by Ray Clark
“When was this taken?”
“A few weeks before our brother died. He’d taken us all to Scarborough for the day.”
Gardener stared at the photo. Portly, Plum stood at around sixteen stone. His brown hair was combed from left to right across his head, streaked with flecks of grey. His small brown eyes stood out in a fat, round face.
“I’d like to take this with me.”
“It’s the only one I have, Inspector.”
“All I want is a copy, you can have it back.”
Olive nodded. Gardener passed it to Reilly, then pressed on.
“How was he with the other tenants?”
“As I said, always pleasant.”
Gardener noticed her glazed expression. “You weren’t aware of any disagreements, then?”
“None that I know of. Why? Has someone said something?”
“I spoke to one of your other tenants earlier, Nicki…”
The snapping alligator reared its ugly head, cutting him off. “You don’t want to listen to her! She’s got too much to say for herself, that one! I don’t know who she thinks she is. Barely sixteen with a baby, on the social. Pinching everything she can get from the state. Visitors at all hours! I’ve heard ’em, creeping down the stairs. You don’t want to go listening to her, she’s no manners. She’s no example for that baby. She takes drugs!”
“Do you know that for certain? Have you actually seen her taking them?”
“I don’t have to. I’ve seen her arms.”
Gardener was beginning to build a picture of contradiction, something he didn’t relish, despite it happening with almost every case.
She continued her tirade. “It’s shocking the way they take these drugs nowadays. No respect for their bodies, or anyone else. It wouldn’t have happened in our day. We’d have had it knocked out of us, and no mistake. I think I’ll have words with her.” She glanced at her sister. “When I think of the problems that filth causes, it makes my blood boil. It really does. Mrs O’Connor’s daughter’s into drugs, you know? Still, she’s going to pay the price. Used a dirty needle last year, now she’s got that HRT thing. Serves her right, that’s what I say.”
“Let’s get back to Herbert Plum. Where did he shop?”
“He wasn’t very well organized. Never did a weekly shop, just picked stuff up when he needed it. He always used the Co-op, round the corner. And I’ve often seen those takeaway delivery vehicles in and out of here.”
“Did he walk, or did he have a car?”
“No car. Walked most places.”
“What about employment? Any idea where he worked?”
“Couldn’t tell you. He was usually up early and out the door, so he must have had a job of some description.”
“You never thought to ask?”
“It’s not my business. So long as he pays his way.”
“And did he?”
Gardener caught a slight hesitation before she answered.
“Well, he wasn’t always on time with his rent. I often had to give him a polite reminder. Maybe he didn’t earn much, but...”
“But what?” Reilly asked.
“I’ve caught him down the bookies a few times. I have the odd flutter myself. You know, the Grand National, the Derby. That sort of thing.”
“Do you think his money went on the horses before anything else?”
“It’s not for me to say, but he did lead a frugal life.”
“It’s one explanation for overdue rent. Was it a regular occurrence?”
Again, she hesitated. “At first, he never missed. But of late, I had to remind him every week. I don’t particularly like chasing my tenants. Still, I won’t have to do it much longer.”
“Which betting shop did he use?”
“The only one I know about was William Hill on Dewsbury Road.”
“Any family, visitors, phone calls?”
“No family that I know of, and in the two years he’d been here I never saw one visitor. I felt sorry for him. I don’t like to see nice people on their own. I had one a few years ago. Dead a week before I found out.” She placed a hand on her chest. “Such a shock. I only found out then because he was late with his rent, first time ever. Come to think of it, he lived in Herbert’s flat. Ever since then I’ve made a point of checking my tenants regularly. I often used to go and have a cup of tea with Herbert. A gentleman. I shall quite miss him.”
Even though he was late with the rent, thought Gardener. “Which reminds me, does anyone live in the flat next door to Nicki Carter?”
