The Scribe

by A A Chaudhuri

  ‘I’d long suspected James was cheating on me, so I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. He had a reputation long before we got together at Oxford, but when I found out for certain I was still heartbroken. But heartache turned to anger, then resentment, then indifference. I channel my anger into my music, my sculpture.’

  ‘Your sculpture?’ Carver glanced at Drake.

  ‘Yes, I have a studio upstairs. I’ve always enjoyed being creative. It’s very calming. You should try it.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not very creative,’ Carver said with an uneasy chuckle. ‘You’ve read about the way the murderer disfigures his victims? Do you think a person would necessarily have to be creative with their hands to do such a thing?’

  Elizabeth smiled. ‘I know where you’re going with this, Chief Inspector. Just because I sculpt doesn’t mean I carved up those girls.’

  ‘But surely you resent them for sleeping with your husband? I assume you’re pretty well versed in legal terminology, having been married to a law professor for nearly sixteen years.’

  ‘I don’t resent those girls. I resent him. There’s a difference. If I was going to kill anyone, it would be him.’

  Carver leaned forward. ‘Do you consider your husband to be capable of murder, Mrs Stirling?’

  A nail-biting pause, then Elizabeth said, ‘I really can’t say. One thing I can say for sure is that James has a temper.’

  Progress. ‘Has he ever hit you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She knew how much worse she was making things for her husband. But she didn’t care. Despite what she’d told Carver, she wasn’t indifferent. She was too riddled with hurt, spite and revenge to care about the consequences. This was her chance to get even with him.

  ‘Frequently?’

  ‘Not so much recently, but there was a period when he’d come home drunk every other night and take a swing at me. His father was the same apparently. I guess it’s genetic.’

  ‘Do you know if your husband has ever behaved violently towards any of his lovers?’

  ‘No,’ she lied, ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Is he still sleeping with his students, Mrs Stirling?’

  Elizabeth hesitated. Was it too soon to hasten her plan to destroy her husband? Should she wait? No, the urge was too great to resist. She got up and went over to the bureau in the corner of the room, removed a key from her trouser pocket and opened a drawer. From it, she pulled out a large brown manila envelope and handed it to Carver. He looked at it warily.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Open it and you’ll see.’

  The flap wasn’t sealed. Carver pulled out several glossy prints of Stirling sitting in a bar with a young, attractive girl.

  ‘When was this taken?’ he asked.

  ‘Last Monday evening.’

  ‘You’ve been having your husband followed?’

  ‘No. One of my girlfriends, who doesn’t much care for James and was out drinking in the same bar that night, took the photos with her phone.’

  ‘Do you know the girl?’

  ‘She’s one of his current students. Natasha Coleridge. Her father is William Coleridge. The senior partner of Channing & Barton.’

  A look of alarm passed between Carver and Drake. They both shot up from the sofa. ‘Excuse us, Mrs Stirling. Thank you so much for your time. We’ll be leaving now.’

  After she’d closed the door on her guests, Elizabeth sat down with her cello and started to play. As she caressed the strings like a long-lost lover, she thought back to Carver’s question about whether she knew if her husband had ever behaved violently towards his lovers.

  She’d almost been tempted to tell him what she knew, but it was far better for her sake that he received such information anonymously. After all, she didn’t want to face criminal charges for breaking and entering. Or theft for that matter. He’d get the information soon, by post.

  And then her wretched husband would really be in a bind.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Maddy put her phone on silent and moved stealthily across Channing & Barton’s fourth-floor library towards the Tort section. She shouldn’t have been in there. She should have been drafting an email to the client, making up for her earlier ineptitude.

  But she couldn’t help herself. Her client could wait a few hours. But the killer’s next victim didn’t have that luxury.

  She cast her eyes along the dark-wood shelving, hoping the textbook she was after – one of the oldest, most respected authorities on Tort law – wasn’t out on loan.

  It wasn’t. She grabbed it off the shelf and sat down at a table. Running her finger down the index, she found a section detailing different types of tort. There were lots. But the last category listed was “toxic tort”. She turned to the relevant page and began to read.

