by Ali Carter
My house is small but long and has a strange knack of egging me on to take as much as possible in one go. There are no internal doors, no steps, no corners to turn, it’s an eighteenth-century cottage joined to a small modern extension that’s flooded with light. The perfect arrangement for me to work in one half and get cosy in the other.
I flicked on the kettle and scattered the pile from the letterbox on the kitchen table. There was an envelope that I knew contained the results of a recent competition I’d entered. And seeing it gave me that horrible feeling inside of not wanting to open it for fear of it containing the wrong answer. That was exactly how I felt about the arrival of four thirty, knowing there was a fifty-fifty chance of being right in what DCI Reynolds was going to say.
I felt winded by the prospect of picking up the telephone but I pressed the call button and held it to my ear.
‘DCI Reynolds speaking.’
‘Hello, it’s Susie.’
‘Susie, are you home?’
‘Yes.’ I took in a deep breath to try and regulate my breathing. There was no way I was going to get many words out if not.
‘Well, here I am sitting at my desk with a very different outcome in front of me. A diagnosis that Miss Dune died from ethylene glycol-based antifreeze has been confirmed. The tests they ran in London found high levels of oxalate in her kidneys, which indeed my forensic pathologists found here. I do not blame my team for drawing the wrong conclusion, they did what they could from the limited means they had. They found both glycolic acid and calcium oxalate in Miss Dune’s system.’ DCI Reynolds paused. ‘Please forgive me Susie if I read from the report in front of me, that way I’ll be sure to get it right.’
Full of relief that I hadn’t created a problem I leapt around the kitchen, able to be quiet but momentarily unable to keep still. Hailey Dune was poisoned by ethylene glycol-based antifreeze. My dogged determination had paid off. I’d had theories, I’d needed evidence and I’d done it.
DCI Reynolds was conscientiously covering all points. I sat down and tuned in to what he was saying. After all my convictions, when I came back down to earth this was what my conscience would need to know.
‘The kidney toxicity of ethylene glycol occurs twenty-four to seventy-two hours post-ingestion and is caused by a direct cytotoxic effect of glycolic acid. The glycolic acid in antifreeze when ingested is metabolised to glyoxylic acid and finally to oxalic acid. Oxalic acid binds with calcium to form calcium oxalate, which accumulate in the kidneys causing damage leading to anuric acute kidney failure. Death by antifreeze has been reliably diagnosed by the measurement of Miss Dune’s blood ethylene glycol concentration.’
There was silence down the line.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘No, thank you Susie. The truth would never have been known if it wasn’t for your tenacity.’
‘It was just a feeling I had.’
‘Well, it’s not something I often encourage but if I were you I’d be inclined to trust your instincts in life.’
‘Maybe,’ I said with an ambiguous giggle.
‘Once again if you could keep this under your hat for now it would be a great help to me. Mrs Gerald is being escorted here now.’
‘Does Archie know?’ I asked, rather hoping he did.
‘Yes. I encouraged Mr Wellingham to stay away from the station but he came here regardless and caused quite a scene in my office. This has led to a leak and now I have Sergeant Ayari doing my dirty work, pleading with the Norfolk Post not to release print until after Mrs Gerald’s hearing.’
‘Oh no. Poor you. Of course, I won’t breathe a word to anyone.’ I meant it, Toby included… at least for the time being.
‘Thank you, we’ll keep in touch.’
I hung up the telephone and let out a long breath. My work was done, the tables had turned and Primrose was going to be arrested.
I laced up my boots and set off up the Downs. All I wanted now was to see that view.
The wispy clouds spiralled towards the horizon and the hills appeared soft and gentle in the low sunlight. Skylarks twittered invisibly above my head, the sheep huddled under the shade of the gorse and I was pleased to find no one else treading the South Downs Way.
I walked much further than I had energy for. The momentum of my feet was dictated by the words spiralling around my head as I composed a letter to Toby. I felt exhilarated by the prospect of putting down on paper all the things I had wanted to say and only once I was home did I struggle to recall what I’d got straight in my head.
I sat down at the kitchen table with my favourite fountain pen and a blank piece of paper.
Kemps Cottage
Norland Lane
Thursday 23 August
Dear Toby,
If I could get this letter to you as soon as I signed off, I would. I can’t let one more day pass with misunderstanding between us. I don’t know where to begin. I sat down with a bowl of crisps that’s now empty, night is closing in, the ink pot is drying up and this letter is the hardest to write.
