Purple Death

by Brian L. Porter

“Just find out what you can before Carrick arrives,” he called to her disappearing back.

  After Clay had left his office Sean Connor leaned back in his chair and tried to assess what little knowledge they'd gleaned so far. Whoever had killed the four victims had moved swiftly and professionally, that much was certain. Connor knew that poison was usually a very personal way of killing, and was usually associated with women. All four victims died in agony, and had given no clues as to what or who had introduced the poison into their systems. The more he thought about it, the more Connor kept returning to the word `personal' There had to be something intensely personal about the either the killer's relationship to the victims, or in the victims' relationships to each other and somehow that must indirectly link them to the motive of the killer. It was there, he knew it was. Something just out of reach, something he was missing in the whole case scenario. If he could just put his finger on it Connor felt he could crack the case wide open, but, for now, that niggling clue, the link he sought remained elusive, at arms length, waiting, like time itself, real yet not real, without form or substance, for something to happen.

  Before he knew it the hands of the clock had moved around to almost ten a.m. and he was disturbed from his thoughts by a knock on his door. As Clay showed Detective Inspector Charles Carrick and Detective Sergeant Lewis Cole into his office, he hoped that the presence of the West Midlands detectives might just herald the arrival of the cavalry!

  Tea and Biscuits

  “We should do something, tell someone what we know,” said Michael Stride from his usual position on the sofa.

  “But what do we know?” asked his sister Angela as she sat in the armchair opposite her brother. “What took place was years ago and can't possibly have any bearing on what's happening now Mikey. You're just overreacting.”

  “I don't care”, her brother continued. “There might be a connection. You never know. If we at least tell the police they might find something to connect the two cases.”

  “Oh please Mikey, don't be so stupid. How can something that happened thirty years ago possibly be connected to these random killings? I'm sure Mary would agree with me. We've had enough tragedy in our family haven't we? Why go dredging up the past when it should stay dead and buried?”

  Michael Stride leaned back against his supporting cushions and sighed heavily. His disabilities made him dependent on his sisters and he knew that Angela was probably right. If both she and Mary saw no need to go to the police then he had little choice but to accept their decision. He knew they'd never desert him of course, but arguing with them would only antagonise them and Michael had always held a dread deep down inside of what life would be like for him if his sisters weren't there to take care of him. He knew only too well that without their constant care he would probably end up in a soulless and impersonal home for the disabled, or worse still be permanently hospitalized, neither of which scenarios were in any way attractive to him.

  “I just thought we might be able to offer some help, that's all,” he said quietly, knowing already that the argument was lost.

  “Listen Mikey, I'll talk to Mary when she comes home OK? We'll see what she thinks and then decide what to do, alright?”

  Michael nodded his acquiescence.

  “After all, “Angela went on, “thirty years is almost a lifetime ago Mikey. There can't be any reason why the police would be interested in what happened to us. It was another time, another world, and this is today Mikey. Time's moved on and so have we. I'm sure none of us want to have to live through those old memories again, now do we?”

  If Angela Stride could have put herself inside her brother's head she would have realised that those `old' memories were still very fresh in her brother's mind. Not a single day went by without the horrors of the past replaying themselves, often in terrible slow motion, deep within Michael's sightless and often pain-wracked world. Neither one of his sisters could even begin to imagine what it was like to live the way he did, with the knowledge that his sight was robbed from him not by birth, accident or illness, but by those very events which Angela now seemed to want to make sure were buried for ever. For Michael Stride the cause of his blindness, the shock that took away his view of the world could never be buried, not even for a day. He knew though that now wasn't the time to try to argue the point or to try to explain his inner feelings for the umpteenth time to his sister. After all, both Angela and Mary had their health and strength; they hadn't been affected by it the way he had. He knew also that though they loved him and cared for his needs each and every day, the time might come when they would see him as an encumbrance, a weight around their necks, and that he had to do everything he could to keep them from being angry with him, or thinking him `difficult'.

  So, Michael said nothing to his sister and would say nothing to anyone else, but then, apart from his sisters he came into contact with so few outsiders nowadays, apart from occasional visits to the hospital. After all, even his everyday medical needs were served by his sister Mary, even though he was sure that wasn't quite ethical. But then again, no-one knew him or his medical history better than his eldest sister and she'd always done what was best for him, hadn't she? She was at her surgery now and he knew that when she came home Angela and she would confer, and they'd agree with each other and his concerns would be noted and then dismissed. After all, what did he know? He was just the crippled brother!

  He nodded once more in Angela's direction, he knew when to shut up, and his sister appeared satisfied with his acquiescence as she then asked:

  “Cup of tea then Mikey, and some of your biscuits?”

  “Mm, yes please Sis,” he replied. Further discussion of the subject was thus terminated and Angela Stride walked out of the room and into the kitchen where the sound of the boiling kettle soon reached Michael's ears. He heard the sound of biscuits being placed on a plate, his hearing having been far more acute since the day when the blindness had struck him all those years ago and within minutes, his sister returned to the sitting room and placed the plate of biscuits within Michael's easy reach on the side table. She gently took his hand and guided his fingers to the handle of the mug.