  A toxic tort was a legal claim for harm caused by exposure to a dangerous substance. Such claims often arose from occupational exposure, home exposure, consumer products and pharmaceutical drugs. The section listed some of the toxic substances shown to have caused significant injury to people.

  Maddy thought for a while.

  Those such as lead, asbestos, landfill waste and drugs were likely to cause injury from long-term, rather than short-term, use. She was sure that didn’t apply here.

  She read the paragraph on exposure in the home and consumer products. Under the former, examples such as mould, mildew and fungus were mentioned. Once again, these were torts generally arising from long-term exposure, and she suspected the killer, who had made it plain the next victim would die very soon, would use something sure to bring about instant death.

  Maddy drew her finger down the paragraph until something interesting caught her eye. “Pesticides”. There were many types: herbicides; insecticides; fungicides.

  The victim’s kitchen cupboard was likely to contain at least one of these, if not all three. She pulled up Carver’s text attaching the killer’s riddle: “Her home is toxic. She will die like an ant.”

  Insecticide! The killer intended to poison the next victim with insecticide in her own home.

  “The daughter of an eminent partner, a strong-willed warrior, a famous English poet.” She grabbed a pad and pencil from the centre of the table and bullet pointed key words. The sentence had to contain some hidden translation or meaning of the partner’s name, surely?

  She fished out her iPhone, went to the internet, and typed in “strong-willed warrior”.

  Bingo! The second entry down was a link to a baby-names website, explaining that “strong-willed warrior” was the literal translation of “William”. So, the father’s name was William.

  Next, she typed in famous English poets. An image bar headed “Writers frequently mentioned on the web” appeared as the first result. She scrolled through the images, then froze as she read the fifteenth entry: Samuel Coleridge, a famous English poet.

  She wrote down “William Samuel Coleridge” on her pad, then drew a line through “Samuel”.

  How could she have been so slow?

  Her senior partner’s daughter was the killer’s next victim.

  ***

  Maddy burst into conference room eleven without knocking. She knew Coleridge would be pissed at the intrusion, but he’d thank her later.

  ‘What is the meaning of this, Madeline?’ Coleridge shot daggers at her. His eyes craftily skimmed the room, noting the displeasure on his clients’ faces.

  Maddy held her ground. ‘Sir, it’s a matter of urgency. I must speak with you now.’

  ‘I’m sure it can wait, Ms Kramer.’ He’d gone from first to second name terms just like that. She was in serious trouble. But that was irrelevant compared with what was at stake.

  ‘It can’t,’ Maddy persisted. ‘I believe your daughter is in grave danger, and you need to warn her. Now.’

  ***

  ‘I can’t get hold of Coleridge,’ Drake said from the passenger seat as Carver wove his way down Grays Inn Road. ‘The receptionist said he’d dashed out of his me
eting to make an urgent call. I left a message for him to call me back immediately.’

  ‘And Kramer?’

  ‘She appears to be tied up too.’

  ‘Okay, it can’t be helped,’ Carver said with a shrug. Although he couldn’t be sure they’d drawn the right conclusion, it was one they couldn’t sit on. He felt the rush of the chase, the feeling that they might be closing in on the killer. ‘Ring the academy, find out where Natasha Coleridge lives and call for backup. The killer says her home is “toxic”, so I’m guessing that’s where she’s meant to die. We need to head there before it’s too late.’

  ***

  ‘She’s not answering her mobile, and when I try her landline, it says the number’s not in use.’ Coleridge’s face was ashen. Until now, he’d seemed almost immortal to Maddy.

  But now she saw that he was just another human being like her, like the rest of his firm: a husband and a father, with thoughts, vulnerabilities, fears of his own.

  Seeing him look so helpless, Maddy didn’t want to let on that she feared the worst. The kindest thing she could do for now was to keep moving and take control.

  ‘We should go to her flat now.’ She headed for the door.

