by Malcolm Rose
Luke suspected that Oscar was a caring person. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be working in this chilling and chilly laboratory. But he’d had to put sentimentality aside to do his important and unsavoury job. As unemotional as Malc, he was treating human body parts like a butcher handled meat. Luke was also wondering if Oscar regarded a supply of organs for his research as more important than living donors. Maybe, to be so caring, he’d had to switch off his humanity altogether. That would be some paradox.
“Do you always have to use real bodies?” said Luke.
“No. Take a look at this.” Oscar led the way to a small room at normal temperature. On a table was a mushy model of human innards. “Do you want to put your hand in? It’s a synthetic model of the human abdomen, complete with pretend-blood flow. We can even generate nasty smells when we want to fake a perforated intestine. You see, when surgeons remove a spleen, they do it with hands and fingers. This is great for medical students to practise on. It mimics all the squidgy bits of the guts.” With considerable relish, he added, “It feels exactly like putting your hands into a real human body.”
“Mmm. I’ll give it a miss, if you don’t mind,” said Luke. But he was relieved to see that Oscar could at least be enthusiastic about something that hadn’t once been alive.
A technician dressed head-to-foot in a white overall emerged from the side room and began to wipe away threads attached to her clothing.
Seeing Luke’s curiosity, Oscar explained, “That’s the spider room. Nothing in it but spiders spinning webs.”
“What for?”
“Spider silk’s the strongest natural fibre, you know. You can sterilize it with heat and use it for surgical stitching or repairing tendons. We’re looking at genetically engineered spiders as well. We’ve added genes that make their silk really stiff. You can grow humans cells on it and implant it in people to repair bones. Anyone who’s scared of spiders is going to have to rethink.”
Luke brought him back to his human experiments. “Have you ever had to go scouting for brain tissue?”
“You asked me on Saturday,” Oscar replied. “A tactful memo normally does the job.”
“So, what happens when it doesn’t? What do you do if you need something that’s not available?”
Oscar shrugged. “What can we do? We wait. We’ve learned to be good at waiting.”
“You don’t try to accelerate things?”
For a moment, Oscar pretended that he didn’t understand. Then he said, “Of course not. I told you, we’re very respectful.”
“So, you didn’t go to the Brain Injury Unit on Saturday afternoon?”
Showing discomfort for the first time, Oscar looked down at his shuffling feet. Then he said, “Oh, yes. Sorry. I still put respect top of the list but, yes, I went to have a quiet word with a contact after work. It’s not a regular thing. I just needed a bit of advanced warning about the availability of a cancerous brain. You know. So I can plan the tests. Let’s be honest. I owe it to the donor to get the best possible results out of it and to do that I need a bit of forward planning.”
Luke nodded. He had proved that Oscar had lied to further his biomechanical research. What else might he do?
Leaving the upsetting institute, Luke said to Malc, “I need some fresh air. I don’t know how Hislop and his staff stand it.”
“People in harrowing jobs often cope by using dark humour.”
“Yeah,” Luke agreed. “Not that you’d understand it.”
“Correct, but I am aware that it is a feature of human psychology.”
“Mmm. Sometimes they just go crazy. Oscar might be funny and kind – and a killer. Or it might be one of his workmates. So, check if the Brain Injury Unit’s had any deaths since he called in.”
After a minute, the mobile replied, “No fatalities reported.”
“Good. I can try a different angle, then. You remember that motor-neurone-disease patient we were told about on Saturday afternoon? Sandy Chipperfield. She had a bunch of heather and she was sent home.”
“I have a recording of the conversation.”
“Okay. Find out where she lived, please. I’m going to pay a visit.”
“She is deceased.”
“Yeah. I mean, visit her partner, friends or neighbours. And check out anything else she took away from the hospital. Let’s face it. She’s still one of the hospital’s fatalities even if she died after she got home.”
Chapter Eighteen
In the electric cab, Malc informed Luke that he had whittled down the long list of people taking immunosuppressant drugs to four patients who’d had a bone-marrow transplant.
“That’s more like it,” Luke replied. “I can cope with four. How many are men?”
“Three.”
Luke’s father had said that he’d had the operation a few years ago and, at the time, the bone-marrow recipient would have been fifty years old at most. Luke asked, “How many of them are under sixty?”
“Two.”
“Even better. Why did they need bone marrow?”
“Both were leukaemia patients.”
The cab slowed outside Sandy Chipperfield’s house. “Okay,” said Luke. “Store their details. I want to follow them up after this.”
****
The apartment had clearly been neglected in the last few days, probably since Sandy had died. It hadn’t been cleaned or tidied. There was a lot of dirty crockery and cutlery on the dinner table. Obviously, Sandy’s grieving partner had more on his mind than household chores. Fidgeting like a hyperactive child, Marvin stood beside a specialized music centre and shuffled from foot to foot. “You feel this crushing weight when it happens,” he said. “Absolutely terrible. And ironic. She was a dancer, you know, but she could hardly move at all at the end.” He sat down but, unable to settle, he got up again and prowled back and forth. “She was never much good with words. That’s not how she expressed herself. Sandy communicated through her body and movement. The disease robbed her of her life. Not just because it killed her. It’s crueller than that. It took away her reason for living. She couldn’t dance.”
