The Harlequin

by Sinclair Macleod

  Russell sat at his desk preparing his evidence for a trial that was due to start on Monday. He kept his own counsel knowing that Newman was deliberately trying to goad him into a reaction. The more he worked with Newman the less he held him in any regard, and based on their first meeting, that was from a very low starting point. The detective inspector was both a bully and clown; Russell vowed to himself that he would never be the kind of boss that thought it was acceptable to treat with disdain his colleagues and those under his command.

  He tuned out Newman and concentrated on reviewing what was going to be said in court on Monday, if he was called. For the police the court system could be a notorious waste of time. An officer could be called to give evidence only to sit all day while lawyers debated some obscure point of law. Russell hated it but he knew it was an important part of what the police did: he just wished that it were a little more efficient.

  The detective constable spent the rest of the day in preparation for his court appearance and finishing his data input from the Blake case. At five thirty it was time to head for home.

  ***

  After a quick shower and meal of fish and chips, Russell decided to visit his father in Paisley. He liked to check in on him from time to time.

  His father lived alone in a small semi-detached house in a quiet part of the town. When his son arrived Stuart Russell was in the garden, removing small plants from pots and placing them into a patch of bare earth. He was fifty-three, a fit man who enjoyed keeping himself busy. He had recovered from the disappointment of losing his job in a textile firm five years earlier and was now content to work at night and then when he could, garden or golf during the day.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  The older man looked up. “Oh, it’s yourself. How’s things?”

  “Busy. I’m working that weird murder, suicide thing that happened yesterday.”

  “I seen that in the paper, poor folk. What made that boy do that?”

  “Not sure yet, there doesn’t seem to be anything in the lad’s history that would suggest he was capable of it but I’ve already seen that people can do the most horrible things for the weirdest of reasons. What have you been up to?”

  “I’ve got a night shift later, so I thought I’d get a bit of gardening done while the weather’s nice and we’ve got some light.”

  “Do you need a hand?”

  “If you don’t mind that would be great.”

  The two worked side by side, Russell created the hole for the seedlings, and his father placed the plants into their new home.

  “Have you had your dinner?” his father asked.

  “Aye, I had a fish supper.”

  “You not seeing Karen tonight?”

  “No, we’re supposed to be going to the pictures tomorrow. Something with Robert De Niro and Bill Murray. ‘Mad Dog And Glory’ I think it’s called. Anyway it’s a night out I suppose.”

  “Is this one serious, d’ye think?” Stuart Russell was keen to see at least one of his sons settle down.

  “Maybe.” In truth, Russell wasn’t sure what was going to happen with Karen Blackmore. They had been going out together for six months but it was difficult to get into a regular pattern of dates due to his job. That meant they still didn’t know much about one another but he did think she was a little strange sometimes. She would question him about the women he worked with, quizzing him with a little more intensity than he thought was appropriate for where they were in the relationship. At other times, he felt he should be flattered that she was taking such a keen interest in him. ‘Time would tell’ was his basic philosophy; he wasn’t going to be the one making any moves to change their current status of casual tenderness.

  “You heard anything from Eddie?” Russell said.

  “No, not a peep since his business went belly-up. You know what he’s like. The last time I saw him, when he was here for the money, he said he was going to London. Some mate had a business proposition for him. I’ve not even had a phone call since.”

  “He’s a waster, Dad.”

  His father sighed, “I know, I know but what can you do?”

  The two men worked away together for an hour, discussing the merits of the local football team, St. Mirren, who had a chance of promotion to the Premier Division. They also talked about one of Stuart Russell’s neighbours who had suffered a heart attack. Passing time the way men do, discussing nothing of consequence but comfortable in each other’s company.

  When the planting was done, it was time for the older man to get ready to go to work. Russell worried about the fact that his Dad worked as a security guard at a building site, but his father had reassured him that he was never going to be a have-a-go hero, and if there was ever any trouble the only thing he would do was to call his son’s colleagues.

  They exchanged a warm handshake and Russell drove back to the city.

  Chapter 4

  Russell arrived at the court building on Monday morning at the appointed time, having spent the previous day going over his notes and the evidence once again. He was always paranoid that someone might get away with a crime because a clever, smooth lawyer found a way to trip him up.

  The movie on Saturday night had been fairly entertaining but Karen had once again been in a strange mood. She would swing between stony silence and being so talkative he couldn’t get a word in. When she was speaking to him she would throw in subtle questions about Alannah: What did she look like? Did he think she was attractive? Did she have a boyfriend? He had mumbled vague answers in an effort to steer the conversation into less troubling waters.

  Now as he sat in the courtroom waiting area, he watched the lawyers racing by, wigs and cases clutched in their hands, robes flapping behind them like superhero capes. He couldn’t understand the bizarre need to dress like it was the eighteenth century: why did anyone think those wigs gave the court gravitas? He thought it made them look like actors in some ancient farce.

