The Harlequin

by Sinclair Macleod

  “Not as yet. I’ve asked the pathologist to take another look at the bodies for possible injection marks which may have been missed during the P.M.s. We’ve also asked for the tests of the stomach contents to be made top priority at the lab. Anything else?”

  There were a number of mumbled negative responses and gestures.

  “D.S. Hendricks will allocate your detailed jobs for the day. Report anything significant to D.I. Newman or myself as soon as you have it. Get to work.”

  ***

  Gladys Carlisle sat on a suede sofa, a broken fragment of the woman she used to be. Her thin grey hair hung weakly; unwashed and untended since the news of her daughter’s death. Her red-rimmed, green eyes peered morosely from behind her thick-lensed spectacles. Although she was looking straight at the two detectives, her gaze seemed to be off in a previous, better version of the life that had been thrust upon her. In her hand she clutched a paper tissue that found its way frequently to her eyes to wipe away her tears. Her elder sister sat beside her, a heavier edition of the distraught mother, she was providing the familial strength that every grieving parent required. She had been the one to offer Russell and Newman that traditional Scottish comfort in times of trouble - a cup of tea. Frank Carlisle was in his bedroom, unable to face the questions about his daughter’s death, unable to face the fact that she was gone and wasn’t coming back.

  Russell was unhappy when Newman had opted to join the questioning of the family, telling McLelland that he thought the younger inspector should co-ordinate the investigation from the C.I.D. office. McLelland would have been a much more sympathetic voice to listen to the story the Carlisles would tell. The family of any victim may hold the key to a murder whether they were aware of it or not. Newman’s blunt delivery and opinionated approach could alienate them and make them less cooperative.

  When the two women were settled and Debbie’s mother’s sobs had stilled, Newman said, “Mrs Carlisle, It’s important we get to know as much as we can about Debbie. There may be some aspect of her life or character that could open up an avenue of investigation for us.”

  “I understand,” the younger of the two women replied.

  “Can you tell us about her?”

  “She was a lovely girl. Very bright, I don’t where she got it from, no’ from me that’s for sure. She was a hard worker all the way through school, determined she was going to go to university. She was the first to get there from either our family or Frank’s, we were so proud.” Russell sat with a pen poised over his notebook while he listened intently.

  “Frank. That’s Mr Carlisle?”

  “Aye, he’s no doin’ too well. They were awfy close, the two of them. We were a close family but you know that men find it tougher dealing with these things.”

  “We’ll need to speak to him at some point,” he said abruptly.

  “I know, he’s just not up to it at the moment.”

  “You said Debbie was very hard working at school. Surely, she must have went through a rebellious phase, you know the way most teenagers do?” `Newman was blundering towards the tougher questions, asserting his belief that Debbie couldn’t have been as innocent as the stricken mother was painting her.

  “Eh… nothing too bad. Stayin’ out later than she was supposed to, general hormonal moods but nothing that we couldn’t cope with.”

  “She must have been involved with alcohol or drugs, every kid does,” he said more aggressively than he should have.

  Mrs Carlisle’s face betrayed a curious mixture of dread, disbelief and disgust. Her sister voiced her own anger, “That lassie wis nae druggie.”

  Newman pressed on. “Look, we need to establish if she had ever dabbled, maybe knew somebody that was involved in drugs in some way. You do want us to catch who did this don’t you?”

  “Of course we do but she was not involved in drugs,” Gladys Carlisle replied firmly and with a finality that brought that line of questioning to an end.

  Russell could see Newman’s disappointment but even he wasn’t stupid enough to pursue it when Mrs Carlisle was clearly convinced of her daughter’s avoidance of drugs. No family, particularly one as respectable as the Carlisles could imagine their sons or daughters being involved in drugs or any criminal activity. The police knew the reality: there were increasing numbers of young people who were tempted by marijuana at the very least. It would take a little longer to discover if Debbie Carlisle was one of them.

  When the two detectives were clear of the Carlisle house Newman said, “Why do they aw think that their weans are perfect?”

  “None of Debbie’s friends thought she was involved in drugs either.”

  “Aye, you can trust a bunch of fuckin’ layabout students to tell us the truth,” he replied with a heavy coat of sarcasm on every word. “And her Da’, couldn’t speak tae us. He’s the one that’ll know the truth for sure. I widnae be surprised if he was involved in some way.”

  Russell decided not to respond - Newman would have charged his grannie with the murder if it meant getting a quick conviction. The journey back to the station was another bore fest as the senior officer listed, in minute detail, the technical specifications of the car. It was all Russell could do to stifle a yawn.

  ***

  The rest of the detectives who had visited the families of the victims had met a similar degree of shock at the suggestion that the people involved would have been connected with the world of illegal drugs in any way. McLelland felt confident that the deceased weren’t intended targets but unfortunate, random recipients of a psychotic act.

  A loose collection of around eight of the investigating team were gathered in the C.I.D. room, each with a mug of something hot, sitting around a table that had a plate of digestive biscuits in the centre, when one of the office phones rang. Alannah answered it. “It’s the lab, they want to speak to the officer in charge.”

