by Malcolm Rose
Luke went to the back door where he’d hung his coat. Underneath it were two little puddles. He wiped them up with a kitchen towel before slipping the sodden coat back on and leaving. He was speeding towards his hotel in York, still locked in his depressing thoughts, when Malc started to deliver results. “The pathologist at York Hospital has confirmed that some of the seed-case fragments in Charlie Illingworth’s stomach were from castor beans. The staff database at the observatory in Fylingdales has not recorded frequent absences by Elisa Harding. Sandy Chipperfield’s partner, Marvin, does not recognize the image of your latest suspect. I await three other responses.”
“Is my mother at work now?”
“Confirmed.”
“Good.” Luke knew that he would have to interview her but he hated the idea.
“Do you want me to establish a connection?”
“Not yet,” Luke replied. “I want those other answers first – and a telescreen.”
He did not have long to prepare himself. Within half an hour, Malc announced that none of the three supervisors recognized Elisa as a visitor to their wards. Finally, Romilly Dando reported in. She could not be certain, but she did not recall anyone matching Elisa’s description near her partner’s room at the hospital.
At least that was a relief. But it was a long way from proving Elisa Harding’s innocence. Back in his hotel room, Luke sighed and sat down opposite the telescreen. “All right, Malc. Time for that link to the observatory.”
His mother’s smiling face decorated the wall. “Good to hear from you again,” she said. “Are you all right? No more cuts and bruises?”
“I’m fine. I was just wondering what you’re doing right now.”
“Me? I’m doing what I always do, Luke. One of three things. I get ready to look up at the stars, I look up at the stars, and I study data from the last time I... you guessed it. Right now, I’m working on information collected in the last few weeks. I’m watching a star die on my monitor. It’s... awesome and sad. Really moving.”
Luke nodded. “I can imagine.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I just want you to take a look at a plant in your greenhouse. Malc will put a picture of it on your screen. Okay?”
Elisa paused for a few seconds. “Yes. It’s in front of me now.” A moment later, she looked back at Luke. “I don’t know why you’re interested but I’ve never seen it before.”
“Really? But Father said...”
“Oh, your father! Don’t believe what he says. Sozzled half the time. Wouldn’t know a pomegranate tree if it fell on him.”
“But he said it was yours.”
“He’s wrong.”
“Did you order a couple of new plants last autumn?”
“Yes. Maybe, if someone’d drunk a lot, they’d mistake them for what you’ve got there but... no. They’re not the ones. They’re not mine. I don’t know where they’ve come from.”
Murderers almost always denied owning the weapon. That was nothing new. But this denial was different. It came from his own mother and Luke wanted to believe it. “Have you come across stone-man syndrome?”
His mother frowned. “Sounds strange. I don’t think so.”
But Luke saw a flicker of recognition in her face. “Sure?”
“Well, now you mention it, maybe I have. Maybe Peter’s said something about it, but... I don’t know. Luke, this is feeling more and more like an interrogation. What’s going on?”
“Bear with me. I’m checking something out for the hospital.”
“And your father’s involved, is he? He’s upset, you know. Been upset for eleven years. And the drinking doesn’t help.”
“What do you think about euthanasia?”
With a mischievous grin, she said, “Your father’s not that far gone. I’m not ready to have him put down yet.”
“No, I mean, what’s your stance on it? In general.”
“Peter’s all for it, but not me. Never. Not after our experience with Kerryanne. I had to give her every possible moment, every chance of life.”
“I don’t suppose Father would have... no.”
Elisa did not look as shocked as she should have been. “I know what you’re saying, Luke. I’ve thought about it myself. But, no. He wouldn’t have done anything to shorten her life. It was cancer that caught up with your sister. Her time had come, like this star on my computer. Simple and heartbreaking – and natural – as that. Believe me. I would’ve known if there’d been any funny business.”
