‘Yes, I remember you said that, and you do seem to go out of your way not to be noticed – yet you work like a man out to make a name for himself.’ Fennimore stared hard at the student. ‘You’re just a bundle of contradictions wrapped in a conundrum, aren’t you, Josh?’
‘Look,’ Josh said. ‘I’m sorry I barged in like that. I’m sorry if you think I’ve been digging around in stuff that’s none of my business. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy, and I didn’t mean to offend you.’
Seeing the student’s pained expression, Fennimore realized he was being overbearing. What if Josh had done a little internet research – wouldn’t it be hypocritical to condemn exactly the kind of curiosity he encouraged in his students? Especially when half the undergraduates did exactly the same. Some of the brighter girls even asked shyly if there was any news, delicately avoiding any specifics of the news they were enquiring about. He shrugged, irritated with himself.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘What’ve you found?’
The relief on the younger man’s face was palpable. ‘A pattern in the post-mortem results.’ He stopped. ‘I mean a possible pattern.’ Then, frowning, he said, ‘No, I mean an actual pattern, but with a possible explanation.’
‘Let’s see it.’
While Josh was occupied laying out the folders, Fennimore reopened his laptop. The digital image he had been working from occupied the bottom right quarter of the screen – a face that was recognized across Europe – Fennimore’s daughter at the age of ten. He had taken it himself, five years earlier, just four days before Suzie vanished. His little girl would be almost a woman now. He saved the image and minimized the screen.
12
Kate Simms was about to start re-interviewing witnesses to the drugs deaths. In response to her request for more officers, her superintendent had allocated a detective sergeant and one newly promoted detective constable. DC Moran had six years of street policing experience, most recently in Cheetham Hill, and had already tracked down two more witnesses through her contacts in the area.
Moran had sad, gentle eyes and a round face, framed by fine brown hair. The lads called her Mouse, but Kate Simms had seen her file, and she knew that DC Moran’s appearance had nothing to do with the person within. They agreed that Moran would take the lead in the first interview, with an addict who had witnessed the death of her sister.
Jordan Fitch was shivering, and her nose dripped like a broken tap. DC Moran handed her a tissue and a cup of hot sweet tea.
‘I’m really sorry what happened to your Jade,’ she said, unwrapping a chocolate bar and placing it between them, as if they were a couple of mates out for a cuppa and a bit of a consoling chat.
Jordan warmed her hands around the paper cup. ‘Jade wasn’t even into it that much.’ Her body twitched as if some invisible tormentor prodded and pinched her ribs, her back, her face. ‘She was more into coke, a bit of weed. She had a good job, you know, in this nice restaurant in the city centre, so she didn’t have time to get high, you know, regular.’
‘So what happened, you know, when it happened?’ Moran asked, falling easily into Jordan’s rhythm of speech.
Jordan shivered so violently the tea in her cup slopped over the sides. ‘Oh, shit, I’m rattling,’ she said. ‘I’m just rattling, you know?’ Kate Simms stirred, but didn’t interfere: DC Moran was the expert in this situation.
‘I know,’ Moran said, touching the woman’s hand lightly. ‘We’ll get you sorted as quick as possible, after we’re finished here, yeah?’
Jordan took a fresh tissue, wiped her nose, balled it up and clamped her hands around the cup again. ‘Losing her like that was horrible.’ Her body twitched. ‘I seen people die before – my feller died of an overdose, but he kind of drifted off, you know?’ She looked into DC Moran’s face. ‘He were peaceful. But Jade … It was horrible. No, it was …’ She groped for the right word. ‘It was ugly. And my little sister wasn’t ugly.’ She stared fiercely into Moran’s face. ‘She wasn’t.’
‘Course she wasn’t,’ Moran said gently. She waited a few seconds, and when Jordan was calmer, she said, ‘Jordan, I know it’s awful talking about it, but we really do need to know.’
They had her witness statement but it was brief and unhelpful.
‘I’m not well,’ Jordan appealed to Simms. ‘I’m really sick.’
‘I know you want to help your sister,’ Moran persisted in that same quiet, coaxing manner.
