by Ray Clark
He pulled himself to his feet, glancing around. Charging towards him was the rugby player, his face a contorted grimace of rage. His hands clenched into tightly-balled fists; his eyes vacant of emotion. Reilly took the only option open to him.
He launched the pool ball with an accuracy that relied on luck more than judgment. He heard the crunching of bone as the rugby player dropped to his knees. A guttural howl escaped his lips, along with teeth and blood, which spilled out onto the floor.
A man suddenly slammed down on the pool table in front of Reilly. The Irishman pulled him up by his collar, punched him hard in the mouth, then threw him over the side of the table.
He supposed he should have tried harder to impress upon them who he was, but by now he was enjoying himself.
As Reilly turned, he saw Gardener take a hard punch to the face. Kicking a chair out of his way, Reilly climbed over a body to reach the barbarian who had floored his superior officer. The giant turned fast. Using all his weight, he barged into Reilly, knocking him off balance. He landed beside the body he’d climbed over.
The last thing he expected was to be helped to his feet. He drew his fist back but momentarily held it, surprised at the sight of a riot squad officer trying to restrain him. Surveying the pub, he realized it was almost empty. Only the landlord and two customers remained, all of them horrified.
“Where the hell did you come from?”
The riot officer ignored his question, choosing instead to read him his rights.
Reilly held up his hand. “Hold it, I’m a police officer. So is he.” Reilly pointed to Gardener, who was nursing his swollen cheek. The officer let go but waited for identification. Once satisfied, he checked to ensure the ringleader and the rugby player had been escorted from the premises.
Chapter Twenty-two
“What the bloody hell did you two think you were doing?” demanded Briggs. Apart from the fact that Briggs was the DCI, no one argued with him because he was physically overbearing. His huge chest rose and seemed to keep on rising as he took a breath. Little could be seen of his face due to his thick black beard and moustache. Briggs was a few inches shorter than Gardener, but nevertheless, his authority – and the fact he spoke extremely fast without fluffing any of his words – gave him a decided advantage.
“Defending ourselves,” replied Gardener, taking a sip of water and wincing.
“Defending your-bloody-selves? Against who? The Fantastic Four? A couple of blokes playing pool, and you go in like you’re auditioning for ‘Lethal Weapon 6’ and trash the place!”
“It didn’t happen like that!” shouted Reilly.
Briggs glared at Reilly with an expression that would have killed a crow in mid-flight.
“Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? You were responsible. You’re a walking one-man war zone, Reilly. You ought to carry a government health warning. According to the landlord, who by the way is putting in a claim, you walked in, ordered a drink, and then went over to the pool table.
He’s no idea what happened next, but whatever it was, it sparked off a riot.”
“Sean’s right, it didn’t happen like that.”
“I’m surprised at you, Stewart. I can understand it from the Urban Guerrilla, but not you. You’ve obviously been under a lot of pressure lately. Maybe you came back to work too soon.”
“You’re out of order there, sir,” said Gardener, infuriated by the suggestion.
“All I did was ask about Herbert Plum,” said Reilly. “The landlord didn’t answer, and when I came out of the toilets, the pool players were waiting for me. We didn’t get a chance to explain who we were before they were on us.”
“That’s exactly what happened, sir. We were only doing our job.” Gardener stood up and walked around Briggs’ desk, depositing his cup in the bin. An elongated silence descended upon the room. Briggs sighed. “I just wish you’d tried restraining yourselves a little more.”
After another silence, Gardener asked, “What are you going to do?”
“About you two? Nothing. But there will be an inquiry. Questions will be asked, but we can cross that bridge when we come to it. On the subject of Plum, have you made any headway?”
Gardener sat down again, dejected. “We didn’t get a chance.”
“Well, I did,” said Briggs.
That piqued Gardener’s curiosity. “How?”
“Craig Sutton.” Briggs glanced at Reilly. “That was the bloke you knocked unconscious.”
“He talked?”
“Sutton’s well known. He’s been busted a couple of times for possession. He also has a record for handling stolen goods. Nothing heavy, he hasn’t got the guts. Looks like you did us a favour, Reilly. He was wanted for questioning in connection with the stolen paint from that warehouse near The White Rose Centre last week. He was seen driving the getaway van.
“So, we traded a bit of information. Turns out that Sutton was also involved in another incident in The Black Bull last week, with Plum. Our friend Plum had a bit of a drink problem. After a bloody good session, he loosened his tongue, offered Sutton’s woman a part in a film. Said he had the right contacts, all she had to do was give him the nod.”
“What kind of film?” inquired Gardener.
“‘Artistic’ was how Plum put it, Christ knows why. Have you seen Sutton’s girlfriend? I know looks are only skin deep, but she must have been born inside out. Anyway, she was offended. She told Sutton, who threatened Plum.”
“No wonder he wasn’t too happy to see us,” said Reilly.
“Still doesn’t tell us much,” said Gardener.
“No, but you might like to know Plum was in there regularly, with a colleague. Craig Sutton doesn’t know anything other than his name. Bernard Thornwell. Sutton had the impression they worked together. Unless…”
“Unless what?” asked Gardener.
