‘How long before Dr Jones can prove it one way or the other?’
‘Said he’d call within the …’ Turner began. Pendragon’s mobile rang.
‘Doctor,’ Pendragon said, recognising the number. ‘Yes, I see. Yes … I understand. How long … No, I realise that.’ He took the phone from his ear for a second and made a face at it. The others grinned. ‘No, that’s … that’s excellent. Thank you.’
He snapped shut the phone and sighed. ‘Preliminary tests show Middleton’s blood was awash with arsenic. Enough to kill a rugby team, Jones reckons. He’s getting a full toxicology report from Scotland Yard, but it’ll take twenty-four hours.’
Two hours later, the restaurant looked very different. The traumatised patrons had gone, as had Middleton’s body. The only people remaining were Dr Colette Newman and two of her people. The Head of Forensics was placing a fibre from the carpet into a small bottle using a pair of delicate steel tweezers.
Pendragon crouched down beside her. ‘Jones thinks there’s a good chance it’s poisoning.’
‘That’s up to the tox lab to prove or disprove,’ Newman commented without looking at him. ‘There’s precious little to go on here.’
‘Oh?’
‘Just a normal lunch gone wrong by the look of things. We’ve bagged everything on the table and one of my assistants is doing the same with the kitchen utensils. If Middleton was poisoned and it was done in the conventional way, believe me, we’ll find the evidence.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ Pendragon replied, straightening up and pacing across the restaurant. In the kitchen, a man in a forensics suit was carefully sieving liquid from a saucepan. The entrance to the kitchen was the other side of the restaurant from the table where Middleton had died. It was hard to imagine how anyone from the Rainer party could have slipped into the kitchen unnoticed to place arsenic in the food. And if they had, how could they possibly have known Middleton would be at the receiving end and no one else? All of which still left the possibility that one of the kitchen staff was responsible. But that was almost as improbable. ‘Besides,’ Pendragon said to himself, ‘where the hell’s the motive?’
Pendragon ducked under the crime-scene tape cordoning off the pavement outside and nodded to a constable standing by the door to the restaurant. He decided there was nothing more he could do right away. He toyed with the idea of returning to the station and helping Turner, but suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. He crossed the main road and started walking the mile to his flat. He could do with the air, he reasoned, even if it was Mile End Road air on a sticky, freakish summer evening. The traffic was light; a few families were heading back to Essex after a day in the city. The stallholders who usually lined the street across the road from the London Hospital had packed up early after suffering the deluge. They knew very few people would feel like wandering around sodden and steamy stalls; they would rather be at home watching Fox Sport.
The road and the pavements were glistening still, but the drains, dry for so long, had handled the downpour well. Steam rose from the concrete and tarmac, and Pendragon could feel the damp seeping into his bones. Soon he was lost in thought, trying to fit together the pieces of a jigsaw that would not meld. There were now two mysterious deaths linked with the construction site. The victims knew each other peripherally, but what possible links were there between them? None, as far as he could tell. None, except they were both working on the same project. But one was an Indian labourer, the other an architect. One had been beaten to death, the other … well, what had happened to Tim Middleton? It was possible he had died from something he had eaten, that it was no murder at all, just a bizarre coincidence. But that just didn’t feel right.
Then there was the skeleton. That too was linked to the construction site on Frimley Way, but it was hundreds of years old. And yet he couldn’t ignore the fact the deaths had started as soon as the thing had been dug up.
Pendragon was so lost in thought, he hardly noticed he had arrived at his building. But then he saw the front door was ajar. He crossed the threshold and heard a stifled scream from along the corridor towards Sue Latimer’s flat.
He dashed along it and reached the door just as a man came crashing through from the other side. He was wearing a hoodie and an Obama mask. He was large and fit and Pendragon was caught off guard. The man’s shoulder slammed into the DCI’s chest, knocking him back against the doorframe. Before he could recover, the man had run almost the length of the corridor. He reached the front door and disappeared into the street.
