Patrick C. Walsh
The Dead Squirrel
The second ‘Mac’ Maguire mystery
Garden City Ink
A Garden City Ink ebook
www.gardencityink.com
First published in Great Britain in 2015
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2015, 2016 Patrick C. Walsh
The right of Patrick C. Walsh to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright holder.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely co-incidental.
A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-0-9932800-2-3
Cover art © Patrick S. Walsh 2015
Thanks to www.cgpgrey.com and shaireproductions.com for the source images
‘I dislike cruelty, even cruelty to other people, and should therefore like to see all cruel people exterminated’
― George Bernard Shaw, On The Rocks
For the women who read this story first
Kathleen, Mary and Jean
The Very First Poisoning
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
The Second Poisoning
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Another poisoning
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
…and another poisoning
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Yet another poisoning
Chapter Eighteen
Three months later
The Very First Poisoning
He was a man that nobody noticed. He wasn’t short or tall, fat or thin, handsome or ugly. In fact he was so average that he just blended into the background. Being so anonymous would be seen as a sad state of affairs by some, but he didn’t mind, in fact he didn’t mind at all. He lived the interior life of the mind and, while his looks may have been average, his mind most definitely was not.
He first had the idea when he overheard a conversation about a local scout leader. He investigated and saw for himself. He saw the hot tears of shame that could never be erased from a small boy’s face and he knew the truth of it. Years before he’d felt those same tears scalding his own cheeks. The tears had evaporated but the shame remained. It was a ghost that could never be exorcised.
He investigated this loathsome excuse for a human being further. The scout leader was to all intents a respectable man. He was a banker, a pillar of the community and, as such, he was above suspicion. He learnt that he’d had been reported to the police several times before but no action had ever been taken. He felt it was no co-incidence that this particular scout leader was also a member of long standing in a certain secret society and therefore close to some high ranking police officers.
In his mind he put together a plan, a plan that would make the world a better place. It was just for fun at first. He enjoyed thinking about this man’s demise and he knew the plan he’d crafted and honed would work. It was simple and precise.
He was working in his back garden when he had his epiphany. Some weeks before this part of the garden had looked pitiful as the leaves on all the plants had been ravaged by slugs. He’d laid down some slug pellets and now it was beautiful, regular and pristine and exactly as it should be. He stood there looking at the flower bed for some time.
The world should be the beautiful and pristine too, he thought, but there were too many human slugs out there desecrating the place. They too could do with a pellet. He stood there and gave it some serious thought. He concluded that he could kill this particular slug and never get caught, he was absolutely sure of it. So what was stopping him?
He smiled.
Why nothing, nothing at all.
They met for the first and last time in the pub the slug frequented on a Sunday. The slug always drank halves of coke on a Sunday so it was simple. He put his glass down for a few seconds while he told a funny story to his middle aged, middle class friends who dutifully grinned and guffawed. He looked at them and wondered if the slug’s friends would like him so much if they saw what he got up to behind the scout hut.
He quickly switched glasses and that was that. He walked away and let his friend Mr. T do his work. He didn’t change his routine or let himself get curious. A week later he saw it in the local paper, the slug’s death notice. Died after a short illness it said. The poison he’d used was a thing of wonder, it was tasteless, colourless and incredibly hard to diagnose. Even harder now as it had been banned for a number of years and people had already forgotten all about it.
He saw the slug’s funeral. He pretended to be visiting another grave and he watched it all out of the corner of his eye. There were only a few mourners there and none of them looked particularly mournful. In fact the slug’s wife seemed quite cheerful considering the circumstances. He walked out of the cemetery gate with no expression on his face but inside he felt an electric surge of power that was almost god-like. He revelled in it.
He had removed one slug but he realised that there were plenty more left who were ripe for extermination.
He allowed himself a smile while he considered who he should introduce Mr T to next.
Chapter One
Monday
Mac opened the door to his house and walked inside. The suddenness of the silence waiting inside shocked and unnerved him. His wife hadn’t liked silence much. She always had the radio or television on and sometimes she’d sing to herself while she worked. The silence forcefully reminded him once again that his Nora was gone and the pain was once again unbearable.
He’d just spent a week in Birmingham with his sister and some old friends. It had been a good week. He’d laughed a lot and cried a little and he felt as if he’d somehow turned a corner, that he’d finally started to learn to live with his grief.
And now this.
He stood in the hallway frozen, not knowing what to do next. A familiar tiredness started to creep over him. For most of the last six months he’d given in to a deep depression. He’d slept and slept but unfortunately you have to wake up sometime. He knew he couldn’t afford to let the blackness win again.