“…unless they were partners,” finished Briggs.
Gardener didn’t buy it. “Not Plum’s style. He was definitely into females.”
“Well, whatever it was,” said Briggs, “I want you to concentrate on finding Thornwell. He might be the key to the investigation.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Gardener brought his car to a halt outside the pathology lab. Switching off the engine, he sat motionless for a moment, reliving the events of the previous two days. As the case unfolded, it was proving more complex.
A house-to-house inquiry of Rawston revealed very little. General opinion proved that Plum had neither been liked nor disliked. He was simply one of the millions who shuffled by inconsequentially. He was someone you acknowledged, then promptly forgot. According to the turf accountant and his landlady, he had a money problem. He’d died owing them both. Shop assistants had seen little of him. Those who had couldn’t remember what he’d bought.
The seedier side of the investigation revealed Plum had not purchased his pornography in Leeds or the surrounding areas. Seeing as he had no computer, it was unlikely he’d bought anything online. Gardener assumed he had sent abroad for it. There were enough outlets, all of them too difficult and time-consuming to chase down.
Plum had no bank records, no building society accounts, no legal documents of any kind. He had neither contributed to the Inland Revenue nor National Insurance. He had no pension, and his bills had been paid with cash. Gardener could find no employment details. He had no medical records, and only one dental document, for a pair of false teeth supplied twenty years previously, also paid for in cash.
So, where and how did he earn his money?
Gardener returned to The Black Bull, where he found the landlord more cooperative than Reilly had. Thornwell’s description bore a resemblance to Plum’s. He was a similar age, portly built with thinning grey hair, beard, and moustache. He walked with a limp. He only used the pub occasionally, with Plum. Never by himself.
The landlord said he had not seen Thornwell since before the brawl. He also confirmed what Briggs had said about the incident involving C
raig Sutton and his girlfriend. The landlord hadn’t been sure what it was about, but Sutton had been extremely angry, taking a pop at both. What Sutton had declined to tell Briggs, which had been overheard by the landlord, was Sutton telling both men if he saw either of them in the pub again, he’d kill them.
Later in the evening, the landlord also heard Sutton saying, “It isn’t over. I’ll get even with them. Both of them!”
So far, Gardener had been unable to find Bernard Thornwell. He and Plum had socialized together, very possibly worked together. Now one was dead, the other missing. The mystery deepened. Gardener was awaiting copies of both men’s birth certificates. Reilly was still digging for information. The team was still investigating. An appointment with Fitz beckoned.
Gardener was hoping for something positive. He left the car, nursing his still swollen cheek.
Gardener found Fitz at his desk. Unlike most pathologists, he kept a tidy office. Folders were neatly stored, easily accessible. On a shelf behind him sat a MIDI hi-fi, currently playing a CD from an opera. He had a computer on his desk and a fresh cup of coffee. Apart from a couple of prints and a framed photograph of his wife, the only other item decorating the walls was a plaque, which read: “Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. This is the place where death rejoices to teach those who live.”
“What happened to you?” asked Fitz, glancing up.
“It’s a long story,” replied Gardener.
“It must involve the Irishman, then.” Fitz finished playing with his computer and turned his attention to Gardener. “How’s the case progressing?”
Gardener briefly took the pathologist through what he had learned.
“Come with me.” Fitz took a sip of coffee before leading Gardener through to Herbert Plum’s corpse. The vile smell was still prominent.
“I’ve examined the bones thoroughly. See here?” Fitz held one aloft. “They’re hollow, no bone marrow present. And take a look at this.” Fitz picked up a magnifying glass, directing Gardener to the skeleton’s trachea.
“What am I looking for?”
Fitz used a long needle to pinpoint the exact location. “The third cervical vertebra has slight damage. That pinprick is the mark of a syringe, which could mean that the killer has some medical knowledge. Although on this occasion, they’ve gone too far and hit the bone.”
“What were they after?” Gardener straightened, following Fitz as he returned to his office.
“At the moment I’m only guessing, but I suspect the jugular vein.” Fitz sat down behind his desk. “The jugular carries blood from the brain to the heart, where it’s pumped around the body. There, it mixes with the rest of the body’s blood. Inject the vein with a lethal compound, and within minutes, the entire body is contaminated.”
“Could it be a poison?”
“I don’t know. The vast majority of fatal poisonings are suicidal or accidental. Less than six percent of homicides are due to poisoning. I’ve discussed the case at length with Professor Matthew Stapleton, probably the country’s leading toxicologist, up in Edinburgh. I considered aconitine, a poison widely used in ancient times. Mainly in Greece and Rome for the elimination of political enemies. The Greeks called it ‘Stepmother’s Poison’. It has the same effect as a depressant on the central nervous system. Symptoms include numbness, increase in body temperature, vomiting, visual disturbance, and quite a number of other unpleasant side effects...”
“But?”
“It’s not capable of destroying the body. It could be a mixture of a few poisons causing a severe reaction. Antimony is another, made famous in the trial of George Chapman for murder in 1903.” Fitz leaned forward, a little excited. “Chapman was a sinister character with experience as a barber-surgeon, which had led to the speculation he was Jack the Ripper…”
“Fitz!”
