Golden Relic. Lindy Cameron

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СКАЧАТЬ we’ll get back to you when we have more information.’ He turned to Sam and rolled his eyes. ‘The body?’ he suggested.

      ‘The body,’ she echoed.

      The crime scene, for it would be treated as such until facts proved otherwise, was a long, narrow room lined with and divided by temporary shelving filled with labelled boxes and a variety of stone and wooden artefacts. At the far end Sam could see Doctor Ian Baird, the forensic pathologist, consulting with his team members, one of whom was busy taking photographs. Extra lights had obviously been brought in to illuminate what she guessed was normally a fairly dingy space.

      ‘What’s your best guess, Doc? Can we go home and let the family take over?’ Rigby asked hopefully.

      ‘Sorry, Jack. Definitely suspicious circumstances here. Foul play is evident,’ Baird replied, his Scottish accent, even after twenty years in the country, still unconsciously fighting any Australian influences. ‘Hello Sam, long time no see,’ he added.

      ‘Ian, it’s good to see you,’ Sam acknowledged, stepping forward to take a look at the body and the evidence of foul play.

      Professor Lloyd Marsden lay almost in a foetal position on his left side, although his body had rolled slightly so that his chest and right arm were also touching the floor. He was holding a pen in his right hand, his right shoulder obscured the lower part of his face and the weight of his body was squashing his nose against the dusty floorboards.

      To the right of the body, about two metres from the head, was a gruesome-looking stone statue of a squatting figure with very large toenails. It was much too heavy to be wielded by even the most determined assailant. To the left, about one metre away, was an overturned chair, a cluttered work bench and a drafting table. There was no likely-looking weapon, no blood and no signs of violence. It looked to Sam like the least suspicious of circumstances.

      ‘It’s looks pretty innocent to me,’ Rigby said.

      ‘That’s because you haven’t been down on the floor with me, lookin’ at the poor man’s face. Someone’s dealt him a couple of good punches. Help me roll him over please, Steve.’

      Steve obliged and between them they rolled the body onto its back.

      There was still no blood but the late Professor Marsden had a black left eye and a large purple bruise on his right jaw.

      ‘Injuries sustained during a fall following his stroke,’ Rigby suggested hopefully.

      Baird, who was still on his hands and knees, was inspecting the bruises with a magnifying glass. ‘I don’t think so, Jack. There’s a wee puncture mark at the centre of both bruises,’ he announced. ‘I suspect the man was struck and poisoned.’

      ‘Poisoned?’ Sam and Rigby chorused, looking at each other and then back at Baird.

      ‘I might be wrong,’ Baird said doubtfully.

      ‘You’re never wrong,’ Rigby moaned. ‘Though how you can tell that is beyond me.’

      ‘What’s that in his left hand?’ Sam asked, squatting down to get a better look.

      Baird reached out with his gloved hand and picked up a small piece of paper, which he carefully unfolded. His eyes widened, then squinted, then he held out the paper for Sam to read.

      ‘I hope he’s left us the name of his killer,’ Rigby stated.

      ‘If that’s what it is,’ Sam stated, ‘we’re going to need help deciphering it.’

      Unevenly scrawled, and probably with the pen Lloyd Marsden held in his other hand as his life left him, was the word:

      Chapter Three

      Melbourne, September 17, 1998

      ‘Oh my god! He was poisoned?’ Daley Prescott sounded like all his worst fears and a couple of phobias had just invaded his personal space. He looked even worse. Sam was glad Rigby had waited till the man was sitting down before conveying Baird’s suspicions.

      ‘That’s just the pathologist’s preliminary report, Mr Prescott,’ Rigby stated. ‘It is not for general publication. We’ll know more after the autopsy of course, but even if he wasn’t poisoned, the man was certainly beaten.’

      ‘To death,’ Prescott snorted, almost as if Marsden’s death was more of an insult to him, than a tragic end for the professor himself. Prescott swivelled his chair and stared blankly out the window.

      Sam and Rigby, having left the forensics team to finish the crime scene investigation, had agreed it was time to question Prescott about what sort of ‘ramifications’ the murder of one of his colleagues was going to have – apart from the obvious ones – and why he had seen fit to contact the Federal Minister for Cultural Affairs. They had walked the two city blocks from the Library to the Museum’s administrative headquarters on Exhibition Street and now sat with an agitated Daley Prescott in his office on the 18th floor.

      While the Assistant Director tried to collect his thoughts, apparently by rubbing his fingers vigorously across his forehead, Sam gazed jealously out the huge window at the jigsaw of building facades, rooftops and patches of blue sky.

      The view was a far cry from the windowless cubicle she shared with Ben Muldoon. A calendar of the world’s most famous tourist sites, none of which she’d seen in person (nor was she ever likely to given the pathetic state of her savings account), was the only non-work-related item on those dreary blue-felt walls. September was the Pyramids of Giza which, as far as Sam was concerned, couldn’t be further away if they’d been built on Mars.

      ‘This is dreadful.’ Prescott stated the obvious.

      ‘Were you close?’ Rigby asked, completely misunderstanding Prescott’s anxiety. Sam, however, could tell there was little, if anything, personal intruding on the man’s concern.

      ‘Close? No, not really. Not at all, in fact,’ Prescott replied. ‘It’s just that the international repercussions of this are, they’re–’

      ‘You keep saying that,’ Rigby interrupted. ‘What precisely are the repercussions or ramifications of Professor Marsden’s death?’

      ‘I can’t begin to imagine,’ Prescott said, annoyingly, and then frowned. ‘Actually, I think I’m imagining the worst – in every possibly combination.’

      ‘Do you think you could be more specific?’ Sam asked.

      ‘Marsden was on the ICOM committee,’ Prescott stated, as if that explained everything.

      ‘Which is what?’ Rigby asked.

      ‘The International Council of Museums,’ Sam volunteered the information she’d been given by her boss. ‘Melbourne is hosting the triennial conference – next month.’

      ‘Now perhaps you’ll understand why I’m in such a state,’ Prescott explained. ‘We’ve got close to 2000 delegates arriving in just over three weeks. They’re coming from around the country and all over the world. This is a disaster.’

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