Gentle sunlight filtered through the trees overhead, an early morning glow that warned of the oncoming onslaught of the day's heat. Oxford was basking in a high summer heat wave - it was late August, and over the past week temperatures had been spiking in the range of 30 degrees C. However, in the post-dawn sunlight, it remained cool enough for Ranger Pete Davies to be out in Wytham Woods, taking his Alsatian, Max, out for a walk. Pete avoided the well-trodden public footpaths, knowing the woods well enough to find his way around without the need of the walks signposted for the tourists and day-trippers, who would arrive later to picnic, walk, and bask in the warm sunshine, or take shelter in the shade of the trees. He hummed to himself as he walked at a steady pace, occasionally called out to Max, picking up sticks and throwing them for the boisterous dog to fetch back to him. On one such run off into the trees, Max suddenly stopped, staring straight ahead.
"Max?" Pete called out, "Max, you daft sod – come on!"
Max whined, and then barked. Pete sighed. Clearly, Max had seen something that he wanted to investigate, but he was too well trained to simply run off. Pete glanced at his watch. Knowing Max, it was probably a dead animal or something. He decided to check it out – he still had a good couple of hours before he needed to open the public car park, and if some poor creature had died nearby, he should probably remove it – they were within 100 yards of one of the public footpaths, and he could do without complaints from visitors about having stumbled across a grisly scene from nature despite the warnings to stick to the paths.
"All right, I'm coming," he said, when Max barked again.
He trekked across the uneven woodland, until he came to stand beside Max. The Alsatian's tail wafted slowly from side to side as he looked up at Pete faithfully. Pete, however, was transfixed in horror. He was standing at the top of a natural ditch, which in the winder would be a water-logged stream, but which had been baked dry in the summer heat. There, at the bottom of the ditch, lay a man's body, the throat cut, the eyes staring distantly at nothing. Pete turned away, but could not get the image out of his head. Shakily, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his mobile 'phone, and began to dial.
~*~
Sergeant Hathaway stood in the early morning heat with his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened, the top button if his shirt undone in a nod to the hot weather that was making everyone uncomfortable, especially the scene of crimes officers in their overalls. He was stood beyond the line of police tape wrapped around several nearby tree-trunks, itching for a cigarette but resisting the temptation, as he finished the interview with Pete Davies, the ranger who had found the body. The ranger's dog was sitting obediently beside his owner, who absently fussed the dog's ears as he talked to the sergeant.
"…That's about all there is to say, really," Pete shrugged, "I'm sorry I can't be of more help. I don't tend to stay on site much – you'd have to talk to Craig Wilkins. He's the full time ranger. He lives in the lodge near the Great Wood."
"Thanks," Hathaway nodded, writing that down, "sorry – I thought dogs weren't allowed in the woods?"
"Yeah, well," Pete shrugged, as Max looked up at him, "I've sort of got special dispensation. Besides, if it weren't for Max, I'd never have come across that body."
"Maybe I should be taking a statement from Max," Hathaway joked, dryly, "one more thing – is this area open to the public?"
"No," Pete shook his head, "you need to be a permit holder to come through here. And you're at least a couple of miles from the nearest road, and it's a rough trek cross-country."
"Okay," Hathaway nodded, "thank you for your time. If you could just wait here, please…?"
"Sure," Pete nodded, as Hathaway turned away.
He ducked under the police tape, and make his way carefully down the embankment, crossing over to where Inspector Lewis was standing, arms folded, staring down into the ditch at the body. Lewis wore a dark blue scene-suit, and looked uncomfortable in the heat. Because Hathaway was not wearing one, he kept a respectful distance from the scene.
"Sir?" he called out, to attract the Inspector's attention.
Lewis glanced up, waved one hand in acknowledgement; "One moment, sergeant…"
Hathaway watched as Lewis extended his hand down into the ditch. Another hand reached up and clasped his, and Lewis gallantly helped Dr Hobson to climb out of the ditch. She thanked him and smiled, as the two of them crossed over to Hathaway.
"The victim is male, approximately 20 years of age," Hobson reported, without preamble, "we found his wallet, which was empty of cash, but his student ID card says his name is Nigel Handsworth. He died from exsanguinations – he bled to death after his throat was slit."