  “Be careful won't you Mikey? It's hot.”

  As he sat back with the tea in his hand Michael Stride concluded that he wouldn't mention the subject of the murders again unless his sisters talked of it when Mary returned home. Angela soon turned their conversation around to the subject of his next hospital appointment, still a full month away, but for now, certainly as far as his sister was concerned life in the Stride household had to all intents and purposes `returned to normal'.

  Death by Chocolate?

  The handshake that accompanied the first meeting between Sean Connor and Charles Carrick was one more suited to that of two old friends meeting after a long separation. It was firm and warm, and with the physical connection between them made, it was as if the two detective inspectors had also established a mutual psychological bond from that briefest of contacts.

  Sergeants Cole and Clay were also included in the joint introductions and without too much in the way of informal preamble, the meeting began.

  “Bad business, the judge,” said Carrick, “yet another one to add to the list eh?”

  “I'll say,” Connor replied. “We haven't a single concrete lead yet. Anything from your end?”

  “Well, all I can tell you is what we found out yesterday afternoon. I despatched Sergeant Cole here to Liverpool to interview David Arnold's widow and, well, look, it'd be better coming straight from you Lewis,” said Carrick, nodding to his sergeant.

  “Right Sir,” said Cole, clearing his throat before beginning. “The lady lives just outside Liverpool in a place called Prescot. She was distraught, as we might expect when I got there. It seems her husband drove the Penzance express regularly. It was one of his favourite runs apparently. He wasn't just a locomotive driver; he was a railway fanatic, in love with trains since he was a boy. Anyway, the day before he'd died, he'd left ho
me in the morning, driven the Liverpool to Manchester local, then taken the Manchester to Truro down to the South Coast. That would have taken him to the end of his shift, so he'd then caught a train himself from Truro to Penzance where he'd stayed the night in a guest house he always used when he did this particular run. It's called `The Crooked House' and I've got the local boys down there checking it out. He'd have gone straight from there on the morning of his death to the station at Penzance where he'd have signed on for work and then taken the express out. The wife spoke to him the night before he died. He was in his room at the guesthouse apparently and all was well according to her account. Now Sir,” Cole crooked his head to one side a little as he leaned forward towards Connor, as though about to reveal something important, which in fact, he was. “This is where we might just have something.”

  Cole paused for effect.

  “Get on with it man, for God's sake,” said Carrick firmly but jovially.

  “Yes Sir, sorry Sir,” said Cole.

  “Well, as I was saying, when David Arnold got to the station he spoke to the staff supervisor who was on duty in the office. He said that he was surprised to find someone outside the station so early in the morning giving away free samples of luxury chocolate. He thought that the woman would have been better off waiting until later when there'd be more folk around on the station concourse. He didn't say whether he'd taken or eaten any of the chocolates, but, and this is why I think it might be significant Sir, when he'd left the office the supervisor sent his assistant, a young clerk called Deborah Vale to go and see this woman. It was normal practice after all for any company wishing to use the station for marketing purposes to obtain permission from the station master. The supervisor, a Mr Beattie had been given no such paperwork from the station master's office. The woman was obviously not authorised to be there. Anyway when Miss Vale got there, the woman was gone. She searched around the station for five minutes but there was no sign of anyone giving away free chocolates. Deborah Vale, being an enterprising girl even checked the streets all around the station. Perhaps she fancied some freebies for herself, but anyway there was no woman. Conceivably the woman gave the driver something sir, and then legged it quickly away from the scene of the crime, so to speak.”

  “Bloody hell, Sergeant,” said Connor. “And you got all of this from the widow?”

  “Yes Sir, seems the supervisor was an old friend of David Arnold's, known him for years. They used to exchange Christmas cards and so on, and anyway, he phoned Mrs Arnold to offer his condolences and he told her all of this. Before you ask, we've got the Penzance police talking to Mr Beattie even as we sit here. There may be more he can tell us, though I doubt it.”

  “Well done Sergeant,” said Connor, who then turned and looked at Charles Carrick.

  “I'd say, Charles that you and Sergeant Cole here have found out more in one afternoon than we've managed to glean between us down here from day one. A woman, I knew it! My own pathologist even suggested that poison was traditionally a woman's weapon.”

  “We don't know for certain that this `chocolate woman' was the killer though do we?” asked Carrick, erring on the side of caution.

  “No,” said Connor, “but I'll bet a year of my pension that she's got something to do with it, even if she isn't the actual killer. It just seems strange, a woman handing out free chocolates at the station so early in the morning and then just disappearing before the morning rush hour crowds start arriving.”

  “And,” said Lucy Clay, joining in the conversation, “the mere fact that Arnold spoke of the woman to the station supervisor leads me to think that the driver did take one or maybe more of her free samples, or why bother mentioning it?”

  “My thoughts exactly Sergeant,” said Carrick.

  “Shame there's no description,” said Connor.

  “True,” Carrick agreed, “but at least it's a place to start.”

  “It most certainly is,” Connor concurred with his colleague from the West Midlands. “Now, if only we knew where to start looking for this woman.”

