by Ray Clark
“I didn’t know Thornwell. Seen him in the pub a few times.”
“What about Plum?”
Sutton sighed. “I didn’t really know either of ’em.”
“When we spoke to you less than a week ago, you called Plum a pervert, which suggests to me that you did. Or at the very least, felt you knew enough to pass an opinion.”
Sutton’s temper flared. “He were trying to pull me bird for a porn film. Me there! In the same flaming pub...”
“What exactly did you say to him?”
“I said I’d punch his lights out if I caught him talking to her again.”
“And that’s all?”
“More or less.”
“Are you telling me everything?” Gardener pushed.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because I have a witness who said you threatened to kill them both.”
Sutton laughed. “I didn’t mean it. I were just talking, trying to frighten ’em.”
“You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean. After an argument, you threatened to kill them both if you saw them again. Both men are now dead. Try looking at it from my point of view.”
Sutton pointed a finger. “Now look here, I never killed ’em. I might have said it. I were annoyed, I’d had a drink, but I didn’t kill ’em!”
“Where were you on the night of Friday, 4th of December between 6:30 and 11:00pm?”
Sutton exhaled a long breath, glancing upwards. “I’d rather not say.”
“Why not?” Gardener knew Sutton’s alibi could land him in trouble that he’d be reluctant to admit to. Gardener didn’t care. He had an investigation to run.
“Look, I can’t tell you.”
“That’s a pity. You see, in order to eliminate you as a suspect, we need to be able to verify your whereabouts.”
“I didn’t do it!” shouted Sutton, gripping the edge of the table.
Gardener increased the pressure. “Then, tell me where you were.”
Sutton glanced around the room. His breathing became heavier. “On a job,” he muttered, quietly.
“Pardon?”
Sutton spoke through clenched teeth. “On a job. Are you satisfied now?”
“What sort of a job?”
“You know I can’t tell you.”
“You know you have to.”
Sutton’s hands were clasped together on the table, his fingers locking together and releasing in quick, spasmic movements. “I think I need to talk to my brief.”
“Are you sure you want to do that, Mr Sutton?” replied Gardener, a little annoyed. His intention had not been to question Sutton about stolen paint. More to use it as a lever if needed.
“If you bring your brief in, I’ll think you’re hiding something. It might slip out that you were doing a job for Brian Thatchett, otherwise known as ‘Thatchett The Hatchet’. You know as well as I do where he got that nickname from.”
“Are you threatening me?” asked Sutton.
Gardener laughed. “Not at all. I’m simply saying that even with the best will in the world, it’s impossible to keep everything from men like The Hatchet. Word eventually gets round that you spilled your guts to save yourself. Next thing you know, The Hatchet and his sharp little friend come looking for you, and you’re history.” Gardener paused and stood up, pushing his chair back. “Still…”
“Okay,” said Sutton. “You win. You obviously know all about the paint job.”
“Of course, I do,” said Gardener, sitting back down. “But I haven’t dragged you in to talk about paint. Did you ever notice Plum with anyone else other than Thornwell?”
“In the pub, you mean?”
“Anywhere.”
“I never saw him outside the pub. He were often in the pub with a woman, one as runs the boarding house.”
“Olive Bradshaw?”
“Aye, that’s her.”
“Were they friendly?”
“Sometimes.”
“Enough to suggest a relationship?”
Sutton nodded. “I’d say so. They weren’t always together. Sometimes he were with Thornwell, sometimes her. Before her brother popped his clogs, they all used to come in. There were summat funny going on there.”
“Something funny?” inquired Gardener, his curiosity piqued.
“Nowt I could put me finger on, just summat odd. Wouldn’t surprise me if they were all in films. Granny Sex, or summat like it. I don’t know. Ask anybody in the pub, they’ll all tell you.”
Gardener was about to ask another question when Sutton continued speaking. “And then there were that freak! Ugly bastard he were.”
“Who are you talking about now?” Gardener’s skin suddenly started to itch.
“Oh, Christ! What were his name? Felix; that’s it. Felix – face full of warts.”
Gardener froze. A whole year had passed without a sighting of Warthead and, suddenly, two references within two days. “Face full of warts? Can you tell me anything else about him?”
Sutton shrugged. “There’s not much more to say. He’s about five feet tall, maybe nineteen or twenty, funny shaped head. Face full of warts.”
“You ever hear him talk?”
“Yeah.”
“Cockney accent?” pressed Gardener.
“No. Yorkshire.”
Gardener was momentarily knocked off balance. What had happened to the cockney accent? Perhaps it was a put on. Gardener’s problem suddenly escalated. If Warthead was local, how had he managed to evade him? Especially with a face like his?
“How was he usually dressed?”
“A fancy jacket. Black leather, gold eagle on the back. Some American slogan. Can’t really remember.”
“Genuine article? You wouldn’t buy it in England?”
“I doubt it.”
“Do you know anything else about Felix? Where he lived?”
“No, all I know is what I’ve told you. I only ever saw him about three times, but him and Plum were as thick as thieves when I did see them.”
“Have you seen him in the pub recently?”
“No, last time were before Plum were killed.”