"Can you tell if he was killed here?" Lewis asked, glancing over his shoulder at the white-suited forensic examiners crawling all over the area.
"It looked like he was," Hobson nodded, "there's plenty of arterial spray on the ground and surrounding foliage, but this ground is bone dry – there are no useful footprints or anything like that."
"What about our killer, any thoughts?"
"Could be anyone, I'm afraid," Hobson shrugged, "it takes no great strength, just a sharp knife, to cut someone's throat. There's no evidence that our victim was restrained – I would say your killer probably approached him from behind, slit his throat, and either he fell or was pushed into the ditch. Your killer might have some traces of blood on their clothes, but otherwise, there probably isn't much evidence to tie them to the scene unless there's any trace evidence on the body. In this dry weather, we've a good chance something was preserved."
"Any indication on time of death?" Lewis queried, "I appreciate the hot weather makes it difficult…"
"I'd say he was killed late last night or early this morning," Hobson supplied, giving Lewis a small smile, "I'd factored in the ambient air temperature and the lack of animal activity around the body. I'd say he was killed at some point between 11 last night and 2 this morning. I might be able to narrow it down more after the autopsy, but there's no guarantee."
"Okay, thanks doctor," Lewis nodded to her, "feel free to move the body as soon as forensics give the go ahead – we don't want to leave him out here any longer than necessary."
Hobson nodded back, turned, and went back to her work. Lewis unzipped the scene-suit and stepped out of it quickly, rolling it up into a ball as he walked back up to the path with Hathaway. The sergeant recounted everything that the ranger had told him, as they strolled along the path in the summer heat.
"We need to speak to this Craig Wilkins," Lewis said, as they walked, "how far is it to his lodge?"
"About two miles," Hathaway replied, "he lives on the edge of the wood, not far from the car park."
"Well, at least we won't be too far from the car," Lewis sighed, swiping a hand across his forehead, "I hate this bloody weather."
"Would you prefer the frozen North, sir?" Hathaway shot back, looking comfortable in the heat.
"Shut it, you," Lewis told him, with a mock-stern tone, "according to the weather reports, the heat should break soon enough."
"And then we can all complain about the rain," Hathaway agreed, "sir, according to the ranger, Pete Davies, only people with a walker's permit can access this part of the woods due to ongoing conservation work in the area, but even permit holders can't come onsite during the night."
"Somehow, I doubt it was a permit holder," Lewis replied, shaking his head slightly, "anyone could park up nearby and get into the woods – it's not as if the security around here is all that tight. The most they'd be done for under normal circumstances is trespass. But, just in case, check to see if our victim was a permit holder."
"Yes, sir," Hathaway acknowledged him; "do you think he came here willingly, then?"
"Between 11 and 2 last night? God knows," Lewis shrugged, "I doubt it, though. And if he did come willingly, I bet he didn't come alone. First, we'll speak to the ranger at the lodge, and then we'll get onto the university. Let's get to know our victim, shall we?"
~*~
As it turned out, the other ranger, Craig Wilkins, had little to add to what they already knew. Wilkins was a bear of a man, at least 6 feet tall, in his early thirties, with long, brown hair and a grizzly beard to match, but he had been genuinely appalled to hear of a body being dumped in the woods.
"Not the first time it's happened, of course," he commented, "and I doubt it will be the last. Damn – the place is going to be swarming with gore-seekers when the news gets out. These people wanting to see where the body was dumped – it's gross, if you ask me."
"Did you hear anything last night?" Lewis asked him, curiously.
"Nothing, I'm afraid," Wilkins shook his head, with a sigh, "to be honest, I slipped in the woods a few days ago and pulled a muscle in my back. I can't afford to take the time off, so I've been sticking to fairly light duties since then. I didn't go out at all last night. Even if I had, I wouldn't go that far into the woods – the place can be lethal at night. Err… no pun intended."
"Of course," Lewis gave him a slight smile, "is there anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts last night?"
"Only that half-empty bottle of Scotch," Wilkins laughed, pointing to the bottle on the table, "Sorry. It's the most effective pain killer, you know?"
Lewis nodded in understanding, as he glanced around the cramped lodge. Wilkins moved with a slow stiffness that was the trademark of a bad back, though Lewis did not rule out the possibility that Wilkins was their killer.