“No. Someone did about six months ago,” she replied. “When he moved out, I started using it as a storeroom. Very handy if you can pack up your boxes and put them somewhere.”
Gardener studied the room. God alone knew what she had packed away because it still seemed full to him.
“Did Herbert Plum have any references when he came here?”
“I don’t ask for references, Inspector. This is Rawston. We take people as we find them. Always have.”
A small scuffle outside the front window drew their attention. A gang of youths chanted and cheered as they walked by the front of the building.
Olive Bradshaw stood up, staring out at them.
“Just listen to that one. He wants his mouth washing out with soap!”
She glanced at Gardener. “You lot should take a keener interest in him. Peter Atkins. I know his mother well. All the same, that family. Think nothing of airing their dirty washing in public. I’ve had words with her over the years, I can tell you.”
She turned to her sister. “He’s just come out of prison. Who is it that told me? Ron Franks, down the shops last week. Apparently beat his girlfriend up.”
She resumed her conversation with Gardener. “Black and blue, she was. No good will come of that one, you mark my words. He’ll be back behind bars soon, if you lot are up to it.”
She peered at Gardener’s hat. “He has a hat similar to yours, Inspector. If you don’t mind my saying, it looks unusual. What’s the story behind it?”
“A long one,” he replied. “With regards to your statement last night, there are a couple of things I want to establish. You say you went to the bingo, around six-thirty?”
“That’s right.”
“And returned when?”
“About ten-thirty, as I said.”
“Can anyone verify your movements?” He noticed her glance at Mabel. “Apart from your sister.”
“Of course, the people in the bingo hall, for a start.”
“Which is where?”
“Dewsbury Road.”
Where everything else is, thought Gardener. “Do you know the name of the ticket seller?”
Olive Bradshaw folded her arms. “Certainly do. A woman named Molly Simpson, lives on Queen Street, number twenty-three. You can check out my story with her, seeing as you think I’m guilty.”
“I didn’t say you were guilty.”
“No, but you’re thinking it.”
“Do you read the tea leaves, then, Olive?” Reilly asked. “Or is it just minds?” He could tell by her expression she wasn’t amused.
“When was the last time you saw Herbert alive?” Gardener continued.
“Friday afternoon, I think. Mabel and me were out doing a bit of shopping. He was at the Co-op.”
“How did he seem?”
“Fine.”
“Did you speak?”
“No, but he waved. We were on the opposite side of the road, about to cross. He was leaving. He had a carrier bag with him.”
“Which direction was he heading? I take it he wasn’t coming home?”
“No, he was probably going for an afternoon tipple. Looked like it, anyway. Heading toward The Black Bull.”
“Did you see anyone close to the house as you left?”
“No. Passed a few people further down the street, but we knew them all.”
Gardener made a note of their names so he could cross-check back at the station, before rising
from his seat. “Well, thank you for the tea.”
He threaded his way around the antique furniture. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“Anytime, Inspector. If you could see to it the room is cleaned up as soon as possible, I would be most grateful.”
“I will.”
“I know I’m selling up, but I don’t want anyone talking about me when I’m gone.”
“Dread the thought,” replied Gardener. He opened the door to leave, and stopped in the doorway. “Just one more thing. How many keys were there for the room?”
The question made her think. After a short pause, she answered, “Three. I have a master; he had the other two.”
“Are any of them missing?”
“Well, I’ve still got mine.”
“Okay. I’ll check and see where the other two are.” Gardener paused before asking, “And you’re sure he had no visitors?”
“Not that I know of. Why do you keep asking?”
“Curiosity, Miss Bradshaw. There was no forced entry. In my opinion, Herbert Plum was not only murdered. He actually knew his killer.”
Chapter Fifteen
Six-thirty on a Saturday evening and the incident room stood full, not a prospect any officer relished. Gardener assembled his team quietly and efficiently. They listened while he went through the contents of the pathology report he’d only recently received.