Pendragon was about to run after him when he heard a moan from the floor. Sue was pulling herself up, one hand pressed to her face. He ran over and helped her up. Looking at her, he saw that a large bruise was blooming close to her eye and she had a cut under her right eyelid.
‘He’s snatched my purse,’ she said, and burst into tears. Pendragon held her shoulders and let her sob into his chest.
London, Monday 6 June
Sergeant Jez Turner pulled up outside the apartment block and checked his watch. It was 8.30 and the russet-coloured brickwork of the converted East India Company warehouse was awash with bright morning sunlight. Behind him rippled the dark water of the dock where once stood at anchor trade ships bringing exotic goods from far-flung places. In the distance stood the gleaming towers of Docklands dominated by Canary Wharf, testament to the social revolution that had transformed this area when he was barely out of nappies.
‘Very nice too,’ Turner said quietly as he looked up at the windows overlooking the water. He had studied the file on Sophie Templer: twenty-six. Graduate in Business Studies, Goldsmiths College. Now working for Woodruff & Holme, the largest PR company in Britain.
Sophie opened the door to her flat. She was dressed in a tight black skirt, cut just above the knee, neat oatmeal silk blouse and high heels. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair looked freshly washed and smelt of tropical fruits. With a brief smile and a ‘Hi’, she led the sergeant into a large open-plan space with a vaulted ceiling, white walls and polished concrete floor. There was an over-sized white stone kitchen counter, subtle lighting from invisible fixtures and a pair of huge grey suede sofas. An archway led to a white and grey bedroom. Next to that was a small office, the huge screen of a Mac just visible on a glass-topped table. He could smell coffee.
She indicated a stool at the kitchen counter. ‘Espresso?’
‘Thanks.’
Turner took out his notebook and studied the woman’s neat behind while she operated the machine.
‘Have you discovered anything about … about how Tim died?’ Sophie said without turning. Her accent was studiedly middle class, Turner decided. He could detect some of the Essex vowels she had grown up with. And, for all her evident sophistication, it was not hard to imagine Soph out on the town with her girlfriends, squealing with faux-excitement at a Chippendales show or swearing like a trooper after a few vodka and tonics.
‘Too early,’ he replied. ‘Waiting for toxicology reports.’
‘But wasn’t it food poisoning?’
‘We’re treating it as homicide.’
She gave a little gasp and handed him the espresso, a brown slurry in a minuscule white cup.
‘You and Mr Middleton were an item … until recently?’
‘Yes.’ She looked him directly in the eye. The distraught young woman of the previous afternoon had been carefully concealed. ‘We broke up a couple of months ago.’
‘Had you been together long?’
‘Two years.’
‘So it was a serious relationship.’
She returned to the coffee machine to switch it off. ‘I don’t have casual relationships, Sergeant.’
‘May I ask what went wrong?’
She looked surprised for a second but covered it well. Leaning against the counter to one side of the kitchen, she took a sip of her coffee. ‘Oh, the usual. We grew apart. Wanted different things.’
‘I see. And the break-up was acrimonious?’
; ‘Look, Sergeant, what are you driving at?’
‘You and your … friend, Marcus Campbell, had a disagreement with Tim Middleton at the restaurant.’
She shrugged and looked back at him, head tilted slightly to one side. ‘Yes, it’s no secret. I answered questions about it yesterday.’
‘Was that the first time you’d seen Mr Middleton since your break-up?’
‘Yes, it was, actually. We’ve deliberately tried to avoid each other,’ Sophie replied. ‘It’s not difficult, Sergeant. It’s a big city.’
‘And Mr Campbell? You’ve known each other a long time?’
‘What on earth has that got to do with anything?’
He ignored her. She sighed and drained her cup. ‘Marcus is one of my clients.’
Turner glanced at his notebook. ‘MD of Trevelyan Holdings.’
‘Yes. They’re one of the biggest in my portfolio.’
‘And was Mr Campbell part of the reason you and Tim Middleton … grew apart?’
‘No!’ She was suddenly angry, the cool veneer abandoned. ‘Tim has … had some good qualities, but he was very difficult to live with … Oh, for Christ’s sake!’
