door on the right. It’s got an Iron Maiden poster on it.’
    It would have, thought Seward. Heavy metal, another of her pet dislikes. What with that and a would-be career as a pretentious film director, she was beginning to dislike this Drake character more and more before she’d even met him.
    The door to Drake’s room was easily found. It wasn’t just the Iron Maiden poster pinned to it, it was also the gothic graffiti that adorned the rest of the door.
    Seward knocked. There was the sound of a grunting from inside.
    ‘That sounded to me like “Come in”,’ commented Taggart.
    ‘That’s what I heard as well,’ agreed Seward.
    The door was unlocked, and as they pushed it open the rank smells of sweaty, unwashed clothes and stale tobacco came out and hit them. The room was in darkness, the thick curtains pulled shut. Taggart switched on the light, although a shawl had been thrown over the shade of the central light, so that even with the light on, the room still seemed to be dark.
    The mess in the room was a sight to behold. Leftovers of meals on dirty plates on the floor. Beer cans. Ashtrays overflowing. Clothes crumpled and just discarded, hiding most of the floor and what furniture there was in the room.
    There came more grunting from the bed at one side of the room, and then a tousled head poked itself out from under the covers, like a tortoise coming out of hibernation.
    Eric Drake squinted at the two women.
    ‘What the f—’ he began. ‘Who are you?’
    ‘Police,’ said Taggart, and once again she and Sewardheld out their police IDs. ‘Are you Eric Drake?’
    ‘No,’ said the young man.
    Seward and Taggart exchanged looks.
    ‘In that case, would you get dressed? We’ll need to talk to you down at the station.’
    ‘What? Why?’
    ‘Because you’re in Eric Drake’s room and we wish to find out where he is.’
    There was a pause, then the young man in the bed asked, ‘Why?’
    Taggart and Seward had adjusted their vision to the gloom and saw now that the man in the bed was in his late