by Malcolm Rose
“You should regard Marvin as a suspect.”
“Maybe, but it was her doctor who thought a quick death was a good thing. He wasn’t Julian Bent’s doctor as well, was he?”
“No.”
“Well, he’s not going to be a suspect for Julian Bent and about thirty other hospital cases. And neither’s Marvin.”
Luke finished a mouthful of baguette while he thought about his next move. The possibility that the hospital’s odd statistics were caused by mercy killings was making him more nervous about his father. Luke had convinced himself that Peter was too caring to be capable of murder. But perhaps he cared enough to assist or enforce a suicide after life had become unbearable for a patient.
“What about those two men with leukaemia who’ve had bone-marrow transplants?”
Malc replied, “What do you wish to know about them?”
“I want their details – to check if either got bone marrow from my father.”
“I have already eliminated one from your inquiry. His medical records name the bone-marrow donor and it is not Peter Sachs. The other patient is called Bob Beckham. He is forty-six years old and he works at York Chocolate Factory. Many details are missing from his file. It does not identify the source of his bone marrow.”
“I need to speak to him, so find out where he is. While I’m here, though,” Luke said, wiping his hands on a serviette, “I’d better see my father. And I suppose you’d better scan his room for biscuit crumbs.”
****
Peter Sachs beamed when he saw Luke coming into his office. Straightaway, he turned to Tara Fortune and said, “We’ll sort this out another time, Tara. Okay?” Once his assistant had left without a word, he shook Luke’s hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Not too bad, thanks. My main headache’s this case.”
Peter shook his head in disapproval. “Your other headache comes first. Shall I tell you what’s bothering me?”
“What?”
“I don’t dare to tell Elisa, but tumours in the brain sometimes make people produce too much human growth hormone. They grow very tall.”
“Huh. I’m hardly taller than you. I bet it’s all in the genes. Rebellious and tall,” he said, dismissing his father’s concerns. “I came to ask you about someone called Bob Beckham. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“No. Should it?”
“He could be your bone-marrow man,” said Luke.
“Ah. Sorry. I wouldn’t know.”
“I’m working on it. Right now, though, I want to ask you what you think about euthanasia.”
“I’m in favour,” his father answered bluntly.
“Really?”
“In some circumstances, yes. The trouble with modern medicine is, at one extreme, it can’t help with some complaints. At the other, it’s so effective, it prolongs life when all quality’s gone. Sometimes, it extends existence well beyond what nature intended – and what patients want. So, I think there are a few cases – probably very few – where it’s justified to call a halt.”
While Malc roved steadily around the office, Luke asked, “Would you do it yourself, if someone begged you to?”
Peter laughed. “No. If someone’s capable of begging, they haven’t reached the point where their life’s not worth living.”
“All right. What if they begged you to do it once they got to that point?”
Peter took a deep breath. “Well, then I’d have to give it serious thought, wouldn’t I?”
“It’d be illegal. A mercy killing’s still killing.”
“Yes, but this is more about my duty to a patient and a fellow human being. For me, that comes before the law.”
Luke wasn’t surprised by Peter’s response but he was disappointed. His father had just confessed to having a motive and Malc would have recorded it.
Chapter Twenty
The biscuit crumbs that Malc had detected in Dr Sachs’s room were recognizable as commercial products. They did not contain the same combination of oats and seeds as the crumbs in Julian Bent’s room and on Sandy Chipperfield’s blanket.
Keen to know whether the stone man’s death could be linked to the other two, Luke asked, “What’s happening with Charlie Illingworth’s body? Update, please, Malc.”
“The hospital pathologist has removed the relevant innards and taken them to the laboratory where an examination is about to begin.”
Luke grimaced. “Charming.”
“Given that humans regard references to their entrails as distasteful, your statement must be ironic.”
Luke did not reply because he felt edgy as he approached York Chocolate Factory. “When I see Bob Beckham – and anyone else to do with the case – I want you to scan for those biscuit ingredients and any sign of castor-oil plants or their seeds.”
Malc replied, “Task logged.”
Around the factory, the air was heavy with a smell so sweet that it was almost sickly. A crane lifted a crate of chocolate products from the rear of the large building and placed it gently on an auto-barge moored in the canal basin. Inside, Luke found the gaunt figure of Bob Beckham poking around inside a partly dismantled computer.
Luke held out his identity card. “How are you doing?”
Getting over the shock of seeing a forensic investigator, Bob put down a small pair of pliers and answered, “I’ve got a few years left in me yet.”
Bob’s frail voice did not inspire confidence, but Luke smiled anyway. “Glad to hear it.”
“What do you want?”
Luke was less than half of Bob’s age, but much taller. “I’m here on behalf of the hospital. It’s strange that some bits of your medical notes are missing.”
“Oh?”
“I was trying to find out about the source of your bone marrow, but it’s not there.”
Bob was wearing a regulation blue overall, like almost every worker in the chocolate factory. He hesitated for a moment and then shrugged. “Well, I don’t know. It was all anonymous.”
“I’ll take a sample of your blood to find out.”
Bob looked alarmed. “Why? The bone marrow was okay, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. There’s no medical problem...”
