I grinned at her. ‘You’re good.’
‘I know. Now get your arse out there.’
I looked at her.
‘Inspector.’
I smiled again and she winked. I walked out to the single table and chair placed in front of three blue felt boards – the Nottinghamshire police logo prominently displayed, along with the helpline number – to a barrage of flashes and a crescendo of noise. I took a breath and seated myself. The flashes continued. I waited until the noise died down before I spoke.
‘I’m going to read a statement out and will then take questions. I’d ask that you please let me answer them before shouting out any more or we’re just going to have pandemonium.’
The room went quiet other than the continued clicking of cameras. I took a sip of the water from the glass that had been placed on the table.
‘Last week a woman, Lianne Beers, was found dead in her home in Bramcote. Post-mortem evidence has identified cause of death to be a drug overdose. Two days ago a young boy, Finlay McDonnell, died on a bus on the way to school. A post-mortem also found that he had the same drug in his system.’
Camera flashes became louder and seemed brighter in my face.
‘At this present time, we are treating these deaths as suspicious. We don’t know how the poison got into their systems. We don’t know how or if the two victims knew each other. If anyone knows of any link or knows any information that can assist police with our enquiry can they please contact us on the helpline number provided? Thank you.’
I looked out at the shocked but eager faces. I was about to face a barrage of questions.
‘I’ll take some questions now.’
The whole room seemed to be made of arms as a cacophony of noise and arms went up in unison. I didn’t know where to look first. There was no order. Just chaos. Chaos I wasn’t used to handling. I looked to my right and sought out Claire who mouthed children at me. I smiled and turned back to the gaggle of children in front of me and pointed to the front row.
‘Are you going to tell us what the drug used was?’ A woman I recognised. Short cropped hair, young, minimal make-up, very trendy.
‘At this time, we are withholding that information in the interests of the ongoing investigation.’ More arms were waving at me wildly. ‘By doing so, the public are not at more risk.’ A couple of arms dropped.
Ethan was sitting in the middle of the room, his look serious, arm in the air with the other reporters. I pointed him out. ‘Ethan Gale?’
He paused a moment before speaking. I rubbed one of my damp palms down my trouser leg and kept it there, conscious of fidgeting.
‘Detective Inspector, do you think the death of Finlay McDonnell could have been prevented had you acted more swiftly with Lianne Beers?’
It’s his job. His job, just his job.
My mouth was dry. I swallowed.
‘No.’ I swallowed again, trying to get saliva to my mouth to help it function. This was not a good time for it to fail. ‘I don’t think anything we could have done would have prevented Finlay’s death. The timeframe was too tight. As you can see, we are holding this press conference at the earliest opportunity now we know there is a problem, letting the press and the public know there is an ongoing investigation and we need their help and support.’
His job. That was all. Just his job.
32
He was sat in the witness interview room, a square box with a table and four chairs, looking calm and relaxed. An arm draped over the back of the chair. One leg crossed over the other. Not a care in the world.
‘What the hell, Ethan?’ I couldn’t believe he’d had the balls to ask for me.
‘I wanted a quick word.’
‘So you thought asking to see the DI in charge of the investigation after the press conference was the best way to do that?’
‘Han, all they will think is that I’m here trying to get more info from you.’
I sat down in the chair across from him, the thrum of the busy station permeating the door. ‘And what is it you are here for?’
He smiled. ‘I wanted to talk to you properly. I can’t just see you like that, across a room,’ he waved his arm to indicate the distance, ‘and not be able to have a conversation.’
‘But you have to. It’s how it works. It’s our jobs. We’re not in a relationship anymore, Ethan, or did you forget that?’ I certainly hadn’t. I wish I could, this would go so much easier for me if I could.
He sighed. ‘I didn’t forget, but it doesn’t mean I don’t think about you.’
I looked down at the bare wooden desk. Scratch marks scoured into it. Names. Insults. Lasting memories of others seated here before me. ‘Okay.’
‘I know how you tick.’
‘How’s that?’ The thrum quietened.
‘My question. You’ll take it personally.’ I looked at him. Dared him. ‘It wasn’t.’
‘You asked if we were to blame for further deaths. How else am I to take it?’
‘Like a question from a journalist, but then what you’re supposed to do is realise who I am, realise you know me and know how I feel about you and know there’s a difference.’
I missed this man so much. ‘But do I?’
‘Do you what?’
‘Know you?’
He stood. ‘Han, stop thinking with your head, feel that question and let me know the answer if you ever figure it out.’ He picked up his bag. ‘Tell them I was pushing it, looking for an exclusive and you blew me off.’
And with that, he opened the door and walked out.
33
She was a woman. The report stated a woman was investigating the deaths. DI Hannah Robbins. It was the first time he noticed the name of the investigating officer. But it was the first time the police had stepped out from behind their desks and confronted what was happening. This wasn’t their fight. He had no quarrel with them. His fight, the one he was taking right to their doorstep, was with the pharmaceutical companies.
It was interesting to know her name, though.
