Only the Dead

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  “I wonder if she will have dinner with me?” he said out loud to himself pulling a face as if contemplating the vagaries that multiple excuses might bring.

  He finished his tea and toast and showered. His mind played virtual tennis thinking of where they might go and then being smashed off court with the excuse she might make. After he dressed he decided to spin a coin to determine the future.

  “You’re a bloody copper who makes important decisions daily so for God’s sake get a grip!” His hand fished out a coin. “Heads I ring her, tails...it’s a walk and the pub.”

  The coin landed on the newspaper, right on the diamond advert. Heads!

  “Shit! Maybe I should spin again.” He smiled and picked up his mobile.

  The phone at Dr. Flint’s house rang for some time and he was just about to hang up when a very flustered voice answered.

  “Dr. Flint’s residence.”

  “Good morning, Janet. Chief Inspector Bennett.”

  “You’ve done it again. Third time unlucky I’m afraid, Dr. Flint isn’t here he’s in France, or he should be.” She glanced at the clock on the mantle-piece, “Will be by now. Can I help?”

  “France? Rather sudden. Nothing I did I hope?”

  “No, it’s been planned for some time. He has a house there. I’ll be travelling out next week once I have sorted out this one. Sheets to wash etc. A woman’s work and all that.”

  “It was you I really wanted to talk to. I wonder if you’d like to have dinner or lunch this weekend but I now feel I might have asked you at a bad time. Some other time, perhaps?”

  “You don’t sound too sure Chief Inspector.”

  “I’m sorry, please, Cyril...I know it sounds like my grandfather; put it down to old -fashioned parents.”

  She laughed. “Tomorrow lunchtime would be marvellous...Cyril.” She paused before saying his name. “I must be back before four in the afternoon as there’s so much to organise and do here. Will that be alright?”

  “Certainly Cinderella, that’s fine, not a problem... great... so back by four, yes? I’ll see you tomorrow, thank you.”

  “Cyril, before you hang up do you have a time in mind?”

  He felt stupid. “Sorry, yes. Twelve if that’s fine with you?”

  After the call he had mixed feelings about his traumatic telephone manner, he had made an utter fool of himself. “Cinderella I ask you. What a prat!”

  He checked his watch, 10:55. He realised that if damage were done, it was done and there was nothing he could do to change that. She had said yes so things weren’t all black. It was time to walk.

  Harrogate was busy on the main shopping day of the week. The sky was clear and Cyril enjoyed window shopping. He glanced across and read the newsagent’s “Harrogate Advertiser” A-board.

  ‘Three in Intensive Care after Chemical Leak in Harrogate Bar.”

  Cyril went in and bought the local paper. There was little more information in the column other than the name of the bar and details of its closure. He walked directly to the scene of the incident. It was closed off with blue and white police tape and a number of vehicles was parked within the screening tape. One of the duty officers guarding the periphery recognised him.

  “Forensics all over the place and a number of wrapped furnishings has been removed. It’s sealed off to only those with the right gear. Looks like it might be closed for a while.”

  “Any whispers?”

  “One guy said they heard someone mention something about sulphur in the mustard but that’s all I know. Glad it wasn’t on my steak.”

  “No doubt the story will be all round the office on Monday. Thanks!” Cyril rolled the paper and headed for the ‘Black Swan’.

  ***

  Lawrence had already collected the “Harrogate Advertiser” and was pleased that little had been divulged. He was also relieved that only three people had been affected. The canary began to sing and he changed its water and added seed. He lifted the old sheet covering the rat’s box and looked in at the rigor mortised rat before covering it again. He would bag and dispose of the carcass with the next items of protective clothing.

  The collaged notice-board stared at him and he checked the next name; Valda Holt, care worker for a private firm, suspended due to an alleged lack of care and possible theft from her elderly patients. It appeared that Miss Holt had been squirreling funds for some time but only recently had her case been brought to light. The phial with her name neatly printed across the label sat in the test-tube stand. He also brought out another note on a small card which he intended to stick to the viscous fluid in the hope that it would reduce the number of innocent victims.