“That’s okay, then.”
“It’s about record-keeping.” Luke showed Bob where to place his thumb on Malc’s casing so that the mobile could prick his skin and extract a tiny sample of blood. “Do you know why some of your details aren’t there?”
“No idea. Nothing to do with me.”
“I suppose you go into the hospital a lot. For check-ups. It’s leukaemia, isn’t it?”
Bob realized that he wasn’t going to be able to get on with his work for a while so he sat down at the computer terminal and faced Luke. “Not all my medical file has disappeared, then. Yeah, it was leukaemia.”
“Not nice.”
Bob grunted. “It chewed me up and spat me out. That’s how it made me feel. Crushed. If you think I look a bit scrawny now, you should’ve seen me then. I didn’t feel human at all. I was a mockery of a man. I did every drug, every antibiotic, I had my blood replaced I don’t know how many times, and then there was radiotherapy. I leaked watery blood at every opportunity and got every infection going. My joints ached all the time and I bruised incredibly easily. I was amazingly weak. Near death, they said.” He shook his head at the memory. “Leukaemia bruises the spirit as well, you know. One minute I was desperate to carry on living and the next I was desperate to die. I guess I wanted to end the torment one way or another. I wanted a life worth something or the comfort of death.”
“I suppose that means you believe in euthanasia.”
“Well...” He paused before making up his mind and continuing. “It’s tricky, isn’t it? I might’ve opted for it at one stage but...” He spread his arms. “Here I am. A survivor, thanks to a successful bone-marrow transplant. You don’t switch someone’s life support off if there’s even a remote chance they’re going to pull round.”
“True.”
But Luke was thinking of patients who would never pull round because they had a terminal condition. He shrugged and changed the subject. “Do you like chocolate?”
“You’ve got to be kidding! Everyone thinks this is a dream job, but the ones who come to work here because they love the stuff soon get sick of the sight of it.”
Luke laughed. “I guess, if you get biscuits – or make your own – they wouldn’t be chocolate ones.”
“Definitely not.”
“Do you make your own, then?” Luke asked.
“No.” Apparently more eager to talk about his work, Bob said, “Do you know how much chocolate this country gets through every year? Three hundred million kilograms.”
At once, Malc corrected him. “Three hundred and twenty-five million kilograms, corresponding to thirteen kilograms per person per year on average.”
Smiling, Luke said, “Malc could probably tell us quite a lot about chocolate.”
“It is prepared from ground roasted cocoa beans and usually sweetened. It is a rich source of energy and also contains small amounts of the stimulants, theobromine and caffeine. The beans come from the tropical cacao tree, Theobroma cacao...”
Luke interrupted. “Okay. Thanks, Malc.”
Throughout the interview, Luke was aware that Bob Beckham fitted Nyree’s description of the Heather Man. His hair was a curious mixture of almost black and an old man’s grey. Perhaps his cancer had taken its toll, ageing him prematurely. The stubble on his cheeks and chin was also dark and silvery in patches.
“The other day,” Luke said, “I was talking to Sandy Chipperfield and Julian Bent about you.”
Bob looked bewildered. “Who?”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. You must have a lot of sympathy with people in hospital.”
“Of course.”
“Are you the one they call the Heather Man?”
Again, Bob took a moment to reply. “I didn’t know that’s what they call me but, yes, I give heather to people who look like they need some luck.”
“Julian Bent didn’t want your flowers but you dropped a bit when you went in to see him.”
“Did I?” Bob replied. “I don’t take names in, I’m afraid.”
“You gave a bunch to Sandy Chipperfield. It was a nice idea, but...”
“She didn’t make it?”
Luke shook his head.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Did you give her anything else?” said Luke.
Puzzled, Bob frowned. “No. I just do my bit with lucky heather.”
“Okay. Thanks,” Luke replied. “You’ve been very helpful.” At the door, he turned back and said, “The other day, a friend of mine gave me some chocolate made with castor beans. Would that be any good, do you reckon?”
Bob shrugged. “Never heard of it. At least it’d make a change.”
Luke smiled. “Yeah. I guess so. Does this factory import castor beans as well as cocoa?”
“I don’t know. As I said, I’ve never heard of it.”
Walking away from the factory, Luke asked Malc, “Now you’ve seen Bob Beckham – the Heather Man – he wasn’t one of the Visionaries, was he?”
“No.”
“Log on to the chocolate company’s computer, Malc. Is there any record of them importing castor beans or castor-oil plants?”
Malc worked on the remote access for six minutes. “There is no such record.”
“Like there’s no record of Beckham’s bone-marrow transplant.”
“You seem to be implying something without stating it clearly.”
“Come on! Bob Beckham works on computers. He could’ve deleted a few things from his medical files and got rid of any record of him adding castor beans to one of the factory’s cocoa consignments.”
“Speculation.”
“I’ll speculate, you concentrate on his blood sample. And that’s another thing. When I told him I was taking a thumb prick, his face fell.”
“Incorrect. It is impossible unless he has also had a face transplant and rejected the foreign tissue.”
Luke opened his mouth but, for a few seconds, words failed him.