  McLelland motioned to stand but Newman stopped him before he could finish pushing back his chair. “Three victims, I’m the senior investigation officer.”

  “Shouldn’t we let the chief super decide that?” the younger man replied.

  “He’d agree with me. First scene, largest number of victims and I’ve got seniority in terms of time served and age.” He took the phone from Alannah.

  “D.I. Newman,” he said into the handset.

  The conversation in the room had faltered into silence as the detectives tuned into one half of the call.

  “Right… OK… aye.” Newman was taking notes while resting his considerable bulk on the edge of the desk.

  Without any further acknowledgement of the caller he put down the phone and walked with an important swagger to the end of the group of desks.

  “That was the techs with the stomach content report. All three of the poison victims had been eating some kind of cake. The boy ate a doughnut, the lassie had some kind of bun and the suicide guy had an éclair. Anybody remember if there wis any baker’s boxes or something similar?” Blank looks and heads shaking in ignorance were the only reply.

  “We need to see where they got the cakes from. Volunteers to visit the scenes?”

  Tom Russell and two other D.C.s put up their hands.

  “Russell you go to the Blakes, Stephens get across to the student flat and Jenkins check out the uni. Make it quick, we don’t want any mair crazies running amok.”

  No one moved and Newman shouted, “Well, what are ye waiting for? Get yir arse in gear.”

  Russell and his two colleagues - who had paused thinking that there would be more information or precise instructions - headed to the door. They could hear Newman saying, “Where’s ma tea?”

  Chapter 6

  Russell unlocked the door to the Blake flat and stepped under the crime scene tape that was covering the entrance in the shape of a St. Andrew’s cross. The coppery, metallic smell of the blood permeated the hallway. Death lin
gered, unwilling to escape the confines of the house, an unwelcome visitor who refused to leave. Russell could feel the revulsion and nausea grip him but he tried to desensitise himself to what he was about to face and walked into the living room.

  The crime scene, if anything appeared even more awful. The blood had dried to a characteristic tawny brown colour and the voids in the pattern where the bodies had been told their own melancholy, macabre story. Some day soon a cleaning squad would arrive and remove all trace of the terror that had occurred in the room, leaving it ready to accept new owners. Russell wondered how many of the houses in the city had been cleansed of tragedy in a similar way and how many people lived in rooms with the hidden truth of murder or suicide that had once visited their homes.

  He turned his attention to the galley kitchen that formed one part of the larger room. There was a good chance of finding where the tainted cake had come from, unless it had already found its way to the rubbish dump. He checked the cupboards and found tins, packets and bottles, many of them branded as Valushop produce. Russell knew there was a Valushop supermarket within a mile of the flat and it looked like the Blakes were regular shoppers but it didn’t necessarily prove anything about the origin of the doughnut. He then moved to the tall pedal bin that sat under the breakfast bar that divided the kitchen from the living area. When he removed the lid he was engulfed in the smell of rotting food that, combined with the smell of the blood gave him an overwhelming urge to throw up. Russell stood back and gulped at the air but there was nothing fresh in the room, least of all the air. He managed to force down the sickly feeling before emptying the bin’s contents on to the tiled floor. It didn’t take him long to find a Valushop branded paper bag with traces of sugar and grease on the inside. It took a little longer to find the receipt that confirmed Benjamin Blake’s purchase on the day of his death. Russell wasn’t sure if the shop in question had their own bakery but he was now sure that it was the source of at least one of the contaminated cakes.

  ***

  The consensus among the C.I.D. team was that Valushop was indeed the best place to continue the investigation into the freakish series of deaths. D.C. Stephens had recovered the box that had held the iced buns and Jenkins had discovered from the staff in the university that a cake run had been organised to celebrate the birthday of one of the students. Dr Thomson, the lecturer who was taking the class on the fatal day had blanched when he realised it could have been him or any of his students who could have chosen that particular pastry. The thought of what a victim could have done with the selection of chemicals available in the room had made him ill enough to finish work early and go home.

  Newman and McLelland listened to what the junior officers had to say. Inevitably it was Newman who was the first to speak. “Sounds like we’ve got somebody with a grudge against the supermarket. Probably some disgruntled ex-employee, thought he would get his own back.”

  McLelland was a little more considered as he said, “It’s possible but it could be anybody in the supply chain. The bakery, the drivers or even a member of the public with access to the shelves.”

  “I’m tellin’ you, it’ll be some wee spotty herbert who got the sack for dipping the till.”

  The other D.I. stayed silent.

  “Right, we’ll go in heavy handed and shake the culprit loose. He’s probably got some sympathisers within the staff; one of them is bound to crack. McLelland, Russell and Stephens you’re wi’ me.”

  Mark McLelland wasn’t happy about the tone Newman had used but felt it was necessary to be present at the supermarket to ensure that D.I. Newman didn’t decide to short cut established procedure in an effort to secure a quick conviction. For his part, Russell was glad that he wouldn’t be the only one to join Newman on his crusade.

