Ingrid Beckett-Thomas stood at the door to the tiny apartment for the second time in as many days. She glanced around the street, watching for anyone that might see what they were doing.
"Hurry up." She said tersely.
"I'm a research assistant, professor, not a thief. I already damaged the door in the last attempt."
"I don't want complaints; I just want it done."
The cops had already driven past the place, slowing down for a few seconds. It angered the professor that they hadn't even bothered to get out of the car to confirm the anonymous tip-off. She'd rung them and said that a murderer was living in this house and that the bloody evidence was about to be destroyed.
Now that they'd ignored the call and that little upstart and her friend weren't here, it was time for Ingrid to return to her search. Ingrid had watched the place, waiting for their return but it had been several days. She figured they'd gone away for a holiday to escape the unfolding nightmare surrounding Nelson.
As for the cameras, they were just another expense. It would be worth it, but Ingrid hated that she had to outlay the money to begin with. The recording device that she'd put into this place had been sold to the drug-addled neighbour, much to her disgust. That piece cost her a small fortune, and it was now in the hands of someone who didn't know its value. They'd tried to get it back, but it wasn't worth the effort. Standing at the doorway of his horrid little unit was enough to create sensory nightmares for weeks to come.
As for tonight, they were going to install tiny cameras. Ingrid wanted the papers; she knew that her ex-husband had found something. All she had to do was keep it hidden for a short while and then claim it as her own. And, she had to keep it from his new wife from finding out about it too.
Ingrid had seen her at the memorial that the university held for the professor and the staff that had died. It annoyed her that they even invited her to speak. She was just some hairbrained thing that fluttered her eyes at Nelson; she knew nothing of the value of his work. If anything, asking her to speak was an insult and Ingrid lamented that she would have done a much better job.
"Professor," A voice called out, rasping the word.
Ingrid turned to see the new kid running towards them, what looked like a paper in his hand. She could see that he'd run quite some distance, out of breath and red-faced.
"The paper, it has your ex-husband on the front page."
He held it up as he doubled over, the other hand resting on his knee. Ingrid took the newspaper and opened it out to see Nelson's grand smile in one picture and the glowing circles at Stonehenge. She quickly darted through the article, reading that Stonehenge now had markings on it that matched a sarcophagus that had been found by Professor Nelson Thomas. They also added that proof of his ownership of the findings had been sent to the university. They interviewed the Dean and Professor Thomas's widow, agreeing that everything that had been found would be donated to the museum and in his honour, a building would be named after him.
Ingrid sneered when she read that the wife would be the one that cut the ribbon at the exhibit opening ceremony in a week. The article predicted that this history altering display would be a sell-out and that people from across the world would come to see what Nelson had found. Her sneer twitched when she read that this was being touted as one of the most significant archaeological finds of modern history. The government was re-opening the site to search for more artefacts as well as a reassessment of Stonehenge now that things had changed.
"They said that they're going to send a team into asses Stonehenge now that it's been established that it's a gate. Are you going to ask to be the team leader?"
Ingrid thought about it for a few seconds and then smiled.
"Of course I am, why wouldn't I?"
"Well, I uh, thought that you know, because it involves your ex-husband."
"It's fine." She said, struggling not to spit it out in hatred.
The door cracked and her research assistant huffed.
"Well, the door is open. Not sure if it will ever close again, but at least you're in, right?"
Ingrid turned, slapping the newspaper to his chest.
"I will ignore that provided that you go and deal with this nonsense. Ensure that we are sent into any dig sites, use my association with him if you have to."
He nodded and walked down the steps. As he walked down the street with the new kid, Joe looked over his shoulder at the professor. She had a brilliant mind, but she sure was a piece of work. If he had the chance, he'd change, but that wasn't possible.
Ingrid walked into the small apartment, wondering where she could put the camera that would show everything that the little upstart did. She knew that the girl had information; she knew that Nelson would have done everything that he could to get it away from those who would steal from an unguarded dig site.
She'd gone over the list of everyone that was let out of the place, and this girl was the only one that would have had regular contact with Nelson. The others, like the cook, might have only seen him once or twice a day, if that. But this Lucy girl, she was the campsite co-ordinator. If something happened, she'd have to tell Nelson. So, her words that she didn't have anything of Nelson's was a straight out lie.
"Stop right there!" A man yelled.
Ingrid froze.
"Slowly lift your hands into the air and turn around."
She did as she was told, wondering when the police became so stupid. They should have been here when she rang them, not now when it was too late.
"Professor Ingrid Beckett, you're under arrest for the murder of Lucy Harrington."
A cop walked forward and dragged her arm behind her back, clasping the handcuff around her wrist.
"What is the meaning of this?" She snapped as the other arm was pulled down and cuffed. "I didn't murder the girl."
A different cop walked out of the bedroom; at the end of the pen he was holding was a bloodied shirt. He put it into the bag and gave her a challenging look.
"Lucy Harrington is missing, and you were seen here a week ago, harassing her."
"What in blazes are you talking about?"
"The neighbours witnessed a tense conversation. You're also in her apartment, by the state of the door it looks like you've broken in and now we have evidence that is covered in blood."
His gaze lifted to the back door where a colleague had just walked in. Ingrid turned and saw the knife that she'd planted in the dishwasher. It was covered in dried blood and dirt, but it was enough to make the cop drag her out of the house. The entire way to the back of the car, he droned on about her rights and all that Ingrid could think about was the neighbours that would whisper.
Word would spread and soon, everyone would know that she'd been arrested for murder. It didn't matter that she didn't do it or that she'd get her lawyer onto this, ending this nonsense. What mattered was what they said. Whispers like this had a tendency to stick better than glue.