It noted the recorded condition of the body as expected: advanced state of decomposition. Fitz placed the time of death between seven and eight o’clock in the evening. DNA from the victim’s hair matched a comb taken for evidence by Scenes of Crime. Plum’s dentist identified his false teeth.
The sixty-year-old skeleton contained evidence of osteoarthritis in some of the joints. Most hard tissue still remained, but all soft tissue had broken down. A liquid analysis contained traces of sodium, potassium, calcium, phosphate, chloride and amino acids.
Fitz had been unable to find any proteins. Not even a trace. The pathologist’s conclusion stated the body’s state was consistent with ‘complete rapid proteolytical decomposition’. The cause of death was unknown.
“Doesn’t tell us much,” said Briggs.
Briggs had held the senior position for a little over a year, having transferred from Liverpool. Gardener had been in line for the promotion when the position became available, but Sarah’s death had removed the possibility. Gardener didn’t have a problem with that, but he suspected Briggs did. As a result, their relationship had improved very little in the past year.
Gardener returned to the path report. “Cause of death unknown. Anyone have any theories?”
“I thought it was acid at first,” Anderson replied. “But Fitz has blown that one.”
Gardener stared at the findings, mystified. “What kind of a compound can destroy your entire insides in the space of two or three hours?”
“There’s a lot of dangerous stuff out there, boss,” said Reilly. “Back in Northern Ireland, we have terrorist groups that specialize in killing people with a mixture of lethal cocktails. I’ve seen the remains of some of those people. I’ve never seen anything like this, though.
“I came across a bloke in a warehouse once, bit of a mess. He’d crossed one of these groups. Held back some money he was supposed to have been collecting for them. When they caught up with him, they trapped him, kept him locked up for days. Then they cut him all over with razor blades. Only small cuts, mind.”
Gardener noticed Reilly’s eyes glaze over as he talked.
“Once the cuts had been opened up a little more, they covered him in manure. The smell was the least of his worries. You see, manure is usually full of nasty little things called gas gangrene bugs. Once they’re inside, you’re in trouble. The terrorists walked away and left him to rot. I found him a few days later. His whole body was in an advanced state of gangrene. His limbs were black. He’d actually started to fall apart at the seams.”
Gardener exhaled a long breath, trying to imagine what Reilly had described. “Well, it’s not gas gangrene, but whatever Plum was subjected to was probably just as lethal.”
DC Thornton, Anderson’s partner, took a sip of coffee. “It would certainly narrow down who to look for. Surely, it’s medical. A doctor? A chemist? It has to be someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“I’ll go along with that,” Gardener said. “It wasn’t a random killing. It was planned. Whoever did it knew whom they wanted and where to find him. Despite the internal mess, it was a precision kill. Swift, accurate, little time wasted. There was no forced entry, no signs of a struggle. He knew his killer.”
“Makes you wonder what we’re chasing,” said Colin Sharp. “It was pretty extreme.”
“I think our killer wanted to inflict pain. They wanted revenge. Have you any idea what Plum must have gone through? What kind of pain he felt? The change his body went through? Was he still alive while it was happening to him?”
“Jesus Christ!” said Briggs. “He must have been on fire inside. And that’s another thing. How did it get inside? Was he made to drink it?”
“Who knows?” said Gardener. “So, we have a sixty-year-old man, lives on his own. Has no relatives, no visitors, no phone calls, yet his death, and what he did with his life, are a big mystery.
“You all have a photo of Plum and a copy of the path report. I want answers. Who was he? Where did he work? Find out his last movements. I want to know Herbert Plum better than I know myself. Keep the report to yourselves, but use the information to your advantage. He wasn’t just killed, he was obliterated. I want to know why.”
Gardener turned to Anderson and Thornton. “You two are going to love this. I want you to cover every sex shop in the area with his picture. Plum’s flat contained pornographic books and DVDs, and a variety of sex toys suitable for both males and females. Find out where he bought them.”