Luke offered the only words that he could find. “I’m sorry.”
“Her doctor said there was no reason for her to die when she did but...” He sighed heavily. “It was always going to happen soon. No getting away from that.”
“So, her doctor was surprised?”
“He thought she’d have more time – not quality time. The opposite. She’d just get worse and worse. He said I should be grateful she went quickly. Less suffering that way.”
“How long was it after she got home?”
“What’s this got to do with a forensic investigator?”
“I’m just checking out hospital statistics really. Making sure everything’s in order.”
“Well, she passed away – I don’t know – hours after she got back. It’s all a blur. Less than a day.”
“Did the hospital talk to you about donating any organs or her body...”
Marvin looked aghast. “Yes. As if I’d agree to any... interference.” Plainly appalled by the thought, he shook his head firmly.
“Did she bring anything back with her from hospital?”
Marvin looked puzzled. “The wheelchair, do you mean?”
“Anything else?”
“No. Except...”
“What?”
“A bunch of flowers.”
“What sort of flowers?” Luke asked.
“Heather. I don’t know where they came from. It wasn’t me.”
“Have you still got them?”
Marvin waved towards a bedroom door.
“Do you mind if I take a look?”
“Help yourself,” Marvin answered.
The bedroom had not been cleared. The wheelchair lay abandoned in one corner. A thick chequered blanket was draped over its arms. In the opposite corner, Sandy’s death had been marked by the traditional show of lilies. On top of a chest of drawers, the bunch of heather was lying on its s
ide, going brown and brittle. A pile of clothes sat untidily on a chair beside the bed.
“Scan, please, Malc. Especially the wheelchair and heather.”
Out of the bedroom window, there was a view of the skyline of York. At this distance, Luke couldn’t make out the glass pods at the top of the big wheel. The arch that was visible above the buildings looked like a simple metallic skeleton.
“The heather is composed entirely of dead Erica carnea. Within the parameters you specified, there is only one finding of interest. Some particles adhering to the blanket are biscuit crumbs.”
Luke spun round. “Don’t tell me! They’re made of oats and linseed.”
Malc did not reply.
“Well?”
“You instructed me not to respond.”
“No, I mean... Never mind. What are they made of?”
“The main ingredients are flour, oats, desiccated coconut and linseed.”
“Much the same as the ones in Julian Bent’s room,” said Luke.
“Confirmed. I am also attempting to identify one minor ingredient.”
“What sort of ingredient?”
“It is a seed.”
“All right. Carry on,” Luke said as he made for the living room. Watching Marvin carefully, he asked, “Did you give Sandy any biscuits?”
“Biscuits? No. Why?”
“If my mobile searched your kitchen, he wouldn’t find flour, oats, desiccated coconut and linseed, then?”
“Flour and oats, yes. Not the others. But why are you...?”
Luke was convinced that Sandy’s partner was genuinely baffled by his questions. “I think Sandy ate a biscuit while she had that blanket wrapped round her.”
Marvin was perturbed now. “What are you getting at?”
“Nothing. I just need to know if someone’s been handing round biscuits at the hospital.”
“Well, she didn’t get it here, so they must’ve been. And I’ll tell you this,” Marvin said, “Sandy would’ve needed help to eat it.”
****
As soon as Luke stepped out of Sandy Chipperfield’s quarters, Malc reported, “ I have a highly significant result that you would not have wanted me to discuss in the presence of the victim’s partner.”
Luke hesitated before he called for a cab to take him back to the hospital. “Victim?”
“It is highly likely that Julian Bent and Sandy Chipperfield were murdered.”
“What have you come up with?”
“I have identified the additional seed as a castor bean, Ricinus communis.”
Luke took a deep breath. Every forensic investigator knew about castor beans. They formed a part of every criminology course. The seeds of the castor-oil plant were infamous because they were the source of a poison that was lethal at levels below the detection limits of all forensic tests. One thousandth of a gram of ricin was enough to kill a human being. Luke recalled one of his instructors telling him that two beans would be fatal if the victim released the ricin by chewing them – and that pathology would never be able to detect the poison.
Standing beside the cab tracks, Luke nodded slowly. “Inform The Authorities, Malc. Looks like I’ve got a multiple murder case.”
“Transmitting.”
“Remind me. What are the symptoms of ricin poisoning?”
“A burning sensation in the mouth, throat and stomach, sickness, abdominal cramps, convulsions, internal bleeding, breathing difficulty, and death.”
“Mmm. Maybe not enough to be noticed in people who are already weak and sick. How long before curtains?”
Malc took a moment to analyse the question and then replied, “I cannot answer. Interpretation error.”
“Curtains means the end. Death. How long does ricin take to kill?”
“The time interval is variable. Loss of life can occur within a few hours or up to twelve days after ingestion. You should also know that my database includes four previous cases of castor beans used as a murder weapon by mixing with linseed in cakes or biscuits. It is very effective unless the food is heated prior to consumption, because high temperature destroys ricin. None of these past cases occurred recently or in this area. The latter three took place after a news bulletin featured details of the first case.”
