by Malcolm Rose
“The identical DNA was not an accident of nature. Therefore, the chief suspect cannot be your uncle.”
“No. It was a joke.”
Malc replied, “A prefrontal-cortex region of the human brain is necessary to understand a joke. I do not possess such an organ.”
“Pity. Anyway, the Institute of Biomechanical Research is second on my list, with the motive of harvesting human bodies. Have you detected anything that links Oscar Hislop – or any of the research staff – to castor beans?”
“No.”
“I’d better go and look tomorrow, then. And you’d better send a message to the Brain Injury Unit because Hislop’s been there. Get the ward supervisor to check if any of her patients have been given biscuits. If they have, tell her to confiscate them – and keep them somewhere safe.”
“Transmitting.” Malc hesitated before adding, “You may be interested to know that Oscar Hislop is currently working a late shift at the Institute of Biomechanical Research.”
Luke groaned. “You want me to rush around with a head like a lead weight, absolutely knackered.”
“According to my dictionary, a knacker is someone who slaughters worn-out horses for use as animal food or fertiliser. It can also mean a person who acquires old buildings or ships to reuse their constituent materials.”
“Knackered means too exhausted to make a new entry in your dictionary.”
“It requires no effort on your behalf. I can log the new definition.”
“Go on, then.” Luke reached for his coat. “I may be knackered but it’s too good an opportunity to miss. Come on. I’m going back to the hospital.”
****
Beyond the reception and twenty-four-hour snack bar, the large building had become quiet and faintly sinister after normal visiting time. Now and again, a member of staff strolled along a passageway, a door slid open or shut, a cleaner mopped a floor with dilute disinfectant, someone was wheeled from one place to another on a trolley, and late-night drinks were delivered to the wards. Otherwise, it was as calm as a crematorium. Most of the patients were sleeping peacefully or fitfully next to monitors that occasionally emitted high-pitched beeps.
Surprised to see a visitor so late in the evening, Oscar Hislop looked away from the machine that was slowly increasing the tension applied to one of CI’s deformed bones, bending it like an archer’s bow. “Again?” he said.
Luke nodded. “It’s not very important but you might be able to help me.”
Oscar studied Luke’s face for a moment, perhaps not believing him. “You’re young for an FI. How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
His lips formed a twisted smile. “A bit older than me.”
“Sorry?”
“Most adults can claim to be fifteen years old on average.”
“What?”
“Fifteen’s the average age of the cells inside us all.” Eager to show off, Oscar explained, “You see, a sixty-year-old’s skin is only two weeks old because the body sheds the worn-out stuff and remakes a nice new layer every couple of weeks or so. That’s what a lot of dust is: dead skin. A sixty-year-old’s brain is sixty years old, though, because the brain doesn’t regenerate nerve cells. At the other extreme, the lining of the gut takes a real hammering and gets renewed every five days. Even people’s bones are replaced every ten years. So, our bodies are always in a state of breakdown and regeneration. On average, they’re a lot younger than we are. Good, eh? You’ll get through quite a few bodies before you die. Unless you die soon.”
Was that supposed to be good-humoured banter or a threat? Luke wasn’t sure. He ignored the comment. “So, next time someone asks how old I am, I should say, ‘Which bit are you talking about?’”
Oscar grinned at him. “Exactly.”
Under the protective plastic plate, Charlie’s bone snapped and the computer took a reading of the force required to break it.
Luke asked, “Do you ever do any experiments with ricin?”
“Ricin? That’s chemistry, not mechanics. No, nothing to do with the institute.” He nodded towards Charlie Illingworth’s broken bone. “We’re all about physical forces on the body and how organs behave under stress.”
“Obviously, you know what ricin is, though.”
“It’s famous,” Oscar replied. “Infamous really. So, yes, I’ve heard of it. But I’ve never worked with it. I wouldn’t want to, either, from what I’ve heard. If you’re interested, go and see the Poisoning Unit. Or Peter Sachs in the Department of Alternative Medicine. That’s his kettle of fish – biologically active chemicals in plants.”
Luke tried not to react to the reference to his father. “Okay. But do you know which plant it comes from?”
“No. Doesn’t your machine know these things?” He paused and then said, “Of course it does. You’re testing me.”
“You get it from castor beans, seeds of the castor-oil plant.”
Oscar shrugged. “News to me.”
“So, when I search these labs, your computer, and all your staff’s living quarters, including yours, I won’t find any?”
“I can’t vouch for everyone but I wouldn’t have thought so. Certainly nothing to do with work, that’s for sure.”
“What about biscuits?”
“What about them?”
“Do you have any?”
“Yeah. Lots,” Oscar replied. “Love them. We keep a big tub topped up with them. The more chocolate, the better.”
“I’ll take a look, please, and you’d better download a list of all your colleagues into my mobile.”
“What is this?” Oscar said. “What do you think we’ve done? Is it...? Oh, I see. You think we’re poisoning patients to order.”
“It crossed my mind,” Luke admitted.
“Not true,” Oscar replied.
“How do I know that?”