Her eyes were ablaze and Turner decided she wasn’t one of those women who looked beautiful when she was angry. He could also tell she was keeping a lot back and that he had probably blown it by antagonising her now.
‘I’m sorry if you feel these questions are too personal, Ms Templer,’ the sergeant replied, trying to soften his voice. ‘But I’m sure you would want us to find Mr Middleton’s killer.’
She seemed to sag on hearing that word. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, Sergeant. I’m just not used to this yet. It seems so surreal. Look. Tim and me … it was great for a few months, but then … well, I suppose it’s the same for everyone, isn’t it? The initial spark goes.’
‘What sort of person was he?’
‘Oh, very clever. Creative. We had fun. But, as I said, we were moving in opposite directions.’
She looked very tired suddenly and made a show of studying her watch. ‘Look, I’m sorry … I have a train to catch.’
‘Sure.’ Turner stepped back from the kitchen counter. Sophie Templer picked up a cream leather bag from the floor and led him back to the front door, pulling a jacket on as she went.
She took the stairs ahead of him and they emerged on to the quayside where she pulled on a pair of large Chanel sunglasses. ‘I’m sorry if I haven’t been that helpful, Sergeant Turner.’ She was standing with her handbag held to her breasts, arms wrapped around it, head tilted to one side.
Everything she does is carefully orchestrated, Turner thought.
‘The tube station is this way.’ She indicated behind her, then held out her hand.
‘Ms Templer,’ he said, ignoring her evident desire to be away, ‘do you have any idea why your friend Mr Campbell would have wanted you both out of the restaurant after Tim Middleton died? Even though the police had been called?’
With her sunglasses covering half her face, it was hard to tell what impact, if any, his remark had had. ‘I imagine he was thinking of me, Sergeant. Marcus is an extremely thoughtful man. And,’ she added with a faint smile, ‘I was a complete mess, if you recall.’
‘Yes, that’s what I assumed,’ he replied, and watched her turn and walk away.
Jez Turner had just reached the car when his phone rang.
‘Anything useful?’ It was Pendragon.
‘Only that she’s holding something back, guv.’
‘All right, leave her alone for a bit. No point pushing too hard. Get back to the station and run a thorough search on Middleton. I want a complete picture of the man’s past. Talk to everyone you think is relevant. And get on to Central Records.’
‘No probs. Where are you, sir?’
‘I’ve actually had a bit of luck,’ Pendragon replied. ‘Jones managed to call in a favour and has the tox report early.’
Jack Pendragon came through the doors of the police station and flashbulbs popped. For a second, he was completely confused. Then he saw a group of journalists gathered at the top of the stairs leading to the parking bays. Two photographers continued to snap away. He decided quickly that he should not make a fuss about them. He had seen what the result of that could be when, years earlier, the Oxford Times had delighted in publishing the most unflattering shots of him they could find.
‘DCI Pendragon,’ one of the journalists shouted as he approached. ‘Fred Taylor, Gazette. Can you fill us in? Is it true a dead body has been dug up on a building site? The same site where Amal Karim was beaten to death?’
Pendragon was speechless. He slowed his pace and the other journalists descended on him. Four of them now stood in front of him, digital recorders at the ready.
‘I think you have your facts wrong,’ he said dismissively. He was startled still and realised as soon as the words had left his lips that he sounded terribly pompous.
‘How so, Inspector?’
‘It’s Detective Chief Inspector,’ Pendragon retorted, letting his guard down further and immediately feeling irritated with himself. At that point he should have paused, taken a deep breath and been co-operative. Instead, he flashed the newsmen a frosty look.
‘Apologies,’ Fred Taylor said sarcastically. ‘DCI Pendragon. So are you saying a body wasn’t uncovered on Friday afternoon at the Bridgeport Construction site on Frimley Way? Just hours before the labourer was murdered?’
‘I have no further comment,’ Pendragon responded and made to walk on. Without being exactly intimidating, the four men somehow managed to block his path. ‘Come on, Jack,’ one of the other reporters called. ‘We’re just trying to do our jobs. Give us something.’
