Blood On the Wall by Jim Eldridge Page B

a copy of the script,’ insisted Seward.
    Drake shrugged, and then hauled himself out of bed, revealing a pair of loose underpants. He went over to the table, cleared some clothes off it, and produced a few typewritten pages stapled together.
    ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I was looking at it last night because we start filming in a couple of days. I want the ambience to be right for it when we’re at Castlerigg, so we’re doing it on June 21st. The Summer Solstice.’
    As he handed the script to Seward, he told her warningly, ‘This is copyright, you know. I don’t want anyone ripping it off.’
    ‘Trust me, I’m a police officer,’ said Seward, straight-faced.
    Once they were back outside the house, Taggart took a long, deep breath.
    ‘At last, I can breathe again!’ she said.
    Seward smiled.
    ‘I know the feeling,’ she said. ‘I feel like we ought to spray ourselves with disinfectant. One thing’s for sure: if our murderer is, and I quote, ‘fastidious and organized’, then it certainly isn’t our friend Drake.’
    As the two women walked back to their car, Taggart asked, curious: ‘What did you want a copy of his script for? It’s gonna be crap.’
    ‘Maybe,’ said Seward. ‘But, like I said, I’m a film nut. And who knows what interesting things it might tell us.’

FOURTEEN
    G eorgiou and Tennyson were in the office, going through the initial reports from SOCO and uniformed division on the Han Sun murder, when Georgiou’s phone rang.
    ‘Georgiou,’ he said into the mouthpiece.
    It was Superintendent Stokes. ‘I need to see you,’ he said, his anger obvious in his tone. ‘My office, immediately.’
    There was a click as the phone disconnected.
    Tennyson gave Georgiou an enquiring look.
    ‘Our lord and master,’ grunted Georgiou. ‘Stokes has summoned me.’
    ‘A promotion?’ suggested Tennyson sarcastically.
    Georgiou laughed. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can persuade him we’re doing all we can,’ he said.
    With that Georgiou headed out of the room and up the stairs.
    Stokes was pacing as Georgiou walked into his office. Before Georgiou could speak, Stokes turned on him, furious.
    ‘I’ve just had New York on the phone to me.
New York!
’
    Georgiou frowned, puzzled.
    ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t see what we have to do with NewYork,’ he said.
    ‘The press, Georgiou!’ raged Stokes. ‘As if it isn’t bad enough being under siege from the British media, now the world’s press have got hold of it! “Head Killer!” That’s what the headlines say. Not just here but in New York! Three murders, Georgiou! Three!’
    ‘With respect, sir …’ began Georgiou.
    ‘No!’ thundered Stokes. ‘No respect at all, because this murderer has none! Certainly none for us! He’s making you look a laughing stock!’
    ‘With respect, sir,’ continued Georgiou firmly, ‘I only came back to work yesterday morning.’
    That made Stokes stop whatever was on the tip of his tongue, but only for a moment. He continued pacing, agitated.
    ‘In all my long career I’ve never had anything like this. Never! My position is being questioned!’
    And not before time, thought Georgiou.
    ‘And this business in the
News and Star
about you doesn’t help!’ snapped Stokes. He took a deep breath, then turned to Georgiou. ‘I think, in fairness to this department, you ought to consider your position, Inspector.’
    A cold chill went up Georgiou’s spine.
    ‘Consider my position?’ he repeated. ‘Do you mean resign?’
    Stokes turned away, unable to meet Georgiou’s look.
    ‘You know what I mean!’ he blustered. ‘Your actions over this boy—’
    ‘Unproven allegations,’ interrupted Georgiou.
    ‘And your appalling lack of success over these murders,’ continued Stokes, as if he hadn’t heard Georgiou’s comment,‘have brought discredit on this force.’
    ‘I repeat,’ snapped Georgiou, even more firmly than before, ‘I only returned to work yesterday. Now if you want me to make a