Malc announced, “I have a request for sound-only communication from the chief pathologist.”
“Good.” Apparently talking to the air, Luke said, “Forensic Investigator Luke Harding here.”
“You ordered an analysis of Charlie Illingworth’s stomach contents.”
“Yes.”
“Well, most of his nutrition was delivered by tube. The stomach didn’t contain very much at all. Most of the little that he did eat had already been digested. But I did find some traces adhering to his mucosal folds.”
“What was it?”
The pathologist answered, “In this game, it’s mainly a matter of visual inspection. They’re oats and chewed seed cases. The sort of thing you get in flapjacks.”
Luke smiled. “Exactly what I wanted to know. Can you do a full analysis on the bits of seed cases? I think I can guess, but that’s not good enough. I’ve got to be sure what sort of seeds they were.”
“I’ll do it as soon as I can and report back.”
“Thanks,” Luke said. After Malc broke the connection, he added, “This case is steaming all of a sudden. I reckon I’ve got another murder by ricin. What I need now is a link between a suspect and a supply of castor beans. And the motive.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The sun had gone down. Luke was staring out of his hotel window at the glittering lights of York, thinking of his sister. He was too young at the time to remember the dreadful splodge on the right-hand side of her brain scan. He was too young to remember Kerryanne throwing back painkillers that helped her a little and throwing up anti-nausea pills that didn’t help at all. The doctors’ increasingly desperate treatments gave her a few extra months of life – sort-of life anyway – before that final night under the stars with her parents and big brother.
To Luke’s sore eyes, the city lights were fuzzy. And they appeared to sway slightly. When Malc began to speak and Luke turned his head, dizziness and daggers seemed to attack his brain. But at least Malc had good news.
“Jade Vernon is requesting a link.”
“Put her on the telescreen.”
“Hiya!” she said before hesitating and adding, “You look pale.”
“Pyramids don’t work right away,” Luke replied with a pained grin.
“Maybe it’ll take a day or two.”
“Mmm. If a pain goes away on its own after you’ve tried some crazy remedy, it gets the credit even though it hasn’t done anything.”
“As long as you get better, it doesn’t matter. Is Malc looking after you?”
“Well? Are you?” Luke asked his mobile.
“I continue to monitor your health. For example, I am bouncing an invisible laser beam off your upper body to calculate your respiration rate from chest vibrations.”
Jade said to Luke, “Bombarded by a laser, eh? No wonder you’re feeling off.”
Malc answered, “I am utilizing a beam that has no ill effects on humans.”
“I’m doing my bit as well,” said Jade. “Trying to make you feel better. I’m working on a new song, just for you. Something with words. Not many. Just a simple message. It’ll be about looking at the stars. It’s going to be full of space. Sad but soothing. Listen.”
She picked up an acoustic guitar and strummed the first few chords. They echoed with a touching emptiness.
“Perfect,” said Luke.
“Early days,” she replied. “The first verse goes something like: They make the sweetest sound, just for a moment, then they’re gone. After that... I don’t know. But I’m on the job.”
“Thanks. Sounds terrific.”
Bringing Luke back down to earth, Malc announced, “I have completed the analysis of the blood sample taken from the suspect at York Chocolate Factory.”
Jade laughed. “Don’t let me keep you from a good blood sample.”
�
�Sorry, Jade, but it’s important. Not that your song isn’t...”
“It’s all right, forensic investigator. Back to work for both of us. Take care.”
Once the image on the large screen had faded, Malc said, “Blood from Bob Beckham and Peter Sachs is identical.”
Luke fisted the air. “Yes! A new song and a good result.”
“It confirms that Peter Sachs was the source of Bob Beckham’s bone marrow. Bob Beckham has admitted that he is the Heather Man so it is likely that his hospital visits account for the DNA traces left near several patients. The finding does not prove that he has committed a crime.”
“Agreed. Giving bunches of flowers isn’t against the law, is it?”
“No.”
“But did he give them anything more than heather?”
“Unknown.”
“I bet you’re going to tell me it doesn’t prove my father’s innocent either.”
“There is now no convincing evidence that Dr Sachs saw the victims, but his innocence or guilt has yet to be established.”
“But the motive’s got nothing to do with alternative medicine.”
“Correct. He has a different reason to kill. Dr Sachs has the medical knowledge to assist or enforce suicide to end suffering. He stated that he is in favour of euthanasia under some circumstances. Also, when he was talking to you about his daughter, he said, ‘She died with dignity.’ I conclude that the suspect believes that people have a right to die with dignity. In fact, The Authorities have never recognized any such right in law.”
Luke nodded, trying not to think about whether his sister died naturally or at the hands of a kind-hearted father. “Yeah. I know. But Beckham’s the prime suspect now. It makes sense if he’s a mercy killer because we know the Heather Man doesn’t go into the Children’s Ward much. That’s because old people are much more likely to have fatal diseases. I know Beckham said euthanasia worried him, but he would say that if he’s guilty.” Luke thought about it and then laughed to himself. “Bob’s got the same DNA as my father, making him a sort of twin brother. So, when Father said, ‘Bob’s your uncle,’ to me, he was very nearly right.”