“Can we watch them first? We might be able to tell you ourselves,” replied Thornton with a grin. An anaemic, six-foot rake of a man, with grey hair, which was never quite free of dandruff, Thornton was so thin he continually reminded Gardener of a POW.
“Nothing would surprise me, Frank.”
Laughter circled the room.
“All right, calm down. It’s all very suspicious. Plum was a sixty-year-old bachelor. From what I’ve seen, he had an active sex life.”
“Wish I did,” shouted a voice from the back.
Gardener smiled and continued. “He had books, DVDs, and toys. What could he possibly use them for if he never came into contact with anyone?”
He suddenly thought about Olive Bradshaw.
“From the people I’ve spoken to, it would appear he and his landlady were conducting a relationship of sorts. One of her lodgers suggested as much. Olive Bradshaw claims he was often late with the rent, but she didn’t appear to have had a problem with it. Which further compounds the theory. She claims she was at the Bingo Hall on Dewsbury Road between six-thirty and ten-thirty.
“Someone check that out, please. There were lots of nods and glances to each other when we interviewed her and her sister. Told me they knew more than they were letting on. If they know more, I want to know more. I want the answers to three serious questions. Who killed Plum? Why? And with what?”
Sensing the briefing was over, the team started to leave.
Returning to the pathology report, Gardener read the list of items recovered from the crime scene, noting an entry for something called Papaverine.
“Just a minute, lads, before you go. There’s a record of something called Papaverine in the path report. Who found the pills, and where? Any idea what they’re for?”
“I did,” said Steve Fenton. “They were in a bedroom cupboard. No idea what they do, sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” replied Gardener. “I’ll ring Fitz now.”
Gardener left Reilly to deal with any queries as he went back to his office and dialled the pathologist. It rang six times before Fitz answered.
“Fi
tz? It’s Stewart. A small problem you might be able to help me with.”
“Go on.”
“I’m looking at an entry on the list of items recovered from the crime scene. Small bottle of pills, they’re called Papaverine. Any idea what they are?”
“I shouldn’t think you need them. You’re still a young man.”
Gardener’s interest piqued. “So, what are they?”
“A sexual stimulant. Normally supplied by doctors to help with a failing libido.”
“Thanks, Fitz. I’ll keep in touch.”
As he replaced the receiver, he sat back in his chair. The mystery deepened.
Chapter Sixteen
Gardener glanced at his watch. It was a little after eleven o’clock. He made himself a green tea before bed even though he knew it wouldn’t help. A complete jumble of thoughts stirred in his mind. Apart from last night’s gruesome discovery and the troubling encounter at the cemetery, he found himself thinking of Jacqueline Bâlcescu. He liked her; found her reassuring.
He enjoyed her company and, aside from today, their conversations never felt awkward. He could tell she was a well-educated woman with expensive tastes, who knew what she wanted out of life.
They had much in common.
He found her wide, sensuous smile inviting. He liked her chestnut-coloured hair with its healthy sheen in its short, fashionable bob. He appreciated the fact she wore little to no makeup.
He even found the chip in her tooth an attractive feature.
He saw her around the village regularly. Over the last few months when visiting Sarah’s grave, they had spent more time together. He’d begun to wonder whether or not he should move on with his life, which always brought on a sudden pang of guilt. Sarah had only been in her grave a year. During that time, he’d paid little heed to other women and the feelings they stirred in him.
Now he found himself consciously aware he had feelings for the female minister.
Those emotions confused him. He and Sarah had enjoyed an excellent rapport. They shared a fun-filled life together. Their combined tastes blended so well the relationship felt like it didn’t need to be worked at. It simply fell into place. They had frequently disagreed. What married couple hadn’t? Sarah’s impulsiveness often amused him. She often came around to his way of thinking, however. He was the level-headed one, after all. Above that, though, he felt the closeness of their relationship came down to the mutual trust and respect they had for each other.