  ‘For your sins you have now been anointed with sulphur mustard. Don’t contact anyone other than calling 999. You MUST tell them that you have been exposed to:

  SULPHUR MUSTARD.

  They can help you without endangering themselves if you do this. Do NOT shout for help. Do NOT go home. Do NOT go into a public place.

  Ring 999.

  Following these simple instructions might save your life’.

  Lawrence had been very careful in producing the cards, knowing how easy it would be for forensics to trace any piece of evidence carelessly left. He had sterilised it effectively, his training had seen to that and now it was held in a protective sheath. He had done everything he could to safeguard the innocent.

  “Let’s hope you can read, Miss Valda Holt, for the sake of others, let’s hope you can read.” He placed it next to the phial.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The rain battered Cyril’s bedroom window; he couldn’t sleep as he felt both wide awake and nervous at the same time. Even though his mouth had shown signs of improvement, his eye worried him and the numbness to the face made it very lopsided. He felt quite vulnerable for a grown man. He really couldn’t understand why he was trying to start a relationship in his present state. He knew that in time he would heal and that normal service would resume. He climbed out of bed and went to the kitchen.

  The kettle bubbled as he prepared the teapot and inhaled the vapour from his electronic cigarette. From smoking forty a day he now only used this, it was perfect and it gave him something to do with his hands. This was always the problem with giving up and he should know as he had done it many times. His colleagues were always happy when he resumed smoking, as the longer he managed to leave the cigarettes alone, the shorter was his patience. He often thought that these new electronic cigarettes were more like smoking a pipe; the way he held it in his mouth as he concentrated, the way he had to clean and prepare it but, he argued, it was better than the fags. It could also be smoked at work and in restaurants and the house didn’t stink of stale tobacco in the morning. It was like the old days but fresher. No more standing outside in the rain in the leper colony of nicotine addicts although he had often said that the fun was always where the smokers were.

  He sipped his tea and he thought about Janet. She was heading out to France in a few days. The Doctor was quite the dark horse, chatting all night and not once had he mentioned he would be leaving the next day. Cyril tried to imagine the house in France, a small cottage maybe, nothing too grand. Peace and solitude. The Doctor, he thought, had done well for himself, retired, a collection of valuable cars, a house abroad and a housekeeper, none of which came cheaply. Cyril suddenly realised that he might be in the wrong job. He inhaled one last time letting the vapour drift from his nostrils as he went upstairs. He needed to be alert the following day and he knew that he required sleep but knowing and achieving were two separate things.

  ***

  The morning was delightful. As he drew back the curtains, the sun reflected silver on the wet roof opposite. He almost skipped into the bathroom but his enthusiasm soon waned as he removed the patch and looked at his reflection.

  “Heal, for Christ’s sake!” he yelled at the reflection.

  He added drops to the eye and then proceeded to shave.

  “She said yes so I can’t be that
off-putting. Think positively and remember it’s your sense of humour that attracts her.” He laughed as he stood naked viewing the sight in the mirror. “Thank goodness for a sense of humour. Time, Cyril Bennett, is certainly taking its toll.”

  ***

  Lawrence knew exactly where Valda Holt would be. Every Sunday she jogged. She left her one bedroom flat and ran down Raglan Street and onto the Stray. It was the same route that he had witnessed on three occasions. To conclude, she always rested and stretched on a square of parkland at the junction of Station Parade and Raglan Street. The green, wooden shelter acted as a small gym, that was where he would wait, almost hidden away from the passing traffic, reading a paper and minding his own business; she would come to him, hot, sweaty and tired. He had checked to see if there were any CCTV cameras looking onto the park but could find none. All Lawrence hoped was that she would read and follow the simple instructions, if not, he could do no more.