Gardener’s skin crawled, his guts churned. “Did you ever see Felix with anyone else other than Plum?”
“No.”
“Not Thornwell?”
Sutton paused. “No, never with Thornwell.”
“Did you see him with Plum when he was with Olive Bradshaw?”
“No. He were only ever with Plum.”
“And you’ve no idea what kind of relationship they had?”
“What?” Sutton’s expression suggested he was horrified by the question. “You mean, like, Felix and Plum, a couple of puffs?”
“I didn’t necessarily mean that. I meant, how close? Father and son close, for instance? Or friends?”
Sutton paused and thought. Then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr Gardener, I don’t know.”
Gardener realized he was going to have to terminate the interview. He’d suspected all along that Sutton was no killer. Although he was disappointed, he had picked up some useful information. He checked his watch before nodding to Briggs and Reilly. To Sutton, he said, “One more thing before you go.”
Gardener produced a document. “Can you just sign this for me?”
“What is it?” asked Sutton.
“It’s nothing. Just a release paper. Lets you know you haven’t been arrested, and you understand that you’re not being charged. You know what it’s like, all that red tape.”
Gardener observed Sutton pick up the pen and sign the papers. With his right hand.
Chapter Forty
As Gardener approached the lab, he could hear Fitz on the other side of the doors.
Judging by the shouting, the pathologist’s mood was bordering diabolical. As he opened the door, Fitz stopped mid-fury, turning and lowering his arms. He sighed at the sight of Gardener. “How many hours do they think I have in my day? I suppose you want a piece of me now, too?”
A quick survey of
the lab informed Gardener that Fitz was letting off steam. The only other occupant was a lanky, twenty-year-old assistant tucked away in the far corner, paying little heed to the senior man. Gardener cautiously approached the gurney that Fitz was working on.
“What… is… that?”
“A mummy.”
The sight of the bandaged corpse piqued Gardener’s curiosity. “Where did it come from?”
“Sheffield.”
Gardener studied it. The mummified rags were mouldy, covered in dust and cobwebs. The exterior appeared parched. He imagined one touch would disintegrate the whole thing.
Fitz continued. “Police in Sheffield found it in a cupboard at the top of the stairs. Young couple had bought the house. They were in the process of moving in, deciding what to decorate, where to put things, when they found it.”
“How long’s it been there?”
“Quite a while, I should imagine. It’s virtually a carbon copy of the one found in a house in Rhyl, North Wales, in 1960. Leslie Harvey, a taxi-driver, was redecorating his mother’s house while she was in hospital. The cupboard at the top of the stairs had always been locked since he was a boy. When curiosity got the better of him one day, he forced it open and found a mummy. It was stuck solid to the floor. They had to use a spade to prise it loose.”
Gardener was surprised by his morbid fascination.
“Apparently Leslie’s mother once had a semi-invalid lodger boarding with her. One day she found the lodger on the floor, screaming in agony. Shortly afterwards, the lodger died. His mother didn’t know what to do, so she locked the body in the cupboard.”
Gardener sighed but declined to comment.
Fitz strode over to the sink to clean up. When he’d finished, he said, “Follow me.”
Gardener anticipated bad news. The pathologist entered his office and sat behind his desk. He slid a sealed bag with the syringe from the church grounds across the desk to Gardener.
“I take it you’ve found out what was in it?” Gardener asked as he examined it.
“Curare!”
“Pardon?”
“Takes some believing, doesn’t it? I’m certain it belongs to the killer. It confirms earlier thoughts of the victim being incapacitated by something. You see, most drugs take time to act, which means the victim is capable of resistance. An injection of curare would paralyze the victim almost instantly, making a struggle impossible.”
“What exactly is curare?”
“A skeletal-muscle-relaxant drug of botanical origin. It’s used in modern medicine primarily as an auxiliary in general anaesthesia. But it’s more widely known as a very old and lethal poison. One of the earliest encounters appears to have been during the exploration of the Lake Maracaibo region in Colombia by Alonzo Perez de Tolosa in 1548. Scientific studies of the substance began in the latter part of the eighteenth century with the Akawai Indians of Surinam. They used it as a poison on their arrows.”
“Any idea why it’s being used now? Here?”
Gardener was struggling to accept Fitz’s findings. Lethal poisons, body-destroying chemicals. The outlook was growing bleaker by the day.
“Almost certainly as a blocking agent. It produces flaccidity in striated muscle. Which means it prevents nerve impulses from activating skeletal, or voluntary muscles. It’s pretty dangerous stuff. I think the person you’re looking for knows exactly what he’s doing with it. It first affects the muscles of the toes, ears, and eyes, then the neck and the limbs and, finally, respiration. In fatal doses, death is caused by respiratory paralysis.”
“Is curare capable of destroying the body?”
Fitz sighed. “No.”
Gardener cursed and glanced upwards. “Marvellous.”
“I wouldn’t give up just yet. At least we know how the killer is operating. My guess is, the victims know the killer. I imagine they’re taken by surprise, immediately injected with the curare which renders them disabled. Then the killer has the time to perform the real task.”
“Would the victim be aware of what was happening?” asked Gardener.