  Hours ticked by with no indication that he was going to be called. The Clerk of the Court visited him twice to apologise for the delay because the prosecution witness on the stand was being cross-examined vigorously by the defence lawyer and it was causing frequent delays as the two sides met with the judge to argue what the law would allow to be asked and answered. Eventually, after five hours of Russell’s boredom, then frustration and then anger, the clerk returned to thank him for his attendance but that he would not be required as the accused had changed his plea. He had to check his response, realising it wasn’t the poor woman’s fault that the justice system was a mess. He thanked her for letting him know and walked out of the court building.

  As the mortuary was right next to the court, he decided to see if the blood results for the case had been processed. Linda Ryan was the only person in the untidy office when he arrived.

  “Hi, Linda.”

  She smiled warmly. “Detective constable, what can I do for you? There’s no P.M. scheduled for you, I don’t think.”

  “No, I was wondering if the blood results were in for the Blakes, the three people from Friday.”

  “I’m not sure. There was a delivery from the lab a short time ago, I’ll check it for you.” The heavy-set woman walked out leaving Russell to stare at the disorganised contents of the room; he wasn’t sure how the mortuary staff could ever find anything among the piles of reports, photographs and files.

  She was gone about five minutes. “Got them,” she said brightly as she returned.

  She placed a number of envelopes on the desk and began flicking through them. “This is the father, Abraham,” she announced. She studied the documentation for a short time before saying, “Nothing out of the ordinary there.” She lifted the next file but Agnes Blake’s results indicated nothing other than medication she had been taking for her asthma.

  However Linda’s reaction to Benjamin’s results was very different. “Oh, this is i
nteresting.”

  “What is it?” Russell moved forward in his seat, anticipating and hoping that his instincts were correct.

  “That young man had enough psychotropic drugs in him to send a horse on a mind-expanding trip,” she replied.

  “What kind of drugs?”

  “There are substantial traces of LSD, mescaline, psilocybin and cocaine.”

  “These could alter someone’s perception of reality, couldn’t they?”

  She nodded vigorously, “In a big way. I’ve never seen anything like this. One of these drugs may be present in a user’s bloodstream and at the very most two but never four. Talk about overkill.”

  Russell was keen to prove his theory went beyond the Blake case. “There were two other cases brought in on Thursday night, a suicide and a couple who fell from a window.”

  “I heard about those but I didn’t deal with them.”

  “I know they are not my cases but could you check the results on them? It would save some time for my colleagues.”

  “Sure,” she said as she began to shuffle the files again.

  She expressed surprise as she announced that both Debbie Carlisle and John Morrison had an identical blend of hallucinogens in their bloodstream.

  “It can’t be a coincidence can it?”

  “Definitely not,” Russell replied. “I’m just not sure what it means. I’ll need to get back to the station and let my colleagues know. It’s up to the senior officers what happens next. Thanks for your help.”

  Linda flashed another flirtatious smile as she brushed her hair from her face. “You’re welcome.” Russell was completely oblivious to the interest that the technician was taking in him. He hurried away with a quick wave, leaving Ryan to her fantasies of romantic entanglement.

  ***

  Russell arrived back at the station at around three o’clock. Newman was sitting with his feet on his desk nursing a cup of coffee in his thick hands when his D.C. walked in.

  He said with customary sarcasm, “It’s the world’s greatest detective. How was court?”

  “A waste of time, the bastard changed his plea.”

  “Wee fucker, you should have given him a kickin’ when you had a chance.”

  “Not really my style, sir.”

  “That’s your problem, Russell, you think that catching villains is only about the brain. Sometimes you need to let them know who the boss is.”

  Russell ignored the D.I.’s antiquated philosophy of policing. “I went into the mortuary. The blood tests were in for the Blakes. Benjamin Blake was drugged with a mixture of hallucinogens that would have a pink elephant seeing grey humans.”

  “A fuckin’ druggie. I might have known.”

  “He wasn’t the only one with those drugs in his system.”

  “The Blakes were old hippies?” Newman laughed.

  “No, the blood analysis from Debbie Carlisle and John Morrison had exactly the same results. I think someone poisoned them.”

  Newman couldn’t hide his derision. “What? Are you tripping as well? It’s probably some bad batch of shit that’s on the streets.”

  “Benjamin Blake had no history of drug abuse, Debbie Carlisle likewise and John Morrison was a fifty-one year old man. How many men of that age are out buying dodgy LSD on the streets?”

  “What’s this about LSD?” Mark McLelland asked as he entered the room.

  “This clown thinks somebody poisoned three people with hallucinogenic drugs,” Newman replied.

  “What?”

  Russell told McLelland the same story that he had related to Newman and then laid out his theory. “I think someone poisoned these people with a potent mixture of drugs: potent enough for them to be terrified into committing murder and suicide.”

  McLelland listened intently before replying, “Do you think they were targeted?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  Newman sat shaking his head, although even he was wondering at the likelihood of the alternative he had proposed. This was going to turn into a long, complicated investigation if Russell was correct.