  He was disappointed when he couldn’t avoid the car journey with his superior and was relieved when they finally pulled into the car park of the supermarket. McLelland and Stephens were waiting at the automatic doors and all four entered together. This particular store wasn’t one of the huge shops that were beginning to pop up around the country; there were only six checkouts servicing fifteen rows of groceries.

  Newman marched up to one of the checkouts and demanded of the assistant, “Where’s the manager?”

  The woman who was placing her shopping on the conveyor belt said indignantly,” Hey, whit’s your gemme? Ah’m gettin’ served here.”

  “Polis, hen. Shut yir geggie, this is important. Manager?” he said to the young woman who responded by turning to a microphone, pressing a button and announcing, “Mr Braben to checkout one.”

  “Satisfied?” she asked the policeman sarcastically.

  “Watch yir lip, hen.”

  Newman turned away and Russell saw the women muttering to each other, sure that he saw the customer mouth ‘arsehole’ and the assistant nod her head. He couldn’t fault their assessment.

  About a minute later, a short man in a dark blue suit, white shirt and a fire engine red tie - that matched the colour of the supermarket’s logo - walked towards the checkout. He said exasperatedly, “What is it, Sharon? I’m very busy you know.”

  “P.C. Plod there wants to talk to you,” she replied indicating the detectives with a head movement.

  “Oh, I see. I’m Donald Braben, the store manager. Can I help you?” he asked politely.

  Newman brandished his warrant card. “Detective Inspector Newman. I’m here because there’s a link between this place and the deaths that occurred in and around Partick last Thursday.”

  “Brilliant. What a dick.” Russell heard McLelland mutter.

  Braben’s pale face flushed to the roots of his immaculately styled black hair. His jade green eyes began to flutter and he appeared to be gasping for air. “Oh… oh dear… no that can’t be true. Goodness me what will head office think.”

  “You’ve got mair than your bosses tae worry about, pal. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  The manager was obviously flustered, but he composed himself enough to lead the detectives towards his office.

  Before they went through the door Newman said, “Stephens, have a look around the store, see if it’s possible that it was a customer that laced the cakes and check if there’s CCTV tapes from Thursday.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The manager’s office was a compact grey box of a room, packed with equally grey filing cabinets and an occupant whose face was rapidly changing to match the decor. There were only two chairs for visitors, so Russell stood while the two inspectors settled down opposite the fidgeting manager. Braben rearranged paper on his desk, straightened the same pencil about twenty times and ran his fingers through his hair while Newman talked.

  “We’ve got a serious situation here. We have reason to believe that cakes that had been tampered with caused the deaths in this area on Thursday. Those cakes originated in this shop. What have you got to say to that?”

  “I don’t understand, in what way were they tampered with?”

  “We can’t reveal the details but we believe that it may be the result of either a disgruntled ex-employee or sabotage by a current employee with a grievance.”

  McLelland interrupted, “Those are just two of the possibilities we are investigating.”

  Neither Russell nor Braben missed the look of annoyance that Newman fired at his colleague.

  “As I was saying, is there anyone you could think of that would fall into either of these categories?”

  The manager’s fidgeting moved into overdrive. “No, no, I don’t think so.”

  “We’ll need to see your personnel records.”

  “I would need to ask head office,” Braben replied weakly.

  “Mr Braben, it’s vital you cooperate. You don’t want to be responsible for any more incidents like this do you?”

  Tom Russell thought the poor man was about to burst into tears.

 
“No, but all our employee records are held at head office these days,” the manager whined defensively.

  “We’ll get the details but it would be helpful if you let your head office know what we need and that officers will be round to collect the information. Hopefully, we won’t need to waste our time getting a warrant, that might irritate us a little.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “We’d like to speak to the staff. How many people work here?”

  “We’ve got twenty seven part-time and full-time staff split over two shifts plus another three casuals at the weekend.”

  “I think we can presume that the weekenders aren’t involved for the moment. Is there somewhere we can interview the people who are currently working?”

  “There’s the smokers room.”

  “That’ll need to do. I’ll stay here with you and my colleagues will begin interviewing everyone. Organise a list and pass it to D.I. McLelland here.”

  “It’s not very convenient when the store is open,” he said, his consternation writ large on his face.

  “We could close it, if that’s better.” Newman’s voice carried enough of a threat that it prompted a panicked response from Braben.

  “No, no, I’m sure we’ll manage.”

  “You can show Detectives McLelland and Russell to the room. Oh and bring me a tea on the way back.”

  Braben led an angry McLelland and a disconsolate Russell to a gloomy room close to the area that the staff used for breaks. Despite a whirring extractor fan, a pall of blue smoke hung in the air and every surface was covered in an oily brown residue. There was a Formica-covered table at the centre of the room with an ashtray that contained a small mound of cigarette butts. Around the table were a group of ragged and dirty chairs of varying designs and colour.

  “Lovely,” McLelland observed disdainfully after Braben had left the room and had gone off to organise the interviewees.

  When the manager returned with a middle-aged woman, McLelland pointed to the ashtray and said, “Can you please dispose of that?”