The Only Game. Reginald Hill

He looked at a map as he drove, located the college. Five minutes later he was parked on the verge by the main gate.

      The college occupied a flat windswept site south of the A127. There was still agricultural land here but it would have taken an unreconstructed East Ender, or an estate agent, to call the location rural. The lights of housing prickled in all directions and there was a constant drone of traffic from the arterial road.

      But, set in a couple of acres of playing fields, and emptied now for the Christmas vacation, these inelegant boxes of concrete and glass still managed to chill Dog’s heart like a Gothic mansion.

      There was a hoarding by the gate bearing a diagram of the complex. He studied it, located the warden’s flat, then slipped through the gate. There was a caretaker’s lodge just inside but he didn’t want either the bother or the disturbance of explaining his presence so he cut away from it across the grass to minimize sound. The rain had finally stopped and the skies were clearing. Tendrils of mist from the sodden ground curled around his ankles and from time to time he stumbled in the tussocky grass. He doubted if this was doing his expensive shoes much good. Or his career.

      He reached the block where the flat was located. The main double glass door was locked, but presumably the warden would have her own personal entrance. Even a college lecturer was entitled to a private life.

      He moved cautiously along the flagged walkway running alongside the building. He had to make a full circuit to the other side before he found what he was looking for. There was a car park here with a solitary car parked in it, right outside a conventional single door with a bell push.