pavement below. He called down to the police surgeon, who was examining the corpse.
‘Cause of death?’
Andy Topley, who was used to this question from detectives at the scene of a crime, gave a deep sigh. Why did they all think it was like on the TV? The DS would be asking for a time of death next, which in reality was often impossible to specify even after a post-mortem. He looked up to where the red-haired Scot hung out of the window three floors up.
‘How about multiple injuries, consistent with a fall from three storeys up?’
Skye’s head disappeared. No doubt the DS was moaning to someone about the doctor having got out of bed on the wrong side. He thought he had seen DC Harry Parris trailing upstairs after the DS. Perhaps he could deal with him. At least he was a sensible older cop, who would not bother the doctor too much. Then Skye’s head appeared again, and Dr Topley just knew it was the next inevitable question coming, so he pre-empted it with a comment of his own.
‘There is an unusual depressed fracture on his forehead. Dish-shaped. As though he has been hit with something rounded. Of course, there may be something down here that caused it. There is an iron bollard over there.’ He pointed to the old-fashioned cannon-shaped black object by the pavement edge. ‘It’s near the body, but your forensics team will have to check it out first.’
The red-headed policeman waved at the doctor and disappeared yet again.
‘Wanker,’ muttered Topley.
‘What’s up with him?’ said Skye. ‘Male PMT, or something?’
Parris, stolid as ever, ignored the unnecessary comment. He was used to his boss, university educated and a high flier, behaving like a prat. He just shrugged his shoulders non-committally. Never take sides, was his guiding principle in life. The DS carried on his musings.
‘Still, it’s interesting what he was saying about the skull fracture. A blow to the head makes this an interesting case after all.’
When he had got the call about the dead body lying in the street in what was now a fashionable part of London that used to be warehouse land, his ears had pricked up. A murder in yuppie-dom would do his career no harm at all. Then he had learned that the apartment the body appeared to have flown out of was owned by someone called Greg Janic. And that the guy was wheelchair-bound. It suddenly looked like Janic must have accidentally fallen out of the window, or maybe thrown himself out. Suicide or accidental death loomed large, and a celebrity murder case dissipated like ice cream in hot sunshine. But with the doctor’s observation, things were looking up again.
Harry Parris wasn’t convinced. Gloomily, the DC looked out of the window for himself.
‘That bollard looks awfully close to the body.’
‘What? No, it can’t be the cause of the guy’s fracture. He would have had to have flown to hit it. And if it’s not the bollard that caused the injury, what was it?’
The sound of rubber tyres squeaking on the woodblock floor of the apartment’s living room caused both policemen to turn away from the window and plaster unconvincing smiles on their faces. It was Skye who spoke first. ‘Mr Janic, are you OK now?’
Greg nodded and waved to the long sofa that ran down the centre of the room facing the big TV screen on the wall.
‘Thank you for letting me dress. I didn’t really want to entertain you in just my boxer shorts.’
The policemen sat down and watched as Greg Janic expertly manoeuvred the motorized wheelchair around the coffee table to stop opposite them.
‘You were asking me when I first became suspicious there was someone in the apartment.’
Skye nodded. ‘Yes. You said you had gone to bed early, undressed, and had been reading.’
‘That’s right. One of those historical crime novels that seem so popular now. By… Sorry, I’ve forgotten the author already.’
‘No matter. I wasn’t looking for a recommendation. I can’t stand the things myself. And then you heard a noise, you say?’
‘Yes. I thought at first it was the window making a noise. I had recalled leaving it open as soon as I had got into bed. But I didn’t feel like doing something about it.’ By way of explanation, he pointed down to his useless legs and the chair. ‘It takes so long to get back up again, once I’ve settled down.’
Skye smiled sympathetically. ‘Quite. But then…?’
‘Then I definitely heard something else. Footsteps, and a bleep from my laptop.’
He pointed at the bank of equipment that was arrayed down the far side of the room, surmounted by the shelf full of meteorites.
‘Someone had to be playing with it. It took a little while to get in my chair, and I could hear whoever it was moving things around. Maybe he was looking for money or valuables. But he was disappointed, I suppose. All I have is a collection of stones.’
‘Meteorites, you say?’
‘That’s right. Curiosities, but not worth a lot. I came into the room as quietly as I could. But I suppose my tyres must have squeaked on the wooden floor, and alerted him — the burglar — to my presence. Just like they did with you.’
‘You say the burglar.’
Greg looked a little puzzled. ‘What else could he have been? He must have seen my window open and thought he would take a chance. When he heard me, he made a dash for the window and must have slipped. He went out of the window without a sound.’ Greg looked down into his lap, as if recalling the terrible event. ‘I called the police and ambulance straight away.’
‘You did all you could, sir.’
Skye leaned over and patted Greg consolingly on the thigh. The sensation Greg felt was something he had not experienced in two years, and he had to stop his leg from twitching. Skye sat back and looked Greg solemnly in the face. ‘After all, in your condition you could hardly leap down the stairs and offer the kiss of life. Or have beaten the intruder to death yourself.’
As Skye laughed at his own tasteless joke, Greg smiled thinly and thought of the last moments of life of the mysterious V. A. Bassianus. Sure he had the poor cripple at his mercy, Bassianus had been astonished when Greg had heaved himself out of his chair, the sky-stone in his right hand. He had lurched sideways across the window sill. Greg, standing on his feet for the first time since his accident, swung the precious meteorite hard against Bassianus’s forehead. The man’s eyes went blank, as though his life was snuffed out instantly. He pitched backwards out of the window, carried off by the weight of Greg’s blow. Greg, his legs trembling, leaned out and looked down at the street below. Bassianus was surely dead. If the blow hadn’t killed him, the fall must have done. He fell back in his wheelchair and tucked the murder weapon down beside his thigh again. It nestled there now, and he reckoned he could feel its warmth against his legs, a sensation he should not have. Whether it was the effect of the stone, or a spontaneous return of sensation, Greg didn’t know. But he was no longer inclined to total scepticism about the supernatural. Making sure he didn’t move his newly restored legs, he smiled sadly at the red-haired policeman.
‘No, detective sergeant, I’m afraid I’m stuck in this wheelchair for life.’