After his mother’s face disappeared from the telescreen, Luke stood up and touched his stomach. “Something in here tells me Bob Beckham’s still at the top of the list.”
“In that region of the human body, there are no organs capable of providing insight.”
“It’s called instinct.”
“It is not admissible in law,” the mobile replied.
“Well, maybe I feel like that because of the gaps in Beckham’s hospital record. The missing bits are too convenient to be a simple mistake. It smells like deliberate tinkering to blame a transplant donor.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Don’t take the smell too literally.”
“The transplant procedure is carried out anonymously. The recipient would not have known that the bone marrow came from Dr Sachs.”
“He’s a computer engineer, Malc! He hacked in and got the information. Then he deleted it to cover his tracks.”
“I am receiving a high-priority message from the Spinal Injury Section in York.”
“What is it?”
“A patient is claiming that he was fed a biscuit to help end his life. He has since changed his mind.”
Once more, Luke grabbed his coat. “Okay. The quickest way is to run.”
****
Luke hurtled down the passageway, swerving round patients, staff and visitors, before crashing into the Spinal Injury Section. “Forensic Investigator Harding,” he yelled at the first nurse that he saw.
“Room 4,” she said, pointing him in the right direction.
He dashed into the cubicle which was the focus of frantic activity by two doctors from the poisoning unit and two nurses. There were tubes everywhere and several bowls of foul-smelling fluids. “Ricin,” Luke announced. “That’s what was in the biscuit. Castor beans.”
One of the doctors looked up from the patient. “Are you sure?”
“Certain.”
“Another gastric flush, nurse.”
“I’ve already...”
“Again!” He yelled at the second nurse, “Get me magnesium trisilicate. Lots of it. What the flush doesn’t bring up, I’ll absorb with that. Quickly.”
“Can I talk to him?” Luke asked.
“Yeah,” the second doctor replied with sarcasm. “We’ve only got two tubes down his throat.”
The patient was still conscious, though. He was lying on his side, staring helplessly at the wall like an uncomprehending child or a sick animal. Luke said to his mobile, “Project an image onto this wall, Malc. Elisa Harding.”
Luke looked down at the patient’s face. He seemed to be looking at Elisa’s photograph but there was no sign of recognition in his eyes.
Next, Luke tried a picture of Bob Beckham. Then Peter Sachs and Oscar Hislop.
None of the images drew a response from the sick man. Maybe he was gazing at something beyond the wall. Maybe he didn’t understand the point. Maybe he was beyond caring.
Luke sighed and withdrew, comforted at least by the thought that, if the doctors saved the man’s life, he’d be an eyewitness. If he lived, Luke might have an easy way of concluding the case.
On his way out of the treatment room, Luke noticed a sprig of heather pinned to the door.
****
The air was damp with mist but it had stopped raining. Identity card in hand, Luke hesitated outside York Chocolate Factory and took a deep breath. “All right,” he muttered. “I’m ready.”
“Your respiration rate is well above normal
,” Malc noted. “Also, I detect some sweating.”
“Well, I’m sorry I’m not as cool as you when I’m trying to trap the chief suspect. Come on.”
The manager who escorted Luke to the common room where Bob Beckham was taking a coffee break said over her shoulder, “He’s not in trouble, is he?”
“I don’t know,” Luke answered. “I just want to talk to him.”
“He’s got a knack with computers. We’d be lost without him.” She paused by a door that slid open automatically. “Here we go. Do you know him by sight or...?”
Luke nodded. “Yes. I can see him. Thanks. I’ll take it from here.”
Surprised by Luke’s unannounced arrival, Bob stood up, holding his mug in both hands.
Almost everyone in the room was wearing blue overalls with the company’s logo on the front. Walking past a group of workers who were laughing loudly, Luke went straight up to Beckham. Shaking his head, Luke said, “Big mistake. The spinal-injury patient. He ate the biscuit but changed his mind. The doctors saved him. He’s an eyewitness now.”