“Almost certainly. We’ve done tests with curare. In fact, I did one yesterday with Richard.” Fitz chuckled. Richard was his lanky assistant ignoring him in the corner. “Gave him a small dose. Frightened him half to death. He was aware of everything, even heard me talking, but he couldn’t move a muscle. It wore off after a few minutes. He was all right. He didn’t want to do it again, though.”
That meant Gardener could certainly rule out Craig Sutton. Apart from the fact that Sutton was right-handed, he suspected Sutton was too big to work with such precision. Not to mention he lacked the intelligence to handle such a deadly toxin. The field was open again.
Gardener thought about Summers. Although he was convinced the agent had withheld information, there still wasn’t enough evidence to suggest his involvement. Where did Warthead fit in? The motive was clear – revenge. Someone out there had a grievance, a score to settle. The biggest question, however, was what had Thornwell and Plum done to warrant such a terrible death? Christ! What a can of worms.
“What are you thinking, Stewart?”
“I’m trying to eliminate suspects. Maybe I need to study the medical sector more closely.”
“Possibly. As I’ve said, use too much, and you’ll kill the victim. Your man is using the exact amount to keep his victim alive. Maybe even sadistic enough to talk to them, tell them why he’s doing this before administering something even more disturbing. It’s someone who’s extremely intelligent, highly efficient. I think the syringe was deliberately thrown into the bushes for you to find. Whoever it is, they’re more than likely playing games with us now.”
“And you’ve still no idea what’s destroying the body?”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could help you, but there’s a distinct lack of evidence in that department. Matthew Stapleton is still no further on than I am.”
Gardener rose and picked up the bag containing the syringe.
“So, where the hell do I go from here?”
Chapter Forty-one
Gardener’s team was in the incident room at eight o’clock sharp. The air of trepidation was palpable. The last person in was Briggs, who shut the door and sat in one corner with his arms folded.
“There’ve been some new developments, but I’d like to see what you’ve gathered first,” said Gardener. He was standing next to the spider chart with a pen at the ready. Glancing at Sharp, he asked, “Colin, what have you found out about Thornwell?”
Sharp addressed the gathering with the help of his notebook. “In some respects, he was similar to Plum. Bernard Thornwell was a sixty-three-year-old single male who lived in a bedsit in Middleton. Seems he had few friends, but a neighbour has confirmed one of them as being Herbert Plum. Thornwell was last seen on Friday afternoon when he left for work dressed as Santa Claus.”
“Dressed as a Santa?” Gardener asked.
“Apparently, he used to get changed before he went to work. He was often seen in the local pubs wearing his uniform.”
“Did this neighbour say anything about a clown’s outfit?”
“No, only a Santa suit.”
“Did he have any female acquaintances? Has he ever been married?”
“According to the neighbour, he was at one time. He and his wife lived in the Holt Park area. When she died about seven years ago, he was left with a lot of debts. He sold the house to clear them, and ended up in Middleton.”
“Okay,” said Gardener, bullet-pointing the information Sharp had relayed on the chart. When he’d finished, he turned back to the group. “There’s a task for someone. Find out from his previous address all you can about him. What his wife was like, how the debts accumulated. Speak to old colleagues, neighbours. Go as far back as it takes. Dig up everything you can.”
“Do you want me to cover that?” Sharp asked.
“No, I have something else in mind for you. Anything else to add?”
Sharp returned to his notes
. “Unlike Plum, he paid his tax, national insurance. Had bank accounts, credit cards, and from what I’ve found out, didn’t owe anyone anything.”
“Compared to Herbert Plum he seems like a saint. But someone wanted him dead. So, there has to be an incident in his past. I want to know what it was. Did you search the flat, Colin? Any pornography?”
“It was clean, everything in its place. Food in the cupboards, bed made. The room was pretty tidy, considering he was a widower. No porn, but then again, no computer, which might answer for a lack of porn.”
Gardener had hoped for a different answer. There had to be something to tie Plum and Thornwell together, apart from the fact that they both worked for Summers and were killed in identical circumstances. “Anything else?”
“No,” said Sharp, sitting back down.
“Okay, good work. Your next task is to investigate an entertainment agent by the name of Derek Summers.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything from the day he was born. Find out everything you can. Sean will tell you what we know, but I want you to go and personally build a dossier on the man. Whatever progress you make, you report directly to me. No one else, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The rest of you, listen carefully. Fitz gave us some important information yesterday. The syringe we found in the churchyard contained a lethal poison called curare.”
“It’s Agatha Christie,” shouted Frank Thornton, glancing round, laughing.
“Very droll, Frank.” Gardener waited for the laughter to subside before continuing. “In almost all the cases that Agatha Christie used it in her novels, someone was killed with it. Our killer is not using the curare in fatal doses. Fitz thinks it’s being used as a paralyzing drug. He believes the dose is precisely measured so the victim is aware of what is happening to them. To make them suffer.
“Whoever is using the poison knows exactly the right amount to keep their victim alive and for how long. It’s whatever they use after the curare that’s really doing the damage.”
“Does Fitz know what that is?” asked Briggs.
“Not yet.”
“Do we need to widen the net, include doctors?” suggested Thornton.