He suddenly had an idea.
He left his suitcase in the hallway and got some cleaning materials from the kitchen. Then he went into the back garden and opened up the shed. He pulled out one of the folding chairs they used in the garden during the summer. A sudden memory of Nora sitting in the sunlight on such a chair filled his mind. She had a glass of wine in her hand and was laughing at some joke of his. He somehow held back the tears and put the chair in the boot of his car. He then drove the short distance to the cemetery.
He felt ashamed that he had to search for Nora’s grave. He’d only been to the cemetery two or three times since his wife had died. Seeing her name carved in stone just made it all too real for him. After each visit all he’d wanted to do was disappear into sleep and unreality, into a world in his head where he could dream of Nora and pretend that she might still be
alive somewhere, somehow.
It was February and still crispy cold. The sun shone down from a clear blue sky and lit up her gravestone. It also lit up the wind-blown dirt. He got out the cleaning spray and cloths and set about making the gravestone as presentable as he could. When he’d finished he was gratified to see it sparkle in the sunlight. He set up the chair and sat down. He looked around and was glad that no-one else was within earshot.
He felt a little silly when he started but he soon got into full flow. He spoke out loud to his wife and told her all about his trip to Birmingham, who he’d met and what he’d done. He told her how all their relations and friends were doing all the while leaving gaps for her to respond. The strange thing was he could actually hear her speaking to him in his head. They’d been together so long that he knew exactly what she’d have said. He knew he was only talking to himself but he found the conversation profoundly comforting none the less.
He became aware of someone approaching a little too late. He turned and saw a middle aged man who was walking his dog. He was so close that he must have heard Mac speaking out loud to thin air. The man came nearer and was respectfully silent for a while.
‘How long is it now?’ he simply asked.
‘Just over six months,’ Mac replied.
The man slowly nodded.
‘It’s a difficult time, a time when you have to start facing up to things. Mine went two years ago. I get about, still talk to friends and other people I know but the best conversation of the day is still the one I have with my wife.’
He winked at Mac as he walked away.
‘Well, Nora,’ Mac said after the man had gone, ‘I may be going mad but at least I’ll have some company.’
When he finished he promised he’d visit Nora again soon. When he’d thought of this as he’d stood in the hallway it had seemed silly but he’d felt so desperate that he’d have tried anything. He realised now that it had been one the best ideas he’d ever had. For the first time since his wife had died he’d felt a sense of her presence and, consequently, felt a lightness in his heart.
Back in the house Mac turned on the radio and selected the music station that Nora used to listen to. He found himself singing along as he unpacked. He looked at his watch, it was just before noon. He knew his friend Tim wouldn’t be free until the evening so he decided he might as well go to his office and see if there were any phone messages or post.
As he closed the door behind him he suddenly noticed the flower beds that fronted the house. He’d always remembered these being a riot of colour during the spring and summer months. At this time of year Nora would have had it all dug up and the flower seeds already planted. He sighed, now it was just a riot of straggly looking weeds. He was wondering what he should do with it when Amanda Drinkwater came by with her dog.
Mac was tempted to bend down and give the dog a pat but, as his back still a bit sore after all the travelling, he thought better of it.
‘Morning, Amanda. Just wondering what I could do with this?’
He knew Amanda had a beautiful garden, one she looked after all by herself.
‘Morning Mr. Maguire,’ she said cheerily. She looked down at the sorry excuse for a flower bed. ‘Have you thought of using one of those garden claws?’
Mac had never heard of them.
‘You can weed without having to bend over and with one hand too,’ she explained, glancing at his crutch.
‘One of those sounds just what I need.’
He’d arranged for a gardener to do all the work in the back garden but he wouldn’t be starting for a few weeks yet. Anyway he liked the idea of being able to do the front flower beds himself.
Amanda looked like she was about to walk off when she suddenly stopped and turned back.
‘Mr. Maguire, I heard that you used to be a policeman but you’re a private detective now, is that right?’
‘Yes, that’s right, I’m still quite new to it though.’
‘Then I was wondering if you could give me some advice.’
Mac gave her a concerned look. He knew that the main reason that most women hired detectives was to get evidence on their wayward husbands. He hoped she didn’t want him for that. He’d always thought that Amanda and her husband were pretty much the perfect couple.
‘Come inside and we’ll have a coffee.’
Amanda put her dog in the back garden. Mac got an old dish and put some water in it. The dog, however, was too busy exploring the garden to drink. Once the coffee was made and they were comfortably seated in the living room Mac took the plunge.