  “How would the drugs get into their system?” McLelland asked.

  “Injection or ingestion would be the two alternatives,” Russell suggested.

  “Are the results back on their stomach contents?”

  “I didn’t ask, sorry,” Russell replied.

  “No problem. You’ve done a good job, Tom. Your instincts were bang on. We better tell the chief super, we’re going to need more bodies.” McLelland moved in the direction of the chief superintendent’s office. “What are you waiting on Russell?”

  “Sorry, sir?”

  “You know more about this than me, you’re in a better position to give the details to the boss. Come on.”

  Russell followed his colleague, leaving Newman stewing in his own rage.

  Chief Superintendent Brian Woods was a copper of a very old school. At six feet two inches tall he weighed in at eighteen stone. His huge head sat atop a muscular body, arms like branches of an old tree were attached to his broad shoulders and his hands looked as if they could crush a man’s head. So large did he appear, the desk he occupied looked like he had borrowed it from a primary school.

  Tom Russell hadn’t had too many dealings with Woods but he always felt intimidated in his presence. He thought that his superior probably did not suffer fools gladly and Russell did not want to look like an idiot in front of him.

  “Mark, what can I do for you?” Woods growled.

  McLelland invited Russell to tell the story and his theory one more time. Russell was close to wilting under the stern, scrutinising gaze of the superintendent but he laid out the facts and the reasons for his theory.

  “Right, we need to get a team together. Who’s about?”

  “Just D.I. Newman and us at the moment, sir.” McLelland replied.

  “Briefing tomorrow at nine. Get Alannah to spread the word,” Woods commanded.

  “Yes, sir.” McLelland was accustomed to Woods’s brusque manner, which had more to do with his belief in getting his message across in simple terms than any natural rudeness.

  The conversation at an end, Russell and McLelland moved to the door.

  “D.C. Russell,” Woods barked.

  “Sir?” Russell turned fearing the worst.

  “Good job.”

  “Thanks, sir.” Relief rather than delight formed the expression on Russell’s face.

  “What did he say?” Newman asked when the two men returned to the C.I.D. office.

  “We’re rolling the three investigations together,” McLelland responded. He was glad that Russell had proved the older detective was wrong, he took great pleasure in Newman’s apparent disgust.

  McLelland initiated the procedures to formalise the rolling of the three investigations into one, instructing Alannah to organise the briefing for the following morning. The dynamic of the investigation and indeed the station was about to change until the poisoner was caught.

  Chapter 5

  Aswarm of detectives and uniformed P.C.s packed into the C.I.D. room the following morning. The air was uncomfortably warm and sticky as they sat or stood listening to the bizarre tale of three people drugged into deadly delusions. Even the most senior officers present seemed to be baffled by the details of the crime.

  McLelland led the discussion, guiding them through each of the three scenes and describing what they believed had happened at each locus. The details of the bloodbath at the Blake residence was by far the worst, the one that held the most horror for every one in the team but each of the crimes had their own bitter poignancy.

  When McLelland was finished, a fresh-faced P.C. in the front row asked, “Sir, could it be an April Fool’s joke that went wrong?”

  “Judging by the amount and number of hallucinogens used, I would
doubt it. This appears to be a deliberate attempt to drive these people insane. Whether the killer expected Benjamin Blake and Debbie Carlisle to kill other people is anybody’s guess. However, I do believe that the perpetrator had a fair idea that there would be deaths related to this crime.”

  “Ha,” D.I. Newman, who was standing beside his colleague, vocalised his doubt of the theory.

  “D.I. Newman is not convinced that I am correct and as he is in joint command of this investigation, he can tell you his thoughts.” McLelland knew that the antipathy between the two detectives was not something that they should be displaying to the team but Newman wasn’t prepared to put on a mask of professionalism.

  “Ah think it’s mair likely that whoever did this fancied it was a bit of a laugh. Maybe experimenting to see what would happen if he mixed the drugs but wisnae man enough to try it himself. It’ll be some wee druggie student bastard that’s behind this, mark my words.” He waved a pointing finger in emphasis.

  Tom Russell was standing close to the back of the gathering and hoped that his superior couldn’t see the shake of his head. At the end of the previous evening, Newman had lectured Russell on his theory but it didn’t sound any more convincing on a second rendition.

  “At the moment the motive behind this is irrelevant. We have to establish any possible links between these people. Were they deliberately targeted or have they been victims of a random attack? Both John Morrison and Debbie Carlisle have links to the university, it might be that the killer presumed Benjamin Blake was a student. We’ll need a team to go to the uni and see if there’s anything there. The relatives of each of the victims should be interviewed. We need to find out if there’s another link that the victims may have mentioned to their loved ones or any drug connections that exist. Is there a rogue supplier out there? Any questions?”

  “Do we know how the drugs got into their system?” Ruth Stephens asked.