To know who was chasing him.
That was a horrible thought. It made him feel bad. Like a criminal. He wasn’t a criminal. He was only after what was right. He was after the giants. For the little man.
For a little girl.
He didn’t need to be chased by the police. By DI Hannah Robbins.
Isaac didn’t like that he had access to the other names. To Lianne and Finlay. He had never wanted to know those names. He had never wanted to know anything about them. They weren’t to enter into this. This was to be about sending a message to pharmaceutical companies through the use of their own failed products. He could distance himself from it all. Buy the goods, contaminate them, place them back in the shops and walk away. Far away. He wasn’t there when anyone was hurt. He didn’t see them, he didn’t know them. He didn’t want to know. He was at home with his grieving wife.
Their own bubble of hopelessness.
He dropped the paper into the large garden bin so Connie wouldn’t read it. Not that she was reading anything any more, but he’d do his best to protect her. He’d failed his daughter so the least he could do was protect Connie from having to think about the real fat cats behind Em’s death. She needed to heal in her own way and she wouldn’t have the energy to fight back. But he was the husband, father, and the protector. He’d do it now.
There was a problem though. The reporter had failed. Ethan Gale.
He hadn’t named the poison used.
Reading the articles was hard, but this would have to continue. Isaac had to get his message out there.
34
She was about forty feet away from her front door on Petworth Avenue, Toton. Detached houses in a small cul-de-sac. Black Lycra clinging to her body, cerise pink flashes down the sides accentuating toned muscles and a fitness level I wished I possessed. An elasticated iPod armband was wrapped around the top of her left arm and narrow white earphones sneaked out and looped into her ears. Around her waist
was a plastic bottle hooked into a belt. I could still hear the beat of whatever music had been driving her as she ran towards what she thought was comfort and safety. Instead, she was face up on the sun-warmed grey concrete pavement, on display. Arms splayed. Head tilted back, rubber shock pads still stuck to her chest and blue gloves on the floor around her where the paramedics had left everything as it was. They’d heard the news reports, as had everyone else, and knew that they needed to leave the scene as intact as they could after they had attempted to save life. I stood over her, horrified at another senseless death. We didn’t know this was a murder yet, but we’d been called out by the uniformed inspector anyway. She was young. Only thirty-six years of age. Not an age you’d expect to die on the way home from a run. One of her neighbours had looked out of their window and had seen that she’d gone down. He’d called the ambulance that had responded quickly, but too late to do anything for her.
My thoughts tumbled through my head as I waited for Jack to attend. Martin and Aaron were talking to neighbours and obtaining details to come back later for longer statements.
What was driving our killer? Because we did have a killer. This was no accident. Not with three suspicious deaths. How could three apparently unconnected people die from digoxin toxicity? Which is a presumption I was making, even though Jack wouldn’t confirm it for me until we had the lab results in, but I knew deep down that this was our killer; this was the job we were already chasing our tails over. How was he targeting his victims?
A deep-voiced screaming followed by further shouting came from the cordon at the end of the road. I turned and saw a man of similar age to the woman on the ground, fighting with two uniformed officers. A car abandoned on the road behind him. He was screaming and yelling, arms flailing, trying to get past the officers and the cordon. I walked towards them and saw Martin and Aaron leave the neighbours they were talking to and walk in the same direction.
He wore a smart shirt and trousers, but you could still see he was a fit man and though his arms were not connecting with the officers, his physique was strong enough to be pushing them further and further into the thin plastic strip of barrier that had been stretched across the road. His emotions were disconnecting his arm functions from his brain and they were just waving about rather than actually doing any good or getting him anywhere. Once broken, I knew he would make a run for it and we couldn’t have this scene compromised any further than the paramedics had done. Which of course they always had to. Saving life came before anything else, but this was different. He was in pain, but we had to stop him, no matter how strong his grief. His eyes were streaming. Tracks littered his face.
‘Angela! Ange! Oh my God. Oh Ange.’
Aaron and I reached the battling threesome simultaneously. I knew his name from the neighbours.
‘Mr Evans?’
‘Angela!’ boots scuffed the road as the two officers tried to keep traction to hold him back. ‘Angela! Oh God. Oh God. No.’
‘Mr Evans. Please. I’m so sorry. You’ll be able to hold her soon enough but first we need to know what has happened to her and there are procedures.’
‘Oh God. Oh Ange.’ The arms had stopped flailing.
‘I’m am genuinely so sorry for your loss.’
He looked at me. Looked at me in my all white protective garb. The garb that says something really bad has happened. Deep, pools for eyes. He stopped pushing the officers and sank down onto his knees.
35
Lance Evans shook intensely as he perched on the edge of his neighbour’s pale blue floral sofa. The neighbour, Chloe Anderson, was in the kitchen making several cups of tea because that is what we do when grief strikes us in the heart of our community and homes, we make tea. It is the go-to soother of choice. It keeps hands and minds busy for those few minutes it takes to make it and once made it keeps the hands still of those grieving and those attending to them. It’s not about the hot steaming fluid itself. It’s the action and inaction it causes. So now, Chloe was creating her own distraction as a neighbour brought his life-altering, severe and hard-edged grief into her lounge as we attempted to talk to him. Cupboard doors banged and crockery clattered. And still Lance Evans shook. Tears spilling from his eyes, down his face and onto knees that jumped up and down from the balls of his feet.