“Because I told you. Because we’re decent and kind. We’re not a rogue outfit.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next morning, Malc rattled off his latest batch of information. “The ward supervisor of the Brain Injury Unit has reported that none of the patients has been given biscuits or heather. There have not been any deaths overnight. Agents have searched the Institute of Biomechanical Research and its staff’s living quarters. There was no evidence of castor-oil plants or their seeds.”
“All right. That means one of two things. Either Oscar Hislop and his workmates haven’t been harvesting human specimens or they have and they’re very careful.” Luke hesitated, thinking about it. “They’re research scientists. I bet they know every forensic method we’ve got. That means they’d know how to cover their tracks.”
“In the absence of evidence, that is speculation.”
“Yeah.” Luke grabbed his coat and headed for the front door. “I want to check out a different lead. Well, I don’t want to, but I haven’t got much choice. Come on. Back to Malton.”
By the time that he reached his parents’ home through pouring rain, they had both left for work. His forensic investigator’s identity card granted him access to their cottage but he felt ashamed to intrude without their knowledge or permission. He would have preferred to act like a son, not like an investigator.
Wiping his feet thoroughly on the mat so that he did not leave a watery trail on the flooring, he stepped inside and closed the door. Trying to ignore the feeling that he was somehow a traitor, he said, “Right. Where do we start? In the kitchen, I suppose.”
Luke pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Starting on the right-hand side, he went through every cupboard while Malc recorded and logged each find. It didn’t take long to discover jars of flour, oats and desiccated coconut. He also found a packet of linseed in the tiled pantry, along with his father’s juice with a kick. Luke unscrewed the top of the bottle and sniffed at it. Curious, he held it out towards Malc. “What’s this?”
Malc analysed the fumes in a matter of seconds. “The drink contains a moderately high content of ethanol, known mostly as in
toxicating alcohol. It is used to depress the central nervous system. It relaxes inhibitions, eases tensions, and impairs judgement.”
Luke tightened the cap and put the bottle back. “So, it’d help to forget a painful past.”
“Temporarily, yes.”
Luke nodded and continued his search. When he’d finished his circuit of the kitchen, he sighed. “Well, I’ve got all the ingredients for those biscuits, except the most important one. Castor beans.”
“There’s a greenhouse at the rear of the property,” Malc reminded him.
“Ah, yes. I remember walking past it.” Luke was not expecting his mother or father to return for hours so he made for the back door. With a heavy heart, he pulled his waterproof hood over his head and made a dash for the greenhouse.
Luke recognized the potted bushes either side of the door. He’d tended the same plants for a while at Birmingham School. And he’d stolen their heavy fruit as often as he thought that he could get away with it. The fresh juicy pomegranates were worth the risk. Luke shivered as a cold trickle of water ran down his neck. Pelting the panes of glass, the rain sounded worse than it really was. Sluicing the windows, it blurred the view.
The large greenhouse was providing a harbour for sensitive plants over winter. On the sturdy benches down both sides, there were numerous potted plants. Some, like a big tray of cacti, were grown merely for show. Others would provide crops later in the year. Apart from the small pomegranate trees, Luke did not recognize individual species but Malc hovered at his shoulder, photographing and identifying each plant by comparison with his wildlife database.
Half way down the aisle, the mobile came to an abrupt halt beside two particular pots.
Anticipating Malc’s devastating announcement, Luke slumped against the rough wooden bench with his head in his hands.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Malc’s discovery of two castor-oil plants in the greenhouse was followed by a long, uncomfortable silence. Luke didn’t need the time to work out what the finding meant. It was obvious. He needed the time to come to terms with the damning evidence against his father.
It was Malc who cut through the quiet. “It is unusual that a suspect of Dr Sachs’s intelligence would leave a murder weapon clearly visible in such an incriminating location.”
Luke looked up at his mobile. At once, he saw a chance that his father was innocent, despite the blatant evidence. “Yes. Of course! You’re right. It’s a plant!”
“That is beyond doubt,” Malc replied. “It is Ricinus communis.”
“No,” Luke snapped. This time, he was unable to see the funny side of Malc’s limited vocabulary. “I mean it’s been put here deliberately to make Father look guilty.”
“Unproven.”
Fired up, Luke looked around. He needed to find evidence that someone else had brought the castor-oil plants into the greenhouse. Beneath his feet were flagstones. There were no clear shoeprints on them. The only marks were the dribbles from his own shoes and they would soon dry to nothing. The only surfaces capable of holding a fingerprint were the glass panes of the greenhouse itself and the plastic tubs. “Scan these two pots for prints, Malc.”
“There is none.”
“That’s weird,” Luke replied. “And suspicious.”
“Not necessarily. The person handling them may have worn gardening gloves.”
Luke pulled a face. “I’d put gloves on to touch a spiky cactus or something filthy, but not these. If they were Father’s, they’d have his prints. Surely.”
“You are required to conduct all investigations without bias,” Malc warned him.
“Yeah, all right. I know. A lack of prints isn’t enough to prove someone else put them here.”
Luke walked up and down the gangway between the two benches as rain cascaded down the glass.