"Thank you, Mr Wilkins," he said, "you'll be here if we have any further questions for you?"
"Sure," Wilkins nodded, "just give me or Pete a shout if there's anything you need."
~*~
Lewis and Hathaway left the lodge and headed back out to their cars. By now, the sun was high in the cloudless sky, and with the complete lack of a breeze, the heat was intense.
"Where to, sir?" Hathaway called, as he slipped on his sunglasses, "the University?"
"Aye," Lewis nodded to him, "I'll see you there…"
They drove in tandem through the heavy traffic, arriving at the porter's lodge half an hour later. One of the porters checked the university records for them, and reported back promptly.
"Nigel Handsworth, did you say?" the elderly porter enquired, politely, "I'm afraid Mr Handsworth is no longer a student here. He dropped out about a month ago of his own accord."
"What was his field of study?" Hathaway asked, interested.
"Psychology," the porter replied, "he studied under Professor Rutledge. Would you like me to direct you to him?"
"Please," Lewis nodded.
The porter led them through the familiar halls and quadrangles of the prestigious college, leading them through various corridors until they came to an office. A secretary glanced up from her typing in surprise.
"Two gentleman to see Professor Rutledge," the porter told her, "They're police."
The porter nodded to them both and ducked out of the room, as the secretary held up a well-manicured finger; "One moment, please."
She picked up the phone and held a muted conversation, before replacing the receiver and pointing to another door; "You can go straight in."
Lewis and Hathaway thanked her, before entering the Professor's office. It looked like any other in the University – stuffed with books and other accoutrements of the academic lifestyle. The Professor was a surprisingly young man, early thirties, blonde, with bright blue eyes and a slightly disdainful expression.
"Can I help you, gentlemen?" he said, in an unmistakeably upper-class Oxford twang, "I will be teaching a class in less than twenty minutes."
"We're interested in a former pupil of yours," Lewis said, noting that they had not been invited to sit, "Nigel Handsworth?"
"A dropout," Rutledge waved his hand dismissively, "his grades were poor and his grasp of the subject amateurish. To be honest, I'd say he jumped before he was pushed. Has he done something worthy of merit, for once?"
"He's been murdered, Professor," Lewis replied, resting his fists on the desk and meeting the academic's gaze evenly, "We found his body in Wytham Woods early this morning. I want to know everything that you can tell me about Nigel Handsworth."
The Professor sighed, and leaned back in his chair, adopting a lecturing tone as he spoke; "Nigel Handsworth, as I've already said, was a dropout. He was a first year Psychology student who spent half his time in the pub, a quarter of his time in bed, and most of the rest of it studiously avoiding my lectures. It was little wonder that he failed his mock exams in January and dropped out at the end of the summer term."
"Did he have any close friends here that you knew of?" Lewis asked, stepping away from the desk, folding his arms as he walked slowly around the office, examining the shelves of books.
"He was fairly close, from what I could tell, to three other students in my Psychology of Action group," Rutledge replied, airily, "the one class he could be depended on to attend with any regularity, I might add."
"Can I have the names of those students, please, Professor?" Lewis asked, keeping his tone polite.
"Susan Harper, Neil Dickinson, and Simon Green," the Professor replied, without hesitation, "though I don't know if you'll find them in Oxford – they may have returned to their home towns for the summer holidays."
"Thank you," Lewis said, "we'll check into that."
He turned to leave, but Hathaway held up his hand, like a school child in class wanting the teachers' attention.
"Just one more thing," the sergeant said, pleasantly, "I'm curious. What was that class about – the Psychology of Action?"
Rutledge relaxed slightly, seemingly pleased with the younger man's apparent interest in his field of academia.
"It is, quite simply, the study of why some people do the things that they do," Rutledge explained, in a studious voice, "it is the study of action and reaction, particularly in the extreme – for example, have you ever accidentally brushed against someone and they have reacted angrily, even violently? We study that phenomenon of human behaviour, along with such other devastating behaviours as murder, suicide, and sadomasochism."
"Okay," Hathaway nodded, "thank you, Professor."
He turned, and followed Lewis out of the study, as the Professor watched them go. When he was sure they were gone, the Professor reached for his phone, and called his personal assistant, who sat outside.
"Jackie? Yes… get me Simon Green on the 'phone, please…"
~*~