Luke expected to provoke an instant reaction but didn’t anticipate what it would be.
Bob’s hand jerked and Luke felt the sting of hot coffee on his face. The assault was so sudden and violent that not even Malc was quick enough prevent it. The laughter behind them ceased abruptly as Luke cried out and clamped his hands to his face, still bearing its stitched gash.
Bob shouldered his way through the crowd of workers and sprinted to the door.
Malc could not get a clear shot at the suspect because of the other staff taking a break. Besides, he had not been ordered to fire.
Luke used his fingers to wipe the coffee away from his smarting eyes and from the cut that was stinging unpleasantly. “I’m all right,” he said, blinking over and over again. “Come on! Pursuit and defence mode. Don’t harm him. He hasn’t admitted anything yet.”
The group of startled workers parted to let Luke through. The door sprang back, revealing a large circular tank. Several paddles attached to a central spindle stirred thick brown sludge and pushed it out into a channel like a waterway. Bob Beckham had clambered over the chute and was squeezing through a gap in the mechanism.
Luke would have been confident of catching the fleeing suspect if he’d been feeling fit. He would have been very confident of Malc catching Beckham if he hadn’t just disappeared through an opening that narrower than a mobile aid to law and crime.
Luke dashed across the arena, vaulted athletically over the river of chocolate and peered through the gap. He couldn’t see where Bob had gone and he couldn’t hear his footsteps because of the churning machines. Next to Luke, an overpowering smell came from the liquid chocolate as it oozed over the edge. Underneath, the sickly cascade filled one mould after another. Somewhere down there, Bob Beckham was getting away.
Luke squeezed through the same gap and clambered onto a stainless steel ladder. “You find another way down to the next level,” he said to Malc.
“I must protect...”
“If you can’t catch up with me, go outside and patrol the building. Don’t let him get away, but use minimum force.”
Ignoring his mobile’s protests, Luke descended the steps.
He found himself on a metal platform, positioned above another vat. This time the liquid chocolate below him was milky white. He peered over the rail, trying to spot the computer engineer. There were quite a few people in the company’s overalls attending the production line, but none of them looked like Beckham.
Luke realized too late that someone was behind him. Before he could react, he felt the force of two hands on his back. The push tipped him over the handrail and he fell.
Chapter Twenty-Five
He wheeled once in the air and plunged head-first into the vast barrel of chocolate. He tried to cry out when his left leg hit one of the rotating paddles but, submerged in the sweet tacky fluid, the shriek died on his lips.
It was nothing like water. It was nothing like swimming. The warm gummy emulsion coated him heavily, dragging him down like quicksand. In water, he could have released his breath in a burst of bubbles but here the goo pressed densely against his mouth like a gag. His ears were clogged with the stuff so he could hear absolutely nothing. His eyes clamped shut. Neither his hands nor feet could touch the bottom of the tank as the paddle shoved him slowly round.
Frantically, he thrust out his arms, trying to spin himself around before he lost consciousness. It was like trying to manoeuvre in glue but he managed to make a quarter turn. The metal plate that had been pushing against his back now pressed into his side. Really, he wanted to face the paddle. He flapped his arms again, attempting to twist further round. He became so disorientated in that silent sightless swirl that he was no longer certain which way was up and which was down.
Seconds seemed like minutes. His mouth opened and filled with suffocating chocolate. His chest seemed to be about to burst. He made one final effort to spin round, fighting the flow of the sticky fluid. He managed to hook his right elbow around the revolving blade. That gave him the leverage he needed. With the paddle now forced against his chest, he could place both hands on it. Taking a moment to work out his orientation, he propelled himself upward to where the chocolate seemed thinner.
His head broke the surface just as his lungs exploded. White globules spurted from his mouth and nose. Then he gasped down a mixture of air and chocolate. Clinging doggedly to the paddle that had now stopped turning, he coughed again and again, scattering more of the horrible stuff.
