The Harlequin

by Sinclair Macleod

  Mrs Nichol arranged for her production manager, whose name was James Dickinson to lead the two detectives to the relevant area of the building while a bubbly woman from the Personnel section accompanied McLelland to the records department.

  Newman and Russell were required to dress in white coats, paper shoes and hairnets to pass through the food preparation areas. It was obvious that the processes used would make it unlikely that the hallucinogens had been added during the mixing or baking of the cakes. It would have been impossible for the chemicals to be targeted precisely due to the random nature of the preparation, and the time in the ovens would have made the effects of the drugs unpredictable if not inert.

  The packaging of the baked goods was done in a relatively modern extension to the original bakery. There were five lines that dealt with specific products, one for savouries, two for bread and two for cakes. The two detectives stood in the cacophonous noise of the machines watching one of the cake lines. It was currently running for iced buns that came from the icing area and were placed on a conveyor belt. As the buns passed down the line, a group of workers was lifting four buns at a time and placing them into open-topped boxes, which were then placed on another line where the boxes were wrapped in a thin cellophane covering. Although it may have been difficult, there was definitely an opportunity for one person to inject the drugs into a single cake during the process as each of the packagers were well spread out on the line.

  “I’ll take you to the locker room and you’ll be able to speak to the staff there,” Dickinson shouted above the bangs, clatter and hum of the line.

  He walked to a door that led to a long narrow room where two rows of lockers stretched out towards a break area. The two detectives dumped their protective clothing in the large bins just inside the door and followed Dickinson down through the narrow passage between the lockers.

  There was a group of seven people around a table with tea, bottles of soft drinks and sandwiches in front of them. The conversation stopped immediately.

  “Folks, this is Detective Inspector Newman and Detective Constable Rus…” Before Dickinson could finish the sentence a young man sprang from his chair and bolted for the exit.

  “Get after him,” Newman bawled at Russell who had been slow to react.

  Russell burst out of the door, looked left and right before spotting the man running across the car park. The detective set off in pursuit. The suspect had a decent lead on him as he charged out into the street. Russell pumped his arms and legs in the way he had been taught by his P.E. teacher back in school. Back then he had been a decent sprinter, but it had been a long time since he’d had to use those muscles to propel him at such a rate.

  He had to slow, struggling for traction as he turned on to the street; his dress shoes were inadequate for running at high speed. He spotted his prey and picked up the pace. The man looked over his shoulder and darted to his left, which took him out into the road and across to the opposite pavement. Russell had to wait for one of the bakery vans to pass before he could follow. He watched as his target turned into a narrow alley that ran behind a street of old tenements. He was gaining and the young man appeared increasingly desperate, glancing over his shoulder more frequently as his feet pounded the tarmac. After one such glance, his hip caught the edge of a rubbish bin, knocked him off balance and spun him into a painful fall. Russell gained quickly but before he could lay hands on him, the man was up and off again but the collision had injured him. As a result it wasn’t long before Russell completed the chase and pounced on the runner. They tumbled to the ground and the breath was knocked from the young man.

  The detective secured the suspect’s hands and hauled him to his feet. He read him his rights and the now disconsolate runner nodded to say he understood. When he had steadied his breathing, the detective constable used his radio to call for a car to pick them up. The prisoner said nothing as they waited for the transport but he wept openly. Tom Russell was pretty sure that he had caught the poisoner.

  ***

  The bakery worker’s name was Nicky Petterson. He was twenty years of age and had no previous record of criminal behaviour. He cried all the way to the station, he said nothing but did manage to irritate Newman with the sound of his sobs.

  Russell was surprised at how upset the suspect was; it didn’t fit with the profile of someone who had carefully planned a crime this awful and it did make him wonder if the deaths had come as a shock to the man but then guilt can have strange effects on people.

  Newman decided to lead the interview and told McLelland he could listen in to the recording while Russell took the notes.

  Petterson was long-limbed, blue eyed with blonde hair and looked every inch the Scandinavian that his name suggested, but he had been born in Edinburgh.

  “It is 11:55 am on Wednesday 7th April, 1993. This is the first interview with Nicky Petterson in connection with the six deaths on Thursday 1st April 1993. Present in the room are Mr Petterson, Detective Inspector Newman and Detective Constable Russell. Mr Petterson has been informed of his rights but has not asked for the presence of a lawyer for this interview. Can you confirm that for the tape please, Mr Petterson?”

  He lifted his chin from his chest and said, “That’s right.”

  “Mr Petterson would you care to tell us what happened?”

  “No one was supposed to get hurt, he said it was just a practical joke.”

  “Well six people are dead so you better tell us the whole story as it will make things easier in the long run for you, son.”

  “This guy approached me last week and offered me £250 if I would put a laxative in the cakes. He was very specific and said it had to be on April Fool’s Day. He said it was just a practical joke, an April Fool prank. He said the bakery had sacked him and he wanted to get back at them.”

  Newman’s wafer thin patience was already close to snapping and he sighed as he said, “What did this man look like?”