‘It’s just you two at home is it?’ asked Aaron.
‘Yes. Yes. Yes it is. I mean ...’ He scrubbed his head with his hands. ‘It was. Oh God, no. What happened? To Ange? What happened to her?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mr Evans.’ I kept my voice calm. Even.
‘And why are we here? Why can’t I go home?’ His voice was rising slightly. I willed Chloe and her tea to come through, imagining her actually hiding out in the kitchen to avoid this.
‘We don’t know what killed her.’ I’d had opportunity to speak with Jack as he examined the body, before I came into the house to speak with Lance. ‘Our pathologist is concerned it may be something she has ingested so we will need to search your home to see if the contaminant is there.’ Ingested. We were now looking at something a whole lot more serious. Products were being contaminated. Our residents were being poisoned from who knew where. Our victims were scattered around.
I looked back at the broken man in front of me.
‘Our own home? But I’m fine.’
‘I know. So we’re going to go through some questions with you about diet and contents in the house a little later. Not right now.’
Lance Evans dropped his head into his hands and started to cry heavily. Chloe walked in with a tray in her hands. A teapot, three cups and a plate of biscuits, though I doubted anyone was in the mood for biscuits and Aaron wouldn’t have a drink. I smiled at her and she gave me a tight smile in return as she placed the tray on a side table before hastily retreating back into the kitchen. She had been hospitable offering up her home to us, but from what I could see, she didn’t really know the Evanses and was uncomfortable with the situation. I would make sure she was told we were grateful.
I poured out two cups of tea as Mr Evans let out his grief. Aaron sat quietly. Waiting until we could continue to speak with him.
‘Is there anyone we can call for you, Mr Evans?’ I asked.
He looked up. His face now red and bloated. ‘No, no one. Not here anyway. We only moved here recently because of my job. Ange was still looking for work, which is why she was out running at this hour. We didn’t need for her to work, but she said she needed to, she couldn’t stay at home all day and do nothing but keep house. She left a job to follow me here. We left everything for my career. She put me first. This should have been me. Not her. She didn’t deserve this. She was kind and generous and the brightest light in my life.’ His sobs started again.
Aaron looked at me, getting pretty uncomfortable now. So Angela Evans had no family around her to be in conflict with and she had already given up her career for her husband, so he wasn’t gaining anything by her death that we could immediately see. It seemed we had another brutal death and no strong leads.
36
Jack’s voice was tense as I answered the phone in my office. I could tell we had a problem.
‘It’s the same thing isn’t it?’ We were cutting out the small talk, the usual friendly chitchat today. This was bad news.
‘It is, Hannah,’ the pathologist replied. ‘The results are in from Angela Evans’ blood work, I had them put it through immediately. It’s positive for digoxin toxicity.’
‘Crap.’
‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news. The good news, if it can be called that, is it looks as though it killed her quickly with a myocardial infarction. She was obviously more sensitive.’
‘Any indications of how it entered her system, Jack?’
‘Well, as you saw at the PM a few days ago, there were no puncture marks, so that rules out injection. You’ve searched her home and asked her husband and neither of them was taking heart medication so she didn’t accidentally take
too much. The most likely scenario is ingestion because, as with the previous two victims, there were no puncture wounds.’
‘I was wondering if we were looking at a product contamination case and you’re backing that up.’
‘Have your CSIs identified any item from the searches as a possible mode of transport into their systems yet?
‘No, they’re still working on it. With three addresses and a multitude of items to test, without knowing which ones to look at first, it’s taking longer than we’d like. There aren’t any items that match up across the addresses either so that’s not helping the situation.’
‘I can imagine. I’m sorry, Hannah. These cases are difficult to work. Have you heard from the offender, any demands?’
‘Nothing.’ I picked up my pen and started doodling on the pad in front of me. ‘So, as of yet, we can rule out blackmail. I can’t see any political gain from the victims or the areas, sabotage could well be our motive or just plain old excitement.’
‘That’s a scary thought.’
‘Isn’t it just?’
‘And on top of that, we’ve had no luck with any of the witness interviews from the bus that Finlay McDonnell died on.’
‘Whatever the cause of this, they’re making it far from easy.’ I nodded into the phone. ‘I’ll email you a copy of the report and post the hard copy. Let me know if and when you need me for any briefings at all.’
‘Will do, Jack. Thank you.’
Funny how we give thanks, even for the bad things in life.
37
He was optimistic. It had to be working now. There was no way they couldn’t be paying attention. He’d done too much.
He gently opened the door to Em’s room and checked on Connie who was curled up with her arms wrapped around Em’s pillow, her face pushed into it, her shoulders quietly shaking.
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