  He dressed quickly, a new butcher’s glove in his pocket, mask and large moustache, the phial and the note wrapped safely in the bag too. He cleaned his glasses for the second time before donning a skin-coloured pair of latex gloves. He wasn’t going to leave evidence in the shelter. The canary bounced excitedly as he prepared, it seemed to spend most of the time in the dark. Lawrence glanced around the room one more time and tapped the Hammerton books. Nothing could be left to chance as he mentally took stock that he had everything he needed and then night suddenly returned all too swiftly to the canary, leaving just the protesting buzz from one fluorescent tube and the sound of the bolts being locked and checked twice. It was 10:13. He had precisely fourteen minutes to reach his rendezvous.

  ***

  Cyril had been a little flustered as to what to wear. This was his third change and finally he felt as though he were not too overdressed, smart yes, as always but not too formal. He checked that he had his wallet by tapping his pocket.

  “Testicles, spectacles, watch and wallet,” as his father had often said upon leaving the house and the habit had stayed with him.

  He turned the car out of the garage onto Robert Street and drove slowly towards Station Parade. He had to brake hard as a jogger, dressed in black lycra leggings and a fuchsia coloured top, leapt out from behind a parked car expecting the road to be clear. She stepped right in front of him. Cyril screeched to a halt, his hand hitting the horn and then cursed. She waved an apology and mouthed a ‘sorry’ from silent lips before continuing. He saw the ear-phones plugged in her ears blocking the sound of traffic. He shook his head but instinctively waved back noting her shapely rear as she pounded towards the Stray.

  “Stupid idiot! You’re going to get yourself killed doing that... Might take up running, could demonstrate the Green Cross Code,” he said as he checked his mirror before pulling away. He would soon be on the A1M and he had plenty of time. He thought of taking the scenic route but then decided against it. He didn’t want to be a second late.

  ***

  Lawrence walked around the green shelter surveying the scene. There was only one other person sitting on the road side. He sat to the garden side away from the road. He removed his paper from his bag and began to read. His heart fluttered a little as the frisson of anticipation erupted and a smile came to his lips.

  Valda crossed the road and ran down the diagonal path that crossed the garden, stopping just in front of the shelter. She had seen the man sitting in her ‘gym’ and was disappointed. It was usually unoccupied on Sunday but then she saw him stand and turn his back to her, fold his paper and put it into his bag. He walked away turning left at the corner of the shelter. She smiled. She began some press-ups, her hands on the bench. Lawrence pulled up his hood, donned the mask and put on the new gloves over the others. He retrieved both the phial and the note. He positioned the phial within the butcher’s glove and returned. Valda was now stretching, her head on her knees and her hands around her ankles.

  Initially she saw the feet and then felt something hit her head; Lawrence’s hand was at the perfect height, her down bent head almost collided with his gloved hand, he neither had to lift nor lower. She didn’t hear the whistle, if she had, she would have looked up and she would have seen Lawrence, but she heard nothing, only the sound of the ‘Stereophonics’ blasting in her ears. She would never quite comprehend how prophetic the lyric stating, ‘she would never be the same’ would prove to be! The quiet feet continued without stopping and as she stood and touched her head she saw the figure disappear around the side of the shelter. Immediately her hand found a damp card in her hair. It felt sticky and wet. At first she thought it was blood but when she saw the white card and read it, she let out a shallow shriek. Her left hand immediately went up to her hair and she then looked at her fingers. The yellowy substance looked like bird shit. She looked up for the culprit as she instinctively brought the offending substance to her nose, surprised by the odour of garlic. Her eyes quickly began to sting. She wiped her hand down her leggings and looked around, her vision were becoming increasingly blurred through the tears. There was nobody around other than a few cars stationary at the junction and an elderly couple walking across the road. She looked at her leggings and they were beginning to form into holes where the substance had been smeared. She quickly read the note again and as her heart rate increased, she became frightened. She grabbed her mobile phone from her sleeve holder and feeling confused and anxious, pulled out her ear pieces and dialled 999.