You and I haven’t known each other long but I’ve so enjoyed becoming friends and I mind desperately that we left on uncertain terms.
It was unfair of me to react so self-centredly when you mentioned Tom and I am truly sorry I let unprocessed inner feelings come out when they did.
You were right when you said I need an explanation for everything. This must be very tiresome but it’s who I am. It’s not that I don’t trust other people, particularly you, it’s just I’ve never been able to learn by being told. I like to know the ins and outs of everything before coming to a conclusion.
When I was very young I asked my mother whether she would ever lie to me. She said, ‘Of course not, poppet.’ I then asked if Father Christmas really existed and I’ll never forget the look on her face. I had her on the gallows. She swore me to secrecy and told me the truth. From that moment on I think I became obsessed with the truth and I am sorry you got the brunt of it recently.
For what it’s worth and as this letter will take some time in getting to you I wanted to let you know that DCI Reynolds reopened Hailey’s case when I went to him with the bottle of antifreeze. Medics at a hospital in London identified high blood ethylene glycol concentration and Primrose’s DNA was found on a fingernail in the bottle. I don’t want any of this to come between us and as it stands Primrose is yet to be convicted. I am under strict orders to keep quiet and I trust having told you, you will too.
I was so thrilled you came to stay with luscious Lucy, as I now like to call her, and I could not enjoy mucking about with you more. You’re one of the few people one leaves thinking time has been too short so, I hope we will be in touch again soon.
I trust your journey back to Dorset went okay and that Tom liked his helicopter. I bet he did!
Being back at work must be a bit of a shock to the system but hopefully not too much piled up when you were away.
Love from Susie x
My weekend with Mel had been and gone. She left me on Sunday afternoon full of expectation that Toby would get in touch. She said, ‘He has to congratulate you on convicting Primrose.’ I’d told Mel all about the murder case. It was just too good a story to keep to myself and when I’d spilled the beans she insisted, ‘We must celebrate with a drink or two.’ We sat out on the patio, late into the night, indulging in reminiscing about our university days, and laughed so hard I’m still surprised my stomach didn’t ache.
But, it was standing on the doorstep just before she left, when Mel ordered strict instructions: not to count the hours waiting for Toby to get in touch. She went on to say something only a really good friend can, ‘Susie, it’s in your character to want things to happen immediately and when they’re out of your control you mustn’t criticise people for doing it at their own pace.’ Mel liked the sound of Toby, ‘he’s a doctor to boot’, and I could tell in her departing eyes she really wanted this one to work out.
Obviously, I’ve found it completely impossible
to heed her advice and it’s now been one hundred and sixty-eight hours since she left and not a squeak from Toby. Each new day I long for a card in the post and the hours in between I go over and over what I would say if he calls. Countless times I’ve almost dialled his number but stopped myself at the last minute in the hopes he’ll get in touch first.
Tomorrow will be a week since I sent my letter and each day that goes by I am finding it a tiny bit easier to cope with no news. In fact, I’m almost reconciled to thinking the worst: our friendship might well be over.
I cancelled my weekend visit to my parents. I couldn’t face the thought of exposing my troubled heart and seeing my mother share in my disappointment. When I rang to tell her, ‘I can no longer come,’ she completely understood that I was ‘too taken up with drawing’. It’s a creative place I’ve been in before and Mum knew from experience it wasn’t worth her putting her foot down and insisting I visit.
What I’d told her was half-true as, for once, the emotional turmoil of my personal life hasn’t affected my art. In fact, the fury inside me has me drawing in a new manner. Full of frustrated energy, an emphatic approach has brought out a talent for portraying the colossal aura of an enormous, fit horse. Boy Meets Man is almost complete. One monumental beast bursting out of an A1 sheet.
I really feel some supreme being had a hand to play in it and, combined with the adrenalin of sleepless nights, who knows how long this will last, but right now I’m full of confidence to move straight on to another. Great Knockers’s blank sheet of paper is at the ready and with Mel’s help I’ve chosen a particularly good frisky pose. It shows her immense character and, if I can capture the movement softly, Great Knockers’s equal elegance should shine through.
The unfortunate outcome of not going to my parents is, it’s put the question of ‘Why am I an only child?’ on the backburner. I can’t possibly ask it right now. I’m in the doldrums already. No place for the blissful foundations of my childhood to be pulled from beneath me. That is, if my parents really have concealed something from me.