‘I do. I do, I want to help, but …’ Jordan wrapped her arms around her stomach and began to rock. After a time she wiped her face and nose on the sleeve of her jacket, clenched her hands into fists and forced them onto the table.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘For Jade … I’d bought a few wraps off—’ She checked herself. ‘Off a street corner. We shared a flat, see, and I was in the bedroom getting … you know … fixed up, and she bounced in all happy ’cos she’d got the evening off. She wanted me to sell her a wrap, and I had a few spare, so I said okay.’
‘Was there anything odd about the deal when you were cooking it up?’ Moran said.
Jordan shook her head. ‘It were a normal – if there was owt wrong with it, I swear I would of stopped her. Anyway, I’m quicker than her, ’cos she’s not really used to it, so by the time she’s injected, I’m already high. Suddenly, she starts gasping like she can’t catch her breath. And she looks at me. Like she wants me to help. But I can’t – it’s like a dream and I can’t do nothing, you know? Like one of them dreams where you’re trying to run and you can’t?’
DC Moran nodded, sympathizing.
‘No!’ Jordan banged so hard on the table that the tea cup skittered sideways. ‘Stop it. Stop doing that. Stop being so fucking nice to me.’ She began to cry, and two red spots bloomed on her cheekbones, as if her tears burned her skin. ‘You know I’m fucking lying.’ She gave a hiccuping sob and covered her mouth.
Simms glanced across, and Moran lifted one finger, a signal that she should wait. Jordan tore a bundle of fresh tissues from the box, blew her nose and sat up straight.
‘I was mellow, you know?’ She avoided their gaze as she spoke, frowning instead at the tissues balled in her fists. ‘I was fine, so in my head I knew nothing was really wrong. Truth is, I was feeling too fucking good to be bothered.’ Her mouth twisted into a sneer of self-hatred. ‘I couldn’t be arsed to help my little sister when she was choking to death ’cos I was feeling fine.’
Kate Simms spoke up, following Moran’s example, speaking softly, keeping any moral judgement a country mile away from her tone. ‘None of this is in your witness statement, Jordan.’
‘No?’ Jordan frowned in the effort of concentration. ‘I told them.’ She knuckled the centre of her forehead. ‘I think I did.’
Kate Simms glanced down at the signature on Jordan’s witness statement. DS Renwick, ex-Drugs Squad. He was on her team now.
Jordan was looking from Simms to DC Moran; suddenly her shoulders slumped. ‘What the fuck’s it matter – who’s gonna listen to a smackhead, hey?’ Her eyes were full of bleak acceptance and despair.
‘Me,’ Simms said. ‘I’m going to listen, Jordan.’
13
Over the Skype connection, Simms could see Fennimore and an untidy and overstuffed bookcase a few feet behind him; the building’s video conferencing facility was unavailable and they were Skyping laptop to laptop.
Fennimore wasn’t classically handsome, but his intelligence and confidence made up for any slight imperfections. He had an interesting face: straight, dark eyebrows and a narrow nose, grey-blue eyes that readily lit up with delight, or more commonly mischief. But she’d noticed in their Skype conversations that his features were less mobile than when she had known him well, and that when he wasn’t smiling – or teasing – a quiet seriousness settled in the lines around his eyes.
He was in his shirtsleeves, tie loosened, short hair ruffled; he always did run hot when he was doing fuzzy stats.
‘Josh is here,’ he s
aid.
A blur, then the student appeared on her monitor, behind the professor. He jerked his chin as a form of greeting then disappeared off the screen.
‘I was about to call you when I got your text,’ Fennimore said.
‘What have you got?’
‘Show me yours and I’ll show you mine,’ he teased.
‘The local DI confirms there are no new clinics in the area, so that theory’s out,’ she said, humouring him – this wasn’t a power play, just Fennimore’s need to base his thinking on as much evidence as he could gather. ‘We’re still working on the dealer angle, but nothing so far.
‘I’ve re-interviewed several of witnesses to the drugs deaths. One of them gave a very clear account of her sister’s death.’ She summarized Jordan’s description of her sister’s breathing problems in the minutes before she died. ‘And Jade wasn’t the only one. I’ve got three more who say their friends were “breathing funny” when they died, another says the victim was snoring for a bit, then just stopped breathing.’
