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and his loud, irascible and at times downright stubborn personality, he was an agile and surprisingly gentle man. He’d probably seen the results of more terminally violent crime than anyone else in the city, yet away from work his relaxed demeanour and untroubled personality was more akin to someone who’d spent his life working in the Botanic Gardens.

      ‘Now that the pleasantries are over, what the hell are you doing here?’

      ‘It’s just a guess, Jack, but I’d say it’s probably the same thing you’re doing,’ Sam said.

      Rigby cocked his head on the side and squinted down at her. ‘Doc Baird says the guy probably had a stroke, so it looks like even we’re not needed here,’ he said. ‘And if it does turn out to be murder then you can’t get more local than a homicide in the heart of the city. This is barely State-related, let alone Federal. Therefore I’ll rephrase my question: why are you here? What interest does the Australian Crime Bureau have in the demise of Professor Marsden in there?’

      Sam shrugged. ‘Jim Pilger called me at Walter’s Wine Bar, where I was enjoying my day off, and told me to get down here and check things out.’

      ‘Pilger? The Minister of... Whatever. That Pilger?’ Rigby was baffled.

      ‘Yes, Pilger the Minister for Cultural Affairs,’ Sam agreed. ‘He’s my new boss, in that he is top of the tree when it comes to the Bureau’s Cultural Affairs Department.’

      Rigby looked blank, which was a rare occurrence.

      ‘I’ve been transferred from Major Crimes to the ACB’s CAD,’ Sam explained. “I was going to Canberra this evening, for six weeks, to be briefed on my new job but instead I find myself here, still standing in the hallway, still lacking any real information about this situation, in fact, still without having laid eyes on the actual body – homicide victim or not.’

      ‘Cultural Affairs? That explains the way you’re dressed,’ Rigby stated.

      Sam looked down at her leather jacket, cotton shirt, jeans and runners. ‘I did mention it was my day off, didn’t I?’

      ‘So, Pilger rang you. How did he find out about this? He’s in Canberra for goodness sake!’

      ‘Someone rang him, Jack,’ Sam said.

      ‘Who?’

      ‘That would have been me,’ came a soft-spoken voice from behind Sam.

      ‘Ah,’ Rigby said, as Sam turned around and found that after looking up at Rigby, she had to crick her neck to be able to look comfortably at someone slightly shorter than her own height of five-foot-six.

      ‘This is the Director of the Museum, Mr...ah,’ Rigby faltered.

      ‘Daley Prescott,’ the Director said. ‘Assistant Director,’ he amended.

      ‘Special Detective Sam Diamond,’ Sam said, shaking hands with the dapper bureaucrat. Prescott was neatness personified from his trim grey suit to his perfectly styled and perfectly white, collar- length hair.

      ‘Can you tell me anything yet, Detective Diamond? I am simply dreading the ramifications of this should it turn out to be a case of murder,’ Prescott said and then added, almost as an afterthought, ‘not to mention what poor Lloyd must have gone through.’

      Sam tried to keep her face expressionless as she glanced at Rigby and then back to Prescott. ‘We’ll discuss the possible ramifications after we ascertain the cause of death, Mr Prescott. I can’t give you any details until Detective Rigby brings me up to speed on the investigation.’

      ‘Well, we haven’t done much yet,’ Rigby admitted. ‘We were told to wait for you.’

      ‘Who told you that?’ Sam asked in surprise.

      ‘I’m afraid I did. Is that a problem?’ Prescott asked. On seeing Sam’s amusement and the annoyed look on Rigby’s face, he continued hurriedly. ‘Of course it is not official. I was simply advising you, Detective Rigby, of the imminent arrival of a representative from the ACB and mistakenly, so it seems, assumed her authority would supersede yours.’

      ‘It’s a common mistake, Mr Prescott,’ Rigby said through clenched teeth. ‘Now, if you could keep yourself available, or let Constable Rivers here know of your whereabouts, 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:

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