  Coleridge nodded, grabbed his coat off the hook, and obediently followed his associate out of the room. It was as if their roles had been reversed.

  ***

  In the back of a black cab, battling heavy London traffic, Coleridge kept calling his daughter’s mobile. But every time, it went to voicemail. He then tried his wife, not letting on why he needed to speak to Natasha so urgently for fear of upsetting her before they knew the facts. Unfortunately, she hadn’t spoken to their daughter since the previous night.

  It was one of the most uncomfortable thirty minutes of Maddy’s life. Her mind beset with images of Sarah’s and Emma’s disfigured bodies, she couldn’t help wondering whether she was about to come face-to-face with a third.

  Finally, the cab turned onto West End Lane, the main road running through West Hampstead. A couple more turns and it came to a stop outside a four-storey Edwardian mansion block, converted into flats.

  The cab fee was charged to the firm’s account, so the driver sped off as soon as Maddy and Coleridge got out. Maddy waited nervously on the pavement as Coleridge rang the buzzer to his daughter’s flat. No answer. He turned to her. ‘Perhaps she stayed at the library to study. She does that sometimes. And it would explain her not answering her mobile.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Maddy replied, not wanting to dent his optimism. ‘But we should double-check all the same. Do you have a key?’

  ‘I do.’ Coleridge pulled out a key chain from his pocket, two keys dangling from it. ‘Natasha gave it to us for emergencies.’

  ‘This is an emergency,’ Maddy said. She could tell he was dithering. ‘Let’s go in.’

  She followed Coleridge up the stairs to the first floor. He knocked on his daughter’s door, but there was no response. He waited another thirty seconds, then opened it, called out her name as they stepped into the hallway. Again, nothing.

  ‘Her keys are in the bowl,’ he noted.

  Maddy heard classical music coming from somewhere. Had the killer beaten them to it?

  ‘Wait here,’ she instructed.

  ‘Why?’ Coleridge asked, his voice shaky.

  ‘Please, just wait.’

  Her heart in her mouth, Maddy started inspecting each room. The dining room was immaculate, as if it hadn’t been touched in weeks. Nothing looked particularly out of place in the living room either. She kept going, spotting an open doorway ahead of her. It led her into the kitchen, where the music was coming from, turned up so loud it hurt her ears.

  She used a piece of kitchen towel to turn it off, careful to avoid her fingerprints getting on the volume control. Just in case …

  She noticed the lipstick-marked glass tumbler on the table, a third full of what looked like apple juice.

  Then she saw two slices of bread laid out on a chopping board, buttered and ready to be filled with the cheese and tomatoes lying next to it.

  Why had Natasha failed to make her sandwich? Had she received an urgent call and needed to dash off?

  If only that were so.

  Maddy had been right not to touch the radio – right not to touch anything with her bare hands.

  Because the killer had been there. She’d suspected as much from the evidence before her.

  But William Coleridge’s grief-stricken cry confirmed her suspicions.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘She’s not been dead long.’ Grayson looked across the bed at Carver, Natasha lying between them. ‘Body’s only just starting to stiffen, and her temperature’s just below normal.’

  Carver and Drake had been on their way to Natasha’s flat when Maddy’s text had come through: “We were too late. My boss’s daughter is dead. WC is with me. Distraught.”

  They’d arrived to find Maddy in the living room, sitting on the sofa beside a hysterical Coleridge, her arm wrapped around his quivering shoulder. He was sobbing like a child, his breathing erratic, his head buried in his hands, every now and again coming up for air and emitting a howl of pain. They’d immediately summoned a doctor, who’d administered a tranquilliser to calm him down. After he’d fallen asleep on the sofa, Drake had disappeared to break the news to his wife, busy getting ready for her dinner party.

  Maddy stood at the foot of the bed, watching Carver and Grayson discuss the body as crime scene officers and photographers moved busily around the room. Vomit trickled from Natasha’s blue lips and onto the pillow she lay on. One of the CSOs took a sample and placed it in a clear plastic phial. They’d already taken samples from the bile on the bathroom floor Maddy had discovered earlier.