First things first, I needed to cure my aching heart, and as any girl knows, the only way to address this successfully is to find a new handsome project to focus on. Sussex hasn’t in the past thrown up the goods but I’m going to pull myself together and organise a good fun night out.
Postscript
Almost a year to the day later I received a letter and a newspaper clipping through the post from DCI Reynolds:
Norfolk County Police
Special Investigation Unit
Friday 16 August
Dear Miss Mahl,
I felt a good old-fashioned form of correspondence was necessary for the news I have to deliver. I hope in years to come you will revisit this remarkable outcome and pat yourself on the back. Us policemen and women do not like to leave loose ends untied and without your intuition, intelligence and exceptional attention to detail, Miss Dune’s case may never have reached the correct conclusion. I write on behalf of my whole team and those forensic pathologists directly involved in the case to express our grateful thanks and eternal respect for you and your skill as an amateur detective. The police force would be a lot better off with many more of your calibre within it.
Mrs Primrose Gerald confessed to the manslaughter of Miss Hailey Dune at Norfolk Magistrates Court yesterday morning. The murder charge has been allowed to lie and Mrs Gerald has been sentenced to eight years’ imprisonment.
If you are ever passing do let me know. You will always be welcome in these parts and I hope we meet again one day. I could do with an accomplice, however I know you are pursuing your career as a painter and I wish you every success in your endeavour to do so.
With grateful thanks and warmest wishes,
Roland
Detective Chief Inspector Reynolds
The Norfolk Post, Thursday 15 August:
MANSLAUGHTER, Fontaburn Hall, the inside story
Breaking news from Norfolk Crown Court…
Primrose Arabella Gertrude Gerald, 38, of Mongumery Castle, Jiltwhistle, has pleaded guilty at Norfolk Magistrates Court to the manslaughter of Miss Hailey Dune, who was at a house party at Fontaburn Hall, home of the Honourable Archibald Cooke Wellingham, next in line to the Lord Norland title. Mrs Gerald was sentenced to eight years in prison.
The court heard that Mrs Gerald poisoned Miss Dune, spiking her drink with antifreeze, which in turn caused Miss Dune’s internal organs to fail in the early hours of Sunday 19 August. Mrs Gerald claimed she had found screen wash in her husband’s car and on the spur of the moment spiked Miss Dune’s cocktail. She had only recently met Miss Dune, and although Mrs Gerald could not say why she had done it, her intention had been to cause Miss Dune discomfort and not to kill her.
Mrs Gerald’s doctor gave evidence that she suffers from a mental disorder and she could be prone to extreme behaviour. She had also recently moved to the area and had found the move stressful.
Judge Bright gave a recommendation that Mrs Gerald serve at least five years in prison.
Acknowledgements
Brian Catling, Professor of Fine Art at The Ruskin School of Drawing and Fine Art. Rosemary Morton-Jack for introducing me to Jane Dowling.
Thomas Woodcock the Herald of Heraldry. Marissa Ramsey for guiding me through a murder trial. Lucy Keane, my link to Garry Moore racing who let me in to their yard at the busiest time possible. My betting buddies, Tudor, Jarvid, Beatrice. Claire Hopkinson who knows everything there is to know about a horse. Beloved Sam for his unwavering support. Jenny Parrott my truly wonderful editor. Super-efficient ‘I’ll get on to it’ Harriet Wade. Everyone at Oneworld, the family team behind Susie Mahl. It’s to you all I owe an ENORMOUS thank you.
Ali Carter was born in Scotland and read art history at St Andrews. She first followed an eclectic career in investment management, retail and technology; then in 2011 she had a catastrophic bicycling accident. After major brain surgery and a long recovery, Ali set herself a challenge to walk alone from Canterbury to Rome, a three-month pilgrimage she wrote about in her book, An Accidental Jubilee by Alice Warrender. From then she decided to follow her passion and become a fine artist, specialising in oil paintings from life with an emphasis on colour. Ali also draws pet portraits to commission and works from her studio in East Sussex. She is the author of A Brush with Death.
A Point Blank Book
First published by Point Blank, an imprint of
Oneworld Publications, 2019
This ebook published 2019
Copyright © Ali Carter 2019
The moral right of Ali Carter to be identified as the Author of this
work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs, and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved
Copyright under Berne Convention
A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-78607-560-4
ISBN 978-1-78607-561-1 (ebook)
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Oneworld Publications
10 Bloomsbury Street
London WC1B 3SR
England
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