A couple of people in blue overalls and hairnets held out their hands, grabbed him under the arms and tugged him out of the cloying sludge, like a powerless seabird daubed with oily pollution.
Luke collapsed against the side of the vat, his fingers rubbing around his eyes, still wheezing and coughing repeatedly.
The horrified workers who had turned off the mechanism gathered around him with the same question. “Are you all right?”
Luke dragged his fingers through his long heavy hair and found it blended with chocolate. “I’m... okay. Did you...?” He gulped down more air before he could finish his question. “Did you see Bob Beckham?”
Someone answered, “He went towards Packaging.” She pointed to a door that led down to another level towards the back of the building.
“Thanks,” Luke said. He tried to run towards the door but it was more like a stagger. His feet were encased in chocolate, his left leg was badly bruised and his coat dripped white slush.
One of the staff called after him, “You’ve had a shock. You shouldn’t...”
But the advice went unheard. Luke was oblivious to the commotion behind him.
Spluttering, he lurched down a ramp onto the next floor and followed a long conveyor belt carrying wrapped chocolate bars towards another machine. On the other side of it, large boxes of packaged product emerged. One after another, they trundled along on rollers until they reached a stacking stage.
Here, they were within range of forklift trucks and a crane. One crate had just been loaded onto auto-barge 0147 and the vessel was now steering out into the centre of the canal, ready to make its journey to a supplier. And that’s when Luke caught sight of the leg of a blue overall.
He dashed towards the only supervisor that he could see. Pulling his identity card out of a chocolatey pocket, he waved it in front of the bemused woman. “Do you have people on the auto-barges?”
“Er... no. They’re automatic.” She was too dazed by Luke’s appearance to say any more. She just stared at him.
“That’s it, then,” Luke muttered to himself. Again, a suspect was getting away from him on a boat. “Where’s Malc?”
In the cold air, the chocolate was solidifying on his clothing and in his hair. Some of it began to crack and fall away from him in small jagged pieces while he scampered back around the factory. As he stumbled on, he barely noticed the glasshouse where all sorts of exotic ornamental plants – like Ricinus communis �
�� were growing.
He found his mobile at the front of the factory, about to begin a circuit of the building.
“You’re too late,” Luke told him, screwing a little finger into his ear to dig out hardened white chocolate like wax. At once, his hearing improved. “Beckham’s on a barge, heading north. I want you to plot me a route by fast cab to a bridge over the canal and I want to get there before the boat.”
Malc was not surprised by Luke’s bizarre appearance because he was never surprised. “Consulting maps and calculating.”
Luke walked up and down impatiently for two minutes, picking chocolate from his hair, face and fingernails.
“Task complete. A cab will be here within a minute.”
“Where am I going?”
“To Tollerton. The freeway crosses the canal there. Using the average speed of an electric cab and an auto-barge, you will reach the bridge seven minutes and thirty-three seconds before the boat.”
“Good. Time to make myself feel less like a walking soft-centre.”
****
Luke was gripping the handrail of the bridge with both arms as he stood perilously on the narrow ledge above the canal. Remaining on the safe side of the barrier, Malc said, “I caution against your intended action. Your health is deteriorating and the drop onto a passing auto-barge is hazardous. It requires considerable skill and judgement. Even then, you may be injured in the fall.”
“You work it out for me, then, Malc. Do some fancy calculations and tell me when to jump to give me the best chance of a safe landing – on the boat, not in the water. If I go in the canal, the fish’ll make a meal of me. I’m real tasty right now.”
A small piece of white chocolate fell from his nostril and an auto-barge came into view, chugging towards him.
“Check it, Malc. Is it boat 0147?”
“Confirmed. It is carrying...”
Luke interrupted. “It’s carrying Bob Beckham. That’s all that matters. Can’t you take control of it remotely? Then I wouldn’t have to jump.”
“Its computer is not responding to me. I deduce that someone has overridden the mechanism and taken control.”