Chapter 23
THEY FOUND SELENA Farrell in her office. The professor was in her early forties, a big-bosomed woman who dressed the part of a dowdy Earth child: baggy, faded peasant dress, oval black glasses, no make-up, clogs, and her head wrapped in a scarf held in place by two wooden hairpins.
But it was the beauty mark that caught Knight’s eye. Set above her jawline about midway down her right cheek, it put him in mind of a young Elizabeth Taylor and made him think that, given the right circumstances and manner of dress, the professor could have been quite attractive.
As Dr Farrell inspected his identification, Knight glanced around at various framed pictures: one of the professor climbing in Scotland, another of her posing beside some Greek ruins, and a third in which she was much younger, in sunglasses, khaki pants and shirt, posing with an automatic weapon beside a white truck that said NATO on the side.
‘Okay,’ Farrell said, returning Knight’s badge. ‘What are we here to discuss?’
‘Sir Denton Marshall, a member of the Olympic Organising Committee,’ Knight said, watching for her reaction.
Farrell stiffened, and then pursed her lips in distaste. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s been murdered,’ Pope said. ‘Decapitated.’
The professor appeared genuinely shocked. ‘Decapitated? Oh, that’s horrible. I didn’t like the man, but … that’s barbaric.’
‘Marshall took your house and your land,’ Knight remarked.
Farrell hardened. ‘He did. I hated him for it. I hated him and everyone who’s in favour of the Olympics for it. But I did not kill him. I don’t believe in violence.’
Knight glanced at the photo of her with the automatic weapon. But he decided not to challenge her, asking instead: ‘Can you account for your whereabouts around ten forty-five last night?’
The classics professor arched back in her chair and took off her glasses, revealing amazing sapphire eyes that stared intently at Knight. ‘I can account for my whereabouts at that time, but I won’t unless it’s necessary. I enjoy my privacy.’
‘Tell us about Cronus,’ Pope said.
The professor drew back. ‘You mean the Titan?’
‘That’s the one,’ Pope said.
She shrugged. ‘He’s mentioned by Aeschylus, especially during the third play in his Oresteia cycle, The Eumenides. They were the three Furies of vengeance born from the blood of Cronus’s father. Why are you asking about him? All in all, Cronus is a minor figure in Greek mythology.’
Pope glanced at Knight, who nodded. She dug into her bag. She came up with her mobile, which she fiddled with for several seconds as she said to the professor, ‘I received a package today from someone who calls himself Cronus and who claims to be Marshall’s killer. There’s a letter and this: it’s a recording of a recording, but …’
As the reporter returned to her bag, looking for her copy of Cronus’s letter, the weird, irritating flute music began to float from her phone.
The classics professor froze after a few notes had played.
The melody went on and Farrell stared at her desk, becoming agitated. Then she looked around wildly as if she was hearing hornets. Her hands shot up as though to cover her ears, dislodging the hairpins and loosening her headscarf.
She panicked and raised her hands to hold the scarf in place. Then she leaped to her feet and bolted for the door, choking: ‘For God’s sake turn it off! It’s giving me a migraine! It’s making me sick!’
Knight jumped to his feet and went out after Farrell, who clopped at high speed down the hall before barging into a women’s loo.
‘That set off something big,’ Pope said. She’d come up behind him.
‘Uh-huh,’ Knight said. He went back into the office, headed straight to the classics professor’s desk and plucked a small evidence bag from his pocket.
He turned the bag inside out before picking up one of the hairpins that had fallen before Farrell bolted. He wrapped the bag around the pins and then drew them out before dropping them back on the desk.
‘What are you doing?’ Pope demanded in a whisper.
Knight sealed the bag and murmured, ‘Hooligan says the hair sample from the envelope was female.’
He heard someone approaching the office, slid the evidence into his coat chest pocket and sat down. Pope stood, and was looking towards the door when another woman, much younger than Farrell but with a similar lack of fashion sense, entered and said: ‘Sorry. I’m Nina Langor, Professor Farrell’s teaching assistant.’
‘Is she all right?’ Pope asked.
‘She said she’s suffering from a migraine and is going home. She said if you’ll call her on Monday or Tuesday she’ll explain.’
‘Explain what?’ Knight demanded.
Nina Langor appeared bewildered. ‘I honestly have no idea. I’ve never seen her act like that before.’