“So, the information’s out there for anyone to copy.”
“Confirmed.”
“Does the castor-oil plant grow in this country?”
“Not naturally. It is common in tropical climates.”
“Greenhouse conditions might do it. Did you see any sign of it at Crawford Gallagher’s place?”
“No.”
At last, Luke swept his identity card through the trackside reader and announced his destination as York Hospital. Then he turned back to Malc and said, “Get me an urgent link to Oscar Hislop. He grabbed Charlie Illingworth’s body. Find out if he’s still got the stomach and intestines. I want their contents analysed as a priority job. I know you didn’t spot any bits of biscuit on the body but I still want to know the last thing Charlie ate.”
Chapter Nineteen
Luke placed his bag on the seat of the cab and then put his sore head in his hands for a moment. When he looked up, he said, “Here I am, calling for someone to poke around in a dead man’s guts. Most people of my age wouldn’t even know the contents of stomachs and intestines get analysed. But I do.”
“Having been trained, you cannot be untrained,” Malc replied with infallible logic but no understanding of Luke’s unease.
Luke had only a few minutes of rest before the cab delivered him to the hospital’s reception. Wasting no time, he dashed to the Poisoning Unit to check on Crawford Gallagher’s progress. The nurse on duty gave him good news. The patient was conscious, improving and ready for brief visits.
When Luke walked into his room, the old man’s eyes opened. “You,” he muttered.
Luke nodded and smiled. “Yeah, me. Here,” he said, as he took the jade pyramid out of the bag and set it on Crawford’s bedside cabinet. “You’ll have faith in this.” Hiding his own disbelief, he added, “It’ll help you recover.”
Crawford shook his head. “You’ve used it. It needs recharging.”
“And how do you do that?”
Crawford looked away, apparently unwilling to answer.
“Does it involve blood?” Luke asked.
“How do you know...?”
“Whose blood?”
Crawford sighed. “The blood of the righteous. I use my own,” he admitted.
Luke nodded towards the swelling on Crawford’s left forearm. “The snake’s made that easy enough.”
The healer lifted his other arm off the bed and struggled to pull back the sleeve. The scars of past cuts between wrist and elbow were evidence that he was telling the truth.
Changing the subject, Luke said, “You grow pretty good heather. What about castor-oil plants?”
The healer shook his head again.
“Have you heard of them?”
“They’re an ornamental plant in India.”
Luke tried a bluff. “Someone told me you make your own biscuits. Oats, coconut, linseed and that sort of thing.”
Crawford’s face creased. “I don’t know why anyone would tell you that. No. It’s not true.”
Luke shrugged. “They must have been thinking of somebody else, then. Has anyone offered you homemade biscuits in here?”
“No.”
“If someone does, take them, but don’t eat them. Okay? Ask a nurse to contact me straightaway. It’s important.”
The artist nodded weakly. “They say you saved my life.”
“The doctors did that. I just got them to you in time.”
Looking guilty and afraid, he said, “Are you going to ask me about the church?”
“Nothing to do with me. It’s not my case.” Luke was about to leave but he added, “By the way, get the nurses to tell me if you see the Heather Man as well.”
Clearly, Crawford tired easily. He was having trouble keep
ing his eyes open. “What was your name?”
“Luke Harding.”
Barely awake, the old man muttered, “I’ll pray for you.”
****
In the hospital canteen, Luke nodded his appreciation towards the attendant who brought his lunch to the table. Then he waved his fork at Malc. “Julian, Sandy and Charlie have got something in common, you know. They all had a terminal disease. Interesting, isn’t it? What’s the motive for killing someone who’s going to die at any moment?”
“Unknown. However, the Institute of Biomechanical Research could have been impatient to work on certain types of tissue. Murder would make material available sooner.”
Luke smiled. “Material. That’s what people become, is it? Material for research.”
“That is the institute’s point of view.”
“But they didn’t get their hands on Julian Bent or Sandy Chipperfield.”
“Their bodies may have been earmarked for harvesting but, after death, their partners did not give permission to the research institute.”
Luke nodded. “Well, it’s not the transplant department trying to speed up a source of fresh organs. That theory’s not holding water. No one would want organs riddled with ricin.”
“Correct.”
“But there is a reason for killing the near-dead. You’d know if you were human. Or humane. What if someone was doing them a favour and putting an end to their misery?”
“That is another rational motive.”
Luke had been trained so thoroughly in criminology that he could almost recite the rule books. “No one has the right to take life – apart from The Authorities when they’re carrying out the death sentence according to the law – but it wouldn’t be classed as murder. Not quite.”
“Correct,” Malc replied. “Euthanasia is illegal because premature death is not a valid option for treating the terminally ill. Strictly, the crime would be categorized as assisting or enforcing suicide, depending on whether the victim or the perpetrator initiated the loss of life.”
“Mmm. Giving Sandy Chipperfield a lethal biscuit and allowing her to decide whether and when to eat it would be assisting suicide, for sure. But Marvin said she would’ve needed help to eat it. If someone fed it to her, that’s a heavy form of assisting, more like enforcing.”