‘That is interesting.’
‘I thought so. I had a word with the Home Office Pathologist who did the post-mortem on StayC. He said he’d found a slight swelling in her larynx. I asked the hospital pathologists who performed post-mortems on the other victims to review their findings in the light of this – three have got back to me.’
Kate had started work at six that morning. It was now 4.30 p.m. Breakfast had been coffee and a banana. She’d skipped lunch entirely, but she felt turbo-charged with adrenaline as she continued:
‘Two victims showed signs of inflammation in the laryngeal passages. One had mucus secretions in his lungs, but he’d had a chest infection for a couple of weeks, so it wasn’t noted as unusual. In every case, the symptoms were minor.’
‘We need to look at the histology,’ Fennimore said. Tissue samples would have been taken at every post-mortem.
‘Already done that,’ Simms said. ‘StayC’s slides were held up in the system, but the Home Office Pathologist got them fast-tracked; he said the histology suggested a possible adverse drug reaction, so I asked the hospital pathologists to check their tissue samples—’
‘How come they hadn’t already checked?’ That was Josh.
‘Apart from anything else, it costs money,’ Fennimore said. ‘They had a cause of death – drugs overdose – so there wouldn’t be any reason to make any further investigations.’
‘And the more subtle symptoms were dismissed as insignificant,’ Simms added.
‘Tell me about the histological sections,’ Fennimore said, bringing them back to the evidence.
‘They showed signs of cell maceration,’ Simms said.
‘Uh … maceration?’ Josh again, sounding apologetic, but determined to understand everything.
‘It is what it sounds like,’ Fennimore said. ‘On microscopic examination, the cells look mashed up. They rupture and die. It can happen when the body becomes flooded with histamines.’
‘Histamines – so it’s an allergic reaction?’ Josh sounded excited now.
‘It could be.’ Fennimore looked at Simms. ‘Josh has been comparing post-mortem reports. A lot of the victims had penicillin in their urine at the time of death.’
A sharp spike of excitement shot from the base of Simms’s spine to the crown of her head. ‘You’re kidding me! StayC was warned to stay away from penicillin two months ago – she was on a course of antibiotics and it brought her out in a rash. Also, the Home Office Pathologist noted a penicillin smell in her urine at postmortem.’ She fixed on Fennimore’s blue-grey eyes. ‘This could be our cause of death, Nick.’
He winced slightly, and she could see that she’d offended his scientific sensibilities.
‘We’re talking about drug addicts and prostitutes here, Kate – they’re not exactly choosy about what they stick in their bodies. These people are seething with nasties at one time or another – of course some of them will be taking penicillin.’
Kate wasn’t discouraged. She had expected a cautious response from Fennimore – he never let enthusiasm spoil his objectivity.
‘We’ve been doing a Bayesian analysis,’ he said. ‘Looking at two propositions: either the penicillin in the victims was from the drugs deals or it was legally prescribed by a doctor. Our results say there’s a strong likelihood that the penicillin in your addicts’ urine was from contaminated drugs deals.’
A strong likelihood. The term was designed to help non-mathematicians understand the relevance of the numbers – and though it might sound unscientific, Simms knew that it was founded on careful calculations.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘the penicillin was in the drugs deals. But what’s the likelihood that it actually killed them?’
He smiled. ‘You haven’t forgotten everything I taught you at the Crime Faculty, then?’
‘Only a few minor details, but, hey, they’re just facts – I can always look them up. Pity you seem to’ve forgotten all the subtle social skills I taught you.’
He dipped his head in mock apology. ‘It is an excellent question, though, because despite its bad press, penicillin isn’t all that deadly. Allergic reactions happen, but they’re relatively rare, and usually mild. Depending on which study you read, you’ll get full-blown anaphylaxis in fewer than one in a hundred people. And only one in eight million will actually die of it.’
She sighed impatiently. ‘You seem to be arguing against your own case, Nick.’
‘I’m not making a case, I’m looking at the evidence, Kate, and that means looking at it from every possible angle.’
