Eleven.
Scott jerked awake as his mobile phone went off, pouring out bright light from the small screen, and bathing the room in a luminous blue glow that proved surprisingly blinding.
Scott groaned as he rolled over to face the bedside table, his eyes screwed shut against the brightness wishing his ears could do the same as the repetitive strains of the Nokia theme assaulted his sleep-fuddled brain. He flung out a hand, fumbling clumsily over the bedside table and groaning as he listened to his watch slide across the wood and thud onto the carpet.
Not again.
Grasping his phone, he squinted sleepily at the buttons before him, pressing one and holding it to his ear,
"Hello?" He mumbled, running a hand over his face in exhaustion.
"Scott?"
"Sir," he replied drowsily looking over at his alarm clock, 4:00am, a mild improvement.
"Scott, I'm on my way to pick you up, I know who killed Terry Miller."
Scott blinked blearily around his room, trying to establish some focus, and gave a sleepy nod.
"Ok Sir. Be ready in five."
In actuality, it took longer than five minutes, because although he was up, dressed and dosed with coffee in that time, he couldn't for the life of him find his badge. He couldn't even the remember the last time he'd seen it, which didn't surprise him greatly, he didn't seem to remember much about the few minutes it had taken him to get from his front door into his bed – he didn't even remember opening the window he's awoken to find blowing a gale into the room. The earlier part of the evening was something of a dull memory. Not that it helped him find his badge.
"Ready Scott?" Barnaby chirped as his groggy sergeant clambered into the passenger seat with a yawn,
"Not particularly sir," he mumbled, settling back into the familiar upholstery, "I couldn't find my badge."
Barnaby frowned,
"Couldn't find it? What? You've lost it?"
"Misplaced," came the sleepy reply. Barnaby decided not to push it further, fearing the DS' mood might not withstand a lecture on the importance of one's identification. Instead, he pressed on with the case.
"It was Mrs. Miller," he began suddenly. Scott blinked,
"Sorry sir?"
"Mrs. Miller," he reaffirmed, clearly rehearsing his speech for when he came face to face with his suspect, "On the night of the murder, Mrs Miller took her daughter backstage to confront her husband. No one would have noticed her in the confusion of the performance…"
Scott agreed wearily. The play had been a confusion.
"…She followed him up into the lighting area…"
Suddenly the DS managed to catch up with his boss' train of thought, the sleep vanishing momentarily as the pieces slid into place for him too,
"So when Kitty Miller was talking about bright lights, she meant stage lights, not heaven and angels like her grandmother thought."
"Precisely, and when Terry refused to appologise for his actions, she took out a knife she had stolen from the prop department and stabbed him, using her knowledge as member of the theatre board to make good her escape."
Scott stifled another yawn,
"Ingenious."
His boss didn't quite catch the cynicism,
"Indeed."
From the depths of his pocket, Scott felt his phone vibrate and delved a hand deep into the folds as he tried to work it loose. He flipped it open and pressed it to his ear, rubbing at his brow with a free hand,
"Hello?…" Nothing, "…Hello?" As the line went dead he flipped it shut, cursing, amongst other things, the country's appalling mobile phone reception. Suddenly he paused,
"So hang on a minute sir? You're telling me this is a case of a jealous wife killing her husband?"
Barnaby frowned,
"Well…yes." He listened to his sergeant chuckle in amazement.
Maybe things were easy in the country after all.