  “Well,” said Carrick. “Sergeant Cole here has asked the Penzance police to help us out by following up their interview with the Station Supervisor and his clerk with a tour of some of the local guesthouses and bed and breakfast hotels. Working on the theory that the killer must have been from out of town, if the case is linked to those here in Richmond, we can probably assume that this woman, if she is the killer, or at the very least an accomplice, would have stayed overnight somewhere, and if she didn't have friends or relatives in town then a hotel would have been her only option. Single women staying on their own in a hotel room for just one night can't be too thick on the ground, so if we have to we'll check out everyone who was registered at any of the hotels in town on the night before David Arnold died.”

  “There could still be quite a few,” Connor cautioned his colleague.

  “I know, but we'll check them out just the same.”

  “I just hope we get somewhere with this case before the bastard strikes again,” said Lucy Clay.

  “You really think he, or she will strike again then Sergeant?” Carrick asked of Connor's assistant.

  “I hope not of course Sir,” Clay replied, “but I just have this awful gut feeling that whoever is doing this isn't finished yet, that's all”

  “I hope you're wrong Sergeant,” said Charles Carrick, “I really hope you're wrong.”

  “Excuse me Sir,” said Lucy Clay to Charles Carrick, a thoughtful expression on her face.

  “Yes Sergeant?”

  “We seem to be assuming that this woman, whoever she was, wasn't local to Penzance, is that right?”

  “I think that's a safe assumption Sergeant, he replied. “Bearing in mind the killings here in Richmond, I think she would have been a visitor to Penzance, there for the sole reason of administering the poison to David Arnold. I doubt she'd be a local to the town, though I admit I could be wrong. Only time will tell.”

  “So,” Lucy went on, “even if she did check into a hotel or B & B in Penzance, the chances are that she used a false name and address. She wouldn't want to take a chance on being traced if the police did latch on to her, as we seem to have done.”

  “I take your point Sergeant,” said Carrick, “and there's also the possibility that this woman, whoever she is, had nothing to do with the killing of David Arnold, though I find that a remote prospect.”

  As the detectives continued their conference in the office of Sean Connor, the sun streamed through the window and Connor himself couldn't help but feel that although they hadn't moved forward to any great degree, there was a small glimmer of sunlight creeping into the investigation. As with all such cases success or failure in apprehending the perpetrator often hinged upon the smallest insignificant clues or occurrences. Connor thought that perhaps this sighting by the dead man of a potentially bogus sales representative giving away chocolates so early in the morning could yet prove to be the key to unlocking the case. There was a long way to go, he knew that, but he felt that now they had something, he and the others would soon find more links that would eventually tie the case together.

  A ringing sound began to emanate from the jacket pocket of Charles Carrick. He removed the phone from its home in his jacket, flicked the clamshell open, peered at the screen and then excused himself, rose from his chair and walked over to the window, where he continued his conversation in a low voice. Connor and the others lowered their own voices as Carrick alternated between talking and listening, mostly the latter, until, a couple of minutes later he closed the phone and returned to his seat, from where he addressed the others, who sat waiting in anticipation of an announcement from the detective inspector. When he spoke, they weren't disappointed.

  “That was Doctor Gary Hudson, the chief pathologist back home in Birmingham,” he said, giving Hudson's full title for the benefit of Connor and Clay. Based on what we found out about the chocolate woman I asked him to check Arnold's stomach contents again and gues
s what?”

  “Chocolate?” asked Connor.

  “Chocolate!” said Carrick, triumphantly. “Microscopic traces to be sure, but chocolate nonetheless. Arnold had vomited in the cab, and any traces contained in that would have been contaminated by the oil, dust and grease on the floor, from the soles of his boots, but the stomach definitely showed the smallest traces. At first Hudson thought it must have been ingested the night or the day before the victim died due to the trace amount but now he realises it could have been eaten on the morning of the victim's death, and the rest of it would have been expelled when Arnold vomited.

  “We've got our murder weapon, at least in one case” said Connor.

  “Death by chocolate,” Lucy Clay volunteered, the use of the name of the popular chocolate dessert not being lost on the men.

  “Very apt Lucy,” said Connor.

  “And very true by the sounds of it,” said Carrick.

  “There's still one big question we need to answer of course,” said Lewis Cole, who'd been quietly thinking as the others spoke.

  “And what's that Sergeant,” asked Connor.

  “Well Sir, we might have an idea how the engine driver was killed, and we think we know that this `chocolate woman' was involved, but, bearing in mind the fact that three of the four victims lived here in Richmond and that David Arnold was possibly poisoned before he left Penzance even though he lived in Liverpool, then we still have the problem of identifying just where the killer lives. Is it here in Richmond, in Liverpool perhaps, or Penzance as we said but dismissed as improbable? Of course, there's the possibility that the killer lives somewhere else altogether and visited Richmond in the same way that she visited Penzance.”

  “Good God, Cole, you could be right!”

  The exclamation came from Sean Connor.

  “Lucy,” he turned to Clay. “Get some uniforms out on the streets. I want the local hotels and B & B's checked for lone women staying for one or two nights immediately preceding the killings here. There's a chance that the killer delivered her death doses here in the same way as in Penzance, if `chocolate woman' was indeed the killer.”