“The soil, Malc! I want an analysis of the soil in all these pots. If they’re all the same, apart from the castor-oil plants, they probably came from somewhere else.”
“That is a logical approach,” said Malc. “I will begin with an examination of microscopic quartz grains to identify the source of each earth sample. If the pots contain compost, chemical analysis will be required to identify different types.”
“Sounds like a long job.”
“I cannot provide an estimate until the amount of testing required becomes clear.”
“All right. Get started anyway. Look,” said Luke, pointing underneath the bench. “There’s a big bag of compost. I’ll drag it out so you can compare it with what’s in the plant pots.”
“Task logged. My access to the soil would be improved if you took a small sample out of each container and laid them in order on the concrete floor.”
“Anything to speed it up.”
Still wearing medical gloves, Luke began by moving a pot containing a palm with long red and rough leaves. He set it down on a paving stone and then straightened up, looking for a small trowel. But he hesitated when he saw the part of the bench where the palm had stood. The outline of the bottom of the pot was marked neatly by scattered and spilt soil. Inside the circle, the wooden surface was clean.
Straightaway, Luke moved one of the cacti and found exactly the same effect. “Take a visual record of this, Malc,” he said, pointing to the ring of dirt that defined the shape of the pot. “See?”
“The plants were arranged on a clean surface some time ago,” Malc deduced. “Wind has since blown soil particles around each base, creating an outline.”
“So,” Luke said with a desperate smile, “if these castor-oil plants have been here a long time, they’ll be the same.”
“That is valid reasoning.”
“Right then.” His heartbeat accelerated as he took hold of the first castor-oil plant and lifted it up in its container.
Underneath, the shape of the pot was not marked by soil and the bench was not clean. The plant had been put down on a thin layer of dirt.
“This specimen is not as established as the others,” Malc observed.
“You mean, it’s just been dumped here. Recently. It hasn’t sat here over winter.”
“Confirmed.”
Luke put it down again and tried the second castor-oil plant. Like the first, it was a recent addition to the greenhouse. “I bet someone put it here last night, trying to frame my father. So,” Luke said, “who knew Peter Sachs was in the firing line?” Luke did not have to think very hard to answer his own question. “His DNA twin. Bob Beckham.”
“You should note that Oscar Hislop also referred to Peter Sachs last night. His comment could be interpreted as an accusation.”
“He could’ve backed it up with this plant.”
“Speculation. Your father or mother could have simply moved these two pots recently.”
“Scrap the soil analysis for now. We’re going inside. I want a telescreen link to Peter Sachs.”
In the living room, the close-up of Peter’s face expressed bewilderment. “You’re at home? My home? In Malton?”
“Sorry, but I had to check out your greenhouse. Malc’s going to split your screen so you can see a plant. I want you to tell me if you recognize it as one of yours.”
Luke watched as his father’s eyes focused to one side for a few seconds. Then he lifted a tumbler to his lips and took a drink.
“Yeah, well. It’s not mine. I think... I’m not sure...” He examined the image again. “Yes. I know. It’s your mother’s. She got two of them last autumn. Maybe September. I didn’t know where she put them. Anyway, she keeps moving them around.”
Luke was stunned.
“Luke? What have I said?”
It was Malc who filled the silence. “You have stated that Elisa Harding...”
“Shut up, Malc!” Luke said. Talking to his father, Luke asked, “Are you sure about that?”
“I think so. Your mother tells me I forget things but...” He shrugged. “Why?”
“Does she ever turn up at the hospital?”
“She’s in
good shape.”
“That’s not what I mean. Does she visit?”
“Well, I’ve never bumped into her and she hasn’t said anything about it. If she did, she would’ve dropped in on me, I would’ve thought. What’s on your mind? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Luke replied, stretching the truth. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll let you know as soon as I sort it out.”
Malc terminated the link before Peter could ask anything else.
Luke took a deep breath and muttered, “Mother!”
Coldly, Malc said, “Elisa Harding called herself a silly emotional astronomer. You should consider the possibility that the death of her daughter disturbed the balance of her mind.”
That was exactly what Luke was doing. He was wondering if his mother didn’t want anyone else to suffer in the same way as Kerryanne. He was wondering if she was providing a way out for people with intolerable lives. But a motive and a weapon didn’t make her guilty. To be a serious suspect, she had to have the opportunity as well. Could she really have taken biscuits laced with castor beans to the hospital on at least twenty occasions? Could she really slip away from her job so often? Or would she have done it out of working hours? Could she have fed poisoned biscuits to Charlie Illingworth and Sandy Chipperfield? If Julian Bent didn’t need help to eat, would she have left him with a biscuit to chew and swallow when he was ready?
“Malc. Priority jobs. Send Elisa Harding’s picture to the ward supervisors of the three known victims and to Sandy’s and Julian’s partners. Get them to tell you if they recognize her. Log on to the North York Moors Observatory’s computer and look for files on staff attendance. Can you do that? Has Mother... has Elisa Harding been absent a lot in the last six months?”
“Processing tasks.”
Luke sat back and closed his eyes. He dreaded the answers.
Chapter Twenty-Four