  Lawrence had removed everything and bagged it safely leaving nothing to chance. He stood across the road and waited. He was not disappointed. The distant sound of sirens broke the morning quiet. He smiled and walked to the workshop. He now had to check himself for contamination. In minutes, police and medics equipped to deal with the threat would surround Valda Holt and stabilise the chemical on site. The specialist unit dealing with a terrorist, chemical threat had been established for a number of years and the practice today would become reality. Within thirty minutes the area was totally closed down.

  ***

  Cyril drove into the cobbled square and parked by the obelisk. He looked across at the old church that held the Green Howards’ Museum. Checking his watch saw he that he had time to get some fresh air and take in some nicotine. The square was quiet but it wouldn’t be for long. Richmond was a popular tourist destination. He leaned against the car and enjoyed the view. If he were honest, for a man of his age and experience, he was more than a little nervous. He checked his watch again before starting the car.

  Cyril turned into the Doctor’s drive and he saw Janet standing on the edge of the path inspecting the garden. She turned and smiled.

  “She’s lovely,” Cyril said to himself.

  He stopped the car and got out offering his hand.

  “Good morning, Cyril. It’s a lovely day!” She smiled as she came over, took his hand and kissed his cheek.

  He felt himself blush a little and he cursed inside.

  “It most certainly is. The garden looks beautiful. Are you responsible?”

  Janet laughed.

  “I do a good deal but we have two people who work full time. The gardens are extensive if you include the woodland and the vegetable plot. Would you like to see?”

  Cyril nodded.

  “Good! We’ll start at the back.” She reached and took his hand.

  It took a full twenty minutes to see the full extent of the Doctor’s small estate and like all things he had seen belonging to him, no expense had been spared.

  “He also owns a lot of the land running down to the river and the fishing rights. He leases the land to local farmers. From here to the river, all the way down past the castle and then up way beyond the hill is his.” She waved her hand in the general direction. “A lot, believe me, a lot.”

  “Done very well for himself hasn’t he? Hungry?”

  Janet nodded. “Starving.”

  The meal was substantial, Sunday roast in a Yorkshire pub, but it had been the ease of their flowing conversation and the bouts
of laughter that had made the time fly by. Cyril realised he’d been missing a lot by being mainly alone and away from female company. He added drops to his eye and kept checking his watch, fearful that she might turn into a mouse.

  It was on the drive back to Richmond that he asked about Doctor Flint. Just a couple of general questions about his connections in France. He discovered that the house had been bought just after his return from Africa and that he had made a number of friends, mainly English, but some African and French in the area.

  “He enjoys throwing long, dinner evenings, black tie, tiara and champagne, lots and lots of champagne. Too pretentious really but new people are brought and new people usually go away very impressed.”

  “New people?”

  “There are a few new guests on each occasion, probably friends of friends. My job is to organise the food and look after the staff. I don’t get involved.”

  “Staff? So we’re not talking of a cottage in the country or a ram-shackled old chateau here, I surmise?”

  “Far from it and between you and me we’re talking of a small, castle-style building, set in grounds with pool and garages and palm trees and a view towards the Mediterranean to die for. You’d love it, I do and it’s such a transition from Richmond in the winter.”

  “Garages... plural? Another small collection of elegant cars, I imagine, Janet?”

  Janet turned and pushed out her lips.

  “Call me Jan. He has three there if I remember correctly. It’s his hobby, boys’ toys.”

  “And they are?”

  Janet’s brow tightened and her hand instinctively went to her lips as a child would when pretending to be in deep thought despite the answer never being known in the first place.

  “Let me see. There’s a white one, a blue one and a yellow, no maybe an orange one!”

  She then smiled at Cyril proudly as if she had answered the difficult question with the requisite accuracy. Cyril didn’t have a clue now as to whether he’d asked the question correctly or whether she was joking but he assumed that she might be naively ignorant of the finer points of her employer’s car collection.