“What?”
“Can we stick to the point? I’ve got Briggs breathing down my neck. I need facts.”
The opera CD finished. Fitz pressed the play button again. He gave Gardener an expression of disappointment. Fitz loved nothing more than to share his encyclopaedic knowledge.
“I’m not convinced it’s a straightforward poison. I’m not aware of anything on the market that’s capable of destroying a body.” Fitz paused. “Matthew Stapleton is researching poisons and their effects for me. The only speculation I’m prepared to make is the injection into the jugular. I’ve studied it at length. From the angle and the position of the puncture wound, I’d say your killer is left-handed.”
Gardener considered the possibilities of such an action.
“How do you manage to inject a person in the neck? It’s not as if they’re going to stand there and cooperate, is it?”
“Not unless your assailant is extremely powerful, or heavy. Or very, very quick.”
Craig Sutton entered the detective’s mind. He met the requirement of being strong enough. But was he left-handed? Did he have any medical knowledge?
“Even so...” Gardener stopped, another train of thought distracting him. Sutton was a known drug dealer.
“What?” Fitz asked.
“An easy way to get someone to cooperate would be to drug them, yes? If they’re almost out of it, you can do anything you want to them.”
Gardener left Fitz thinking about his statement. On his way out, he heard the pathologist mumble something about time and accuracy.
Chapter Twenty-four
Gardener was staring into the window of the Leeds United supporters shop in The Merrion Centre. His mind wasn’t on the reason he was here – to try and find a Christmas present for Chris.
Football was a world away from when he was young. It was all about money now. The prices they charged for season tickets were horrendous: add that to what he could see here, and it soon reached extortion. He’d heard recently that there were different levels of membership and even if you were a Gold member it didn’t guarantee tickets.
A voice from behind distracted him. “Stewart?”
He turned. “Jacqueline. Nice to see you. What are you doing here?”
“Same as you, I suspect. Christmas shopping. It’s amazing how it creeps up on you.”
She paused, staring at his cheek. “What have you done to your face?”
“It’s nothing, really,” he replied, touching it. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“You look tired. Is everything all right?”
Gardener smiled. “Just a few sleepless nights.”
He was a little self-conscious and she must have picked up on it.
“I was about to have a coffee. Please say you’ll join me.”
He checked his watch. “I shouldn’t, but I will.”
“Good!”
She led him out of the building to a small, cosy café opposite a bookshop at the edge of an arcade. Despite being December, the weather was mild. She suggested they sit outside. Gardener agreed. Jacqueline went inside, emerging shortly afterwards with a latte for herself and a decaf for him.
The atmosphere in the arcade was tranquil. A few people browsed in the bookshop. A couple of Japanese tourists stared eagerly into the window of the camera shop next door.
As she sat, they both leaned forward, went to speak at the same time, then leaned back and stopped, also in unison. They shared an awkward laugh of embarrassment in an effort to disguise their discomfort.
“You first,” said Jacqueline.
“Not at all, ladies before gentlemen, and all that,” Gardener replied.
“I was going to ask you what you’d been buying?”
“I was about to ask you the same.” He laughed again. “I’m struggling to buy a Christmas present for Chris. He loves his football. He’s hoping to play for the school. Anyway, I’ve managed to find a copy of the new FIFA game for his Xbox.” Gardener paused, taking a sip of coffee. “What about you?”
“Trying to choose something for my aunt. It’s not easy to buy for the person who has everything.”
“Tell me
about it. I have the same problem with my dad.” He took another sip of coffee, then stopped to observe the brew. “This coffee is good. It’s not something I usually drink. Anyway, you’re spending Christmas with your aunt. Bet you’re looking forward to it.”
Her expression changed. “There’s a lot to do before then.”
He wondered about her defensive answer. In order to break the tension, he glanced at a young couple emerging from the bookshop, holding hands, gazing intently at each other – unaware of everyone else around them.
“Are you doing anything tomorrow night?” she asked him.
Gardener hesitated. “I’ve nothing planned, no, and I’m not on call.”
“How would you like to join me for a meal… at my place?”
The question took him unawares but he answered suddenly, without further thought. “I’d love to. What time?”
He noticed another pause from her before she answered. “Eight o’clock?”
“Fine. I’ll bring the wine,” said Gardener, slipping into the spirit. “You do drink wine, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Any preference?”
“I’ll leave it to you. Lidl have a pretty good range: reasonably priced.”
Sarah came into his mind and his insides turned at the thought of what he was doing. But it didn’t stop him.
“Okay. Eight o’clock it is.” He checked his watch again, then finished his coffee. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go. Cases don’t solve themselves. I’ll see you tomorrow at eight.”
“It’s a date,” replied Jacqueline.
Chapter Twenty-five
An elderly gentleman dressed in a Santa Claus suit staggered drunk through the centre of Leeds, blissfully unaware of the freezing cold wind.
He negotiated crossing The Headrow in a disorganized series of blunders, swaying as though at sea, narrowly missing traffic.
He was observed by a courting couple huddled in a doorway, hungrily devouring a Burger King takeaway after a night on the town.