  “I don’t know. He wore a mask.”

  “Oh, how convenient, a bloody mask. How did he approach you?”

  “He came to my door. He said he had followed me home as he didn’t want anyone at the bakery recognising him and that he didn’t want me to be able to describe him.”

  “With all due respect, that sounds like a lot of bollocks, Mr Petterson,” Newman said with no trace of respect.

  “But it’s true. You don’t think I did this on my own? I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Look at it from our perspective. What’s more likely? You thought you would play a practical joke that went wrong or that some mystery man asked you to place a cocktail of drugs in some cakes to take revenge on an ex-employer. What a load of shite.”

  “Look he was well spoken, short maybe five feet five or six. He wore one of those carnival masks you see in Venice or somewhere. It was one of those multi-coloured clown costumes. A... a harlequin that’s it.”

  Newman’s exasperation began to show. “I’ll give you ten out of ten for imagination but there’s no way that any jury in the land is going to believe that load of old cobblers,” he growled.

  “It’s true, I swear it’s true.”

  “How did he pay you?”

  “He gave me half up front and then there was an envelope with the balance at my house when I got back from work on Friday.”

  “Where’s the cash?”

  “I spent it on a new hi-fi.”

  “All very convenient. Putting aside your fantasy friend, how did you get the drugs into the cakes?”

  “He’s not a fantasy!” Petterson shouted.

  “Calm down, son. You’re in enough trouble tae last a lifetime so don’t make it worse. Now how did you get the drugs into the cakes?”

  “He gave me three small hypodermic syringes. He told me to inject the stuff into three cakes, he said he wanted to create a scandal that would embarrass the bakery when people re
alised where the cakes had come from. He was offering £250 and I didn’t think it would do any harm.”

  “Why didn’t you come to us on Friday with this story? You must have realised that those deaths were related to what you did.”

  “I was hoping they weren’t, I thought it was just a coincidence. I honestly didn’t think anybody would get hurt.”

  “Aye, ah believe that bit but I think the reason you didn’t come in on Friday was that the whole idea was yours and you realised that your prank went too far. Tell the truth, the mysterious masked man doesn’t exist, does he?”

  “He does, he does. I swear he does.”

  “Bollocks! Tell the truth or it’s a murder charge you’ll be facing.”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “Interview terminated at 12:00pm.” With obvious disgust Newman battered the stop button on the recorder.

  “You’re an idiot, son. They’ll throw the book at you.”

  Russell followed the senior officer out of the room while a uniformed constable arrived to take Petterson to the cells.

  “I’ve heard some amount of crap in that fuckin’ interview room but that takes the biscuit. A masked man, holy hell.”

  Russell wasn’t as convinced. “It does seem a strange story to make up though. He’s been caught, why not just tell the truth?”

  “Oh, gonnae no gies that crap. Maybe he’s a loony, maybe he’s hoping to go for a diminished responsibility defence. How the fuck should ah know? But he’s lying, I’m sure of it.”

  Over the course of the afternoon the case against Petterson strengthened. The three syringes were found in his house and forensics could find no fingerprints other than those of the suspect. A warrant was issued to check his medical records, which confirmed that he had been under the care of a psychiatrist and had been diagnosed as being bipolar. The forensic team could find no evidence of anyone else being involved in the crime.

  Russell was back in the interview room with Newman at five o’clock. Petterson’s lawyer was now sitting, grim faced beside him whispering her advice into his ear. Initially, he kept up the story of the Harlequin but after a short recess she advised Newman and Russell that her client would plead guilty due to diminished responsibility.

  “The prick’ll get away with it. Mental problems, my arse.” Newman had grumbled when they returned to the C.I.D. room. “Anyway, that’s a job well done boys. Who’s for a pint?”

  There was a loud cheer from the assembled officers.

  Tom Russell didn’t join the celebrations, the six dead people played on his mind and there was something that continued to gnaw away at his gut and refused to let him believe that there wasn’t more to this case than they had so far uncovered.

  Chapter 8

  Over the next month the case against Petterson became rock solid and at no time did he deny that he was responsible for the action of placing the drugs in the cakes. He did continue to claim the existence of the masked man and the defence hired a psychiatrist to examine him. The doctor claimed that the suspect was suffering from paranoid delusions and persuaded a judge that the young man should be confined to a secure psychiatric unit for further analysis and his own protection. Newman railed at what he saw as a weak decision, convinced that the man should be facing charges of culpable homicide but the Procurator Fiscal’s office was simply relieved to have Petterson off the street.

  The murder team dispersed back to their more mundane duties. Tom Russell dealt with domestic abuse, a pub stabbing and a series of related burglaries. Newman had taken the lead on the stabbing, as it was exactly the kind of case he loved. There were ten witnesses as well as CCTV footage, the killer was caught literally red handed as he tried to flee the scene leaving behind the murder weapon which had his fingerprints, as well as the victim’s blood all over it.