‘All right.’ She understood his irritation, but her superintendent was screaming for answers and so far all Simms had was a fist full of maybes. ‘But if this is going to end with you saying we need to look elsewhere for what killed these people, can we get to the bad news – soon?’
‘The fact is,’ Fennimore said, ‘that despite all the arguments against penicillin being the culprit, the numbers say that your victims are one thousand times more likely to have died from penicillin than from anything else. Context is everything, Kate – you know that – so when we add in the new factors you’ve just given us: cell maceration, swelling of the victims’ airways, hyper-secretion of the bronchial mucosa—’
‘Penicillin is our cause of death.’
He looked into her face. ‘Almost certainly.’
She clenched her hand into a fist, her blood positively fizzing with a new flood of adrenaline. She had a case. Not just the sad what-a-waste deaths of a few hopeless addicts who didn’t know how to measure their dosage – a real case, with criminals to track down and bring to justice. She nodded, considering, thinking how she would present it to her boss, and her brief sense of triumph was rudely elbowed to one side by a whole new set of questions.
‘Problem?’ Fennimore said.
‘I’m wondering why so many deaths if penicillin isn’t particularly deadly,’ she said. ‘And why so many women?’
‘Hm … that is a facer, isn’t it?’ Fennimore rested his chin on his fist and stared at a point to the left of the screen. ‘Most cases of penicillin anaphylaxis happen with a sick person being cared for in a family situation,’ he said. ‘An anxious parent or spouse notices the signs and calls for an ambulance.’ He continued to look off to the left, and she could almost see him picturing the tableau: a mother wringing her hands as paramedics leaned over her stricken child. ‘But addicts shoot up with other addicts. If they’re high, they’re not watching out for anyone else – you only have to listen to Jordan’s story to know that.’
‘So they send for help too late, or not at all.’ Simms nodded. ‘Okay, that makes sense. But it still doesn’t account for the number of female victims.’
‘Ah, yes, the gender bias …’ He picked up a pen. Although she couldn’t see it, she knew he would be doodling, mapping, writing down random words. ‘Women are more prone to allergy than men,’ he said, and then fell silent. For a full minute, he said nothing. It would h
ave been easy to do a web search, but Fennimore had a phenomenal ability to dredge up obscure facts from his memory and, though he would never admit it, he did like to show off.
‘Allergies happen when a sensitive person is exposed to an allergen – obviously. Sometimes just once will do it, but often it’s after multiple exposures. Studies show that if people are given penicillin on many occasions and on an irregular basis, it increases the chances of developing an allergy even where none existed before. Those are exactly the circumstances these women would find themselves in – antibiotic treatment for chlamydia one month, gonorrhoea the next, maybe a course of antibiotics for a bronchial infection,’ he said, thinking it through as he spoke. ‘Add to that bad hygiene, dirty needles, dirty punters – their immune systems were severely challenged, which heightens the risk of sensitization and an allergic response further down the line.’
‘A perfect storm,’ Simms murmured, leaning back in her chair. But just as her mind turned to the machinery she would employ to accelerate into the next stage of the investigation, she had a realization that jammed a great iron spike into the works. ‘One problem with your logic, though – none of our victims showed obvious signs.’
Fennimore didn’t even break stride. ‘They wouldn’t have to go into full-blown anaphylactic shock for it to kill them,’ he said. ‘You know addicts sometimes die of positional asphyxia?’
Simms nodded. ‘Of course. The head slumps forward onto the chest, obstructs the airways.’
‘And since breathing is already suppressed by the heroin, they die,’ he said. ‘Add into the mix even a mild reaction to penicillin – like StayC’s – and you’d greatly increase the risk of death.’
Her mood lifted. ‘And the death could easily be mistaken for an overdose.’
Fennimore nodded, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. ‘Josh has discovered something else that might be relevant.’ He looked over to his right. ‘Tell the Chief Inspector about the clusters.’ He turned the laptop and the screen seemed to pitch. Kate Simms experienced a moment of unexpected vertigo, then the student appeared on the monitor.
Everyone Lies Page 10