The man wore a big grin on his face and had his recorder thrust directly under the DCI’s nose. Pendragon glared at him and the smile dissolved. ‘I told you, I have nothing to say on the matter. There will be a press conference in due course. When we have something concrete to report.’ He pushed his way between the men and took the steps down to the car pool.
‘You’re new here, aren’t you, DCI Pendragon?’ Taylor called after him.
Pendragon ignored him and lowered himself into the driver’s seat of the nearest patrol car.
Tim Middleton’s body lay on the dissection table. There was a Y-incision running from each shoulder to the middle of his chest and then down to his navel. His ribs had been cut open and pulled back. The white ends protruded like sightless eyes in a soup of red and grey viscera. A little lower lay a section of large intestine, shockingly pale. Flaps of his scalp were folded over his eyes. Pendragon caught himself thinking the dead man had the appearance of a lop-eared rabbit.
‘Ah, Pendragon,’ Jones said, looking up from his computer keyboard. He finished his sentence, typing uncertainly with two fingers and peering intently at the screen, then paced over. ‘We must organise a camp bed for you here.’
‘What have you got?’ Pendragon asked.
‘As I said on the phone, an old chum of mine managed to get the tox report over PDQ, but there’s something else I wanted to show you first.’ He waved Pendragon over to the other side of the table. Bending over Middleton’s body, Jones pointed to a fleshy spot on the man’s hip. Pendragon could just make out a red pinprick.
‘Puncture site,’ the pathologist said. ‘Explains how the poison was administered.’
Pendragon looked surprised. ‘Are you suggesting a hypodermic? In a crowded restaurant?’
Jones shrugged. ‘You’re the detective, Pendragon.’
‘It’s a bit James Bond.’
‘Well, it’s a fresh incision, or at least it was, and I’ve found trace chemicals at the puncture site. Middleton certainly didn’t die from ingesting anything orally. Here, take a look at this.’ He handed Pendragon a printout and carried on talking as the DCI did his best to decipher the information. ‘It’s definitely poisoning.’ Leaning in, Jones pointed to a coloured graph. ‘Four different components to the poison. A huge amount of arse
nic trioxide.’ And he indicated a thick spike in the graph. ‘But also cantharidin, abric acid and oleander. A most intriguing combination.’
‘You said at the crime scene you’d never seen a poison like this.’
‘I haven’t. For starters, the concentration of arsenic is phenomenal. To kill a man Middleton’s size quickly, you would need to use half a gram of the trioxide. Either that or it could be a much smaller amount, but with its toxicity enhanced in some way.’
‘Maybe that’s where the other three come in? The cantharidin, etc?’ Pendragon replied.
‘Well, they’re certainly all deadly in themselves. But we can’t escape the fact the poisoner had to administer a large dose of arsenic without being seen and without the victim noticing. There’s also the fact that although arsenic used to be known as “the murderer’s favourite” because it could be obtained from so many household items, nowadays it’s almost impossible to get hold of. Health and Safety have done a very thorough job there.’
‘Okay,’ Pendragon said. ‘Tell me about the other three components.’
‘Cantharidin you probably know by its common name, Spanish Fly.’
‘The aphrodisiac?’
‘A myth,’ Jones retorted. ‘It’s actually super-toxic, can kill in minuscule amounts almost immediately.’
‘And easy to get hold of.’
‘Yes and no. It used to be straightforward – sex shops, mail order – but strict new regulations have changed that. No problem, though, for anyone with a computer and a modem – thousands of dodgy sites are still selling the stuff illegally.’
‘All right,’ Pendragon said, looking back at the printout. ‘Abric acid.’
‘I’d never encountered it before, but a quick Google search gave me a wealth of information as only the Holy Internet can. Comes from the Paternoster Pea, scientific name Abrus precatorius. Commonly known as a “lucky bean”. Wasn’t so lucky for the poor sod over there though, was it?’ Jones glanced towards the metal dissection table and gave Pendragon a wolfish grin.
Jack Pendragon - 02 - Borgia Ring Page 10