  As spring edged into summer, a call to Partick police station one Monday morning changed the complexion of the hallucinogen deaths. Tom Russell had just finished writing up the most recent burglary - plodding through the online form at the rate of about three words a minute - when the phone rang.

  “Partick C.I.D., Detective Constable Russell speaking.”

  “Tom, it’s Mark McLelland. Is Newman there?”

  “No, he’s on lunch.”

  “When he gets back, grab him and get both your arses over here now.”

  “Where’s here, sir?”

  McLelland gave him an address in Kilbarchan.

  “What’s up?”

  “We’ve got a body that you both have to see. Be here A.S.A.P., that’s an order.” Before he could ask any further questions, McLelland hung up abruptly.

  Newman arrived back with a trail of crumbs decorating his suit jacket and tie.

  “Sir, we’ve got to go to a crime scene. D.I. McLelland says it’s important.”

  “What? Who the fuck does he think he is?”

  “Sir, he told me to tell you that it was an order.”

  “He’s a comedian. An order?”

  “Yes sir,” Russell said plaintively.

  “Fine. Have you got the address?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Russell followed Newman as he stormed out the station to his car.

  The drive to Kilbarchan took twenty-five minutes and when they pulled up in front of the house, the full crime scene procedure was already well underway.

  The house was an early Victorian villa, gleaming white in the strong summer sunshine. The main door was on the right of the house and a multitude of people was mulling around the entrance as Newman and Russell approached.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are?” Newman shouted to McLelland who was standing away from the door, smoking and chatting to a forensic technician.

  “This is Deirdre Nichol’s house. Go inside and you’ll see why you needed to be here,” McLelland replied with quiet resignation.

  As they walked into the hall Professor Marriot was on his way out having completed his initial findings. Newman said, “How’s it going Prof?”

  “Not good, Harry. This is a bad one.” His reply contained none of his normal levity. Russell noticed how quiet the other officers and technicians were, the atmosphere was more sombre than usual.

  Inside the front room the crime-scene photographer was packing his camera and lenses into his equipment bag. Another technician was dusting for prints on an oak sideboard. Everyone was doing their best to ignore the reason for them being there.

  “In the name of God,” Newman exclaimed while his colleague gasped simultaneously.

  On a green sofa lay sprawled a little girl who was about four years old. Her throat had been cut deeply, the blood had stained her white dress a deep pink and found it’s way on to the cushion below her. On the floor underneath her hand was a small, very worn brown teddy bear. In the middle of the floor on a Persian rug, the girl’s mother rested face up. Her arms were strapped to her side due to the clear cellophane film that wrapped her naked form. Her thick neck had been brutalised in a similar way to her daughter, the blood still not completely dry where it had landed on the cellophane. She was ice white and on each of her eyelids was a little sticker complete with tiny printed writing.

  The two detectives approached her still form and bent over. The printing on each of the stickers read ‘Best before 1st April 1983.’

  McLelland walked into the room and said, “Ms Nichol was wearing this when she was found.” In his gloved hand he held up a Venetian mask, painted in the style of a Harlequin. The mask was designed to cover both the face and the neck of the person wearing it. The white face was adorned with a clown’s make-up of red, blue and gold paint. The face was topped with a sculpted hat painted in four colours arranged in the familiar diamond pattern; the collar was a motley of the same shades. Between the face and the collar, a red line had been painted to match the fatal line that crossed the victims’ throats.


  “What the hell is this?” Newman said.,

  “We also found this,” McLelland said as he handed Newman a business card.

  The same Harlequin design appeared at the bottom right of the white cardboard. In the centre was a single word, ‘FOOLED’.

  “It looks like Petterson was telling the truth.” McLelland said sadly.

  “He could have arranged this, “ Newman said but he was well aware that Nicky Petterson’s story was beginning to look less like the ravings of a lunatic. There was however another form of lunacy in these acts.

  “I don’t think even you believe that Harry. He was stupid and greedy but he’s not capable of doing this to cover his tracks. Somebody else really hated Deirdre Nichol.” McLelland’s tone was non-confrontational; the sight of the two bodies was enough to put their petty spat into perspective.

  “But why the kid?”

  “The poor wee thing was probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Could it be somebody else picking up on the Harlequin thing?” Russell suggested.

  “No, we managed to keep a lid on that, there was nothing in the press.” McLelland replied.

  “The husband?” McLelland said.

  “Ex. We’ll need to have a closer look at him but I really hope he’s not the kind that could do that to his own daughter.”

  “This is a fuckin’ mess. What’s the Fiscal say?”

  “Let’s just say he’s ready to read the riot act. He’ll be gunning for us.”

  “Who found them?” Russell asked.

  “The cleaning lady. She came in this morning for her normal shift and found them like this. She’s been taken to the Royal Alexandria suffering from shock.”

  “I don’t blame her, “ Newman said.

  “What did the professor say?” Russell asked.

  “He reckons they were killed sometime on Saturday. The post mortems will be this afternoon, he is putting everything else on hold. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so affected by a scene.”