  Other officers fished around in drawers and wardrobes, taking specimens of any liquids, pills or creams they came across.

  Natasha’s top half was naked – her bra and jumper lying inside out on the floor beside the bed – her chest inscribed with the word “Tort.”

  ‘It looks like she was poisoned first,’ Grayson said. ‘From the vomit, and the blue tinge to her skin. See it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Carver nodded. ‘Any idea with what?’

  ‘My guess is some kind of household product or pesticide. It depends on the ingredients how quickly they react. Some are more lethal than others and require as little as a teaspoon to prove fatal. Hard to say definitively what we’re dealing with until we do the post-mortem and get the toxicology report. But that’s my gut feeling. It causes the victim to suffer severe stomach pains, nausea, headaches, sweating and eventually, if left untreated, seizures and death.’

  ‘There was a tumbler on the kitchen table,’ Maddy said. ‘About a third full of what looked like apple juice. But it didn’t smell like apple juice. It smelt sour.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, one of the CSOs saw it and has taken a sample. We’ll know soon enough.’

  Carver turned to Maddy. ‘Ms Kramer, you beat us to it. I assume you know what the killer was getting at here?’

  ‘Yes. In a nutshell, tort law concerns injury a person has suffered because of another’s actions, for example through negligence or because of a faulty product. The person responsible will have had what’s known as a duty of care towards the injured party to ensure the injury didn’t happen.’ She took a breather. ‘In the past, pesticide poisoning has led to claims in tort. It’s what’s known as “toxic tort”. Especially in the States, where it’s been alleged that exposure to these types of chemicals has led people to become gravely ill, with all sorts of diseases.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Blood cancer, aplastic anaemia. But I found a case where a perfectly healthy couple were discovered dead in a motel bedroom which had been sprayed with insecticide. Apparently, they died from breathing in the spray in mass quantities. It basically poisoned their bodies.’

  ‘I see.’ Carver felt deflated. He’d been so sure they’d get there in time.

  ‘I should get back
to the office,’ Maddy said, eyeing her watch. For a few seconds, she and Carver stared at one another – a deliciously awkward moment. She saw the disappointment in his eyes, felt his frustration.

  As for Carver, he marvelled at Maddy’s strength. She was tougher than many young officers he’d trained over the years, and some older, more experienced ones. Most girls her age would have fainted or hurled on the spot. But she was different. Although he didn’t want to admit it, he was attracted to this bright, spirited young woman. But he pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He was the senior investigating officer of a murder investigation, and their paths would never have crossed otherwise. They were poles apart – in age, outlook and lifestyle – and there could never be anything more between them, other than an underlying physical attraction.

  ‘Of course. Thank you for your help once again, Ms Kramer. I know none of this is easy, and you’re doing a fine job in keeping a level head.’

  ‘Thanks, I’m just sorry for being too late to solve the riddle.’ Maddy tried to shake off the torrid scene between her and Carver that was suddenly playing out in her mind. How can I even think about such things at a time like this? It was madness. But she couldn’t help it. There was just something about him, something that had drawn her in from the moment she’d laid eyes on him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something that sent a wave of excitement through her every time they were in a room together.

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ he replied. ‘We were all too late.’

  ***

  ‘Natasha Coleridge is dead.’

  Carver didn’t take his eyes off Stirling, who was standing by his front door, about to unlock it.

  After leaving the crime scene, Carver had met up with Drake and they’d headed straight for Stirling’s house, arriving a little after 5.30 pm.

  Stirling appeared genuinely shocked. He also looked gaunt, sleep-deprived, as if something weighty was pressing on his mind. ‘Oh my God,’ he said in almost a whisper, his face suddenly drained of the little colour it had left in it.

  ‘Her father found her poisoned in her flat. Her chest had been inscribed with the word “Tort”.’ He let his words sink in. ‘Where were you all afternoon, Professor Stirling?’