‘So how can I help?’ he asked, keeping his fingers crossed.
‘Mr. Maguire, it’s about a poisoning.’
Chapter Two
Mac’s face must have shown his surprise.
‘So who’s been poisoned?’ he asked, trying to think of any recent cases and failing.
‘Not who, what. It was a squirrel.’
‘A squirrel?’ Mac asked, wondering if something had suddenly gone wrong with his hearing.
‘Yes a black squirrel, I found it in my garden a few days ago. It died right in front of me. It was convulsing and then stopped moving a few minutes later, the poor thing. It really upset me if I’m honest. There was something so unnatural about the way it died that I brought it to the local vet and paid him to do an autopsy. He was certain that it hadn’t died of any injury so that just left poisoning or disease. In case it was disease he had some tests done at the University. They confirmed that the squirrel had been poisoned.’
‘Well they do get in some funny places. They even chewed the electric wiring in the loft once. I’ll bet that didn’t do them much good. So what killed it?’ Mac asked.
‘Something called thallium.’
Mac’s face once again showed his surprise.
‘I remember some of the old coppers talking about thallium around the time I joined the force. They said it was wicked stuff, odourless, colourless and deadly. There was a famous case in the early seventies where a serial killer used it to poison members of his own family and even his work mates. He got away with it for ages.’
‘I must admit I’d never heard of it before.’
‘There’s no reason why you should. It was used in rat poisons and ant killers and that’s how most of the murderers who used thallium got hold of it,’ Mac explained. ‘Thankfully it was banned in the seventies and so became much harder to get. That being the case then how did such a rare poison get into a squirrel in Letchworth?’
‘The vet was surprised too. He said that he’d be reporting the poisoning but I was wondering if there was something more I should do.’ Seeing no immediate reaction from Mac she stood up. ‘Oh, I’m just being stupid, aren’t I? When I said it was a squirrel just now I could see you thought I was mad or something.’
‘No, not at all, sorry I was just thinking. As I said thallium is wicked stuff. If it’s lying around somewhere and a squirrel can get at it then perhaps a child might be able to as well. In my opinion it should be found as soon as possible. If it’s a case of someone poisoning squirrels on purpose we still need to find them. They probably have no idea how powerful the poison is and there’s more than a good chance that they’ll end up poisoning themselves. From what you’ve said I take it that you haven’t gone to the police yet?’
Amanda shook her head.
‘I had to get my courage up to ask you, I thought the last thing the police would want to know about was a dead squirrel.’
‘Just in case let’s go and report it anyway,’ Mac said with a smile. ‘It can’t do any harm, can it?’
At the police station Mac and Amanda waited patiently in the lobby until a policeman called their names. He led them into an interview room and took their statements. He had a hugely sceptical expression on his face throughout. Amanda was just signing her name when the door opened and a tall woman in a smart trouser suit strode in.
‘Mr. Maguire?’ she asked.
‘Yes, that’s me.’
>
‘Would you come with me please?’
She signed for Amanda to stay where she was.
Mac followed her down a corridor and into another interview room.
‘Please wait here,’ she said and left him.
He did as he’d been ordered. He was still wondering what it was all about when a tall sandy haired man in his early thirties walked in. Mac did a double take.
‘Andy, is that really you?’
The man smiled broadly at Mac.
‘Hello boss, how have you been?’ he asked, offering his hand.
He shook Mac‘s hand energetically.
‘My God, DC Andy Reid! It must be what, five or six years now.’
‘More like seven and it’s DI Andy Reid now.’
‘Well done, a Detective Inspector already.’
‘You know I wondered if you’d even remember me. After all I was just a Detective Constable last time we met.’
‘How could I forget? You were with the team for two years if I remember right and your work on the Kilburn High Street murders was excellent. Lots of legwork but you persisted and got us that vital break. How’s the wife?’
Mac remembered that one of the reasons Andy had left to join the Hertfordshire Police was that he was going to marry a girl from Stevenage.
‘She’s fine, we’ve got two kids now, one of each. Best thing I ever did was come here, if I’m honest London was always a bit much for me.’
‘I was really sorry to lose you.’
Andy’s face showed his pleasure at Mac’s words.
‘So what brings you the station today? Thinking of joining the force again?’
Mac only wished he could.
‘No, I’m here to help someone report an incident… of sorts.’
‘An incident? Tell me about it.’
Mac felt a little embarrassed and wished he’d had something a little more substantial to report than a dead rodent. He told Andy all about it none the less.
The Dead Squirrel (The Mac Maguire detective mysteries Book 2) Page 1