Purple Death

by Brian L. Porter

  “Sean, have you thought of the possibility that the killer might be selecting the victims at random?”

  “I've thought of it, yes, but it seems incredulous that someone would go to all this trouble to murder a number of strangers who he or she has just picked out from the crowd. If that were the case, why kill all except one of the victims here in the Richmond area and then one on the other side of the country as in the case of David Arnold?”

  Suddenly a thought struck Connor like a bolt from the blue and he jerked up into a sitting position.

  “Sean, what it is?” Catherine was startled by his sudden movement.

  “Sorry. Listen. What if we've been approaching the whole case not only from the wrong angle, but from the wrong place?

  “I'm sorry, you've lost me.”

  “Look, so far we've assumed that the killer is based in this area and that that accounted for the fact that the majority of the victims also lived in or around Richmond, right?”

  Catherine nodded. Connor went on.

  “Now, how about we turn the case on its head? What if the real or main target of the killer was actually David Arnold?”

  “The train driver?”

  “Yes. For some reason, the killer goes to Penzance, slips Arnold the lethal chocolate or chocolates then hightails it back to Richmond and carries out a series of random killings to throw us off the scent of his real motive, and therefore his real target?”

  “Under normal circumstances you might have a point Sean, but you have to remember that the killer couldn't be in two places at once. We know for a fact that someone gave David Arnold the aconite on the morning of his death and whoever that person was, they couldn't possibly have got back to Richmond in time to poison Sam Gabriel and Mrs Remick that same morning.”

  “True,” said Connor, “Unless we return to my earlier supposition that there are two of them. Two killers working together Catherine. It has to be. Or at least one mastermind and an accomplice, carrying out the orders of the brains behind the killings. You see, we've been working on the assumption that there was a connection between all of the victims that would lead to someone or something that happened in or around Richmond in the past. What I'm suggesting is that the killings might still be connected, but that the connection lies not in Richmond, but in Liverpool!”

  “Liverpool?”

  “Yes, Liverpool. David Arnold was poisoned in Penzance, died as his train pulled into Birmingham, but his home was in Liverpool. From Charles Carrick's inquiries it appears that Arnold had lived there all his life, so it's safe to assume that if he was the central target then it would have to be connected to something that happened there and not in Richmond. It would also explain why Charles has found nothing of any use in his investigation, which for obvious reasons has been quite limited. He's in Birmingham, the victim came from Liverpool and the Merseyside Police have been helpful enough to Charles, but both he and they have been working on the assumption that Arnold was in some way connected with Richmond. What if he wasn't, that's what I'm saying? What if the connection should be reversed, and that there's something that connects all of our Richmond victims to him, or to the city of Liverpool?”

  “Sean; that hypothesis is so far-fetched and stretches the believable imagination so far that it's positively brilliant! As crazy as it all sounds, you might actually have something there. That could be why nothing fits and why you keep running up those blind alleys you talk about. The reason could quite possibly be that the alleys you should be looking up are over a hundred miles away.”

  “Catherine, do me a favour. When you next look into the history of aconite and its applications please try cross-referencing it with the city of Liverpool and see what the computer throws up.”

  “I'll do it in the morning, and ask Gary to do what he can from Birmingham too.”

  “Thanks.” Connor relaxed, a visible relaxation that saw him suddenly sag back against his pillows, his head coming to rest on the bed's pine headboard. Catherine reached out to him and he allowed his head to loll to one side until it came to rest on her shoulder.

  “Well, it looks like we're both going to have a very busy day tomorrow Detective Inspector,” she grinned at him. “But until then, tell me, do you have any other plans for the rest of this evening?”

  “But of course,” he replied, pulling her close to him with one hand and at the same time reaching across to the side table and turning out the light.

  Alex Gregson – A Breath of Fresh Air

  Sean Connor slept badly. His usual talent for switching off from work and getting a good night's sleep had deserted him; somehow this was one case that he couldn't simply put to bed at night. As he tossed and turned beside the sleeping figure of Catherine Nickels he realised how preposterous his hypotheses of the previous evening would sound to his boss, as indeed it was beginning to sound to him. Surely no-one would go to the extent of murdering someone from Liverpool and then murder another five people all the way down in Surrey just to create a false trail for the police. It was too stupid for words and though he would put it to Charles Carrick in Birmingham the following day, he began to see it as a `clutching at straws' theory. No, the answer had to be somewhere in Richmond; he just had to look harder and deeper into the victims and their respective histories.

  On arriving at his office in the morning he reflected that summer was coming to an end. The warm sunshine of the past few days had been replaced by a heavy, cooler atmosphere that he'd been only too aware of as he'd driven to work. The overcast skies and gathering clouds of autumn lent themselves well to Connor's mood, which was becoming as deep as the atmospheric depression that had settled over southern England.

  He called Charles Carrick, who agreed that Connor's Liverpool theory was a long shot but who nevertheless generously agreed to despatch Sergeant Cole to the city to liaise with his counterpart there in exploring David Arnold's past to a deeper extent than they had done so previously. It wasn't that far away, Carrick agreed, and Cole would enjoy the drive and the chance of another `day out' as he put it.

  As he sat ruminating over the seemingly endless notes that had begun to build up with each passing day, he found himself staring at the e-photo that the police artist had produced with the help of the receptionist from the Regency Hotel.

  “Who are you?” he asked himself, speaking aloud.

  “Talking to yourself, Sir?” came a question from the doorway. He hadn't heard Lucy Clay as she'd quietly opened his door.

  “Sergeant, come in,” he replied, and it was then that he noticed a figure lurking in the background behind Clay.

  “Who's that you've got with you?”

  The pocket-sized figure of a very small uniformed woman police constable appeared from behind Lucy Clay. Connor had to admit to himself that he didn't recognise the young officer. Perhaps she was new?

  “Sir, this is Constable Gregson, Alexandra Gregson. She has some information that I think you ought to hear. I suggested that as she'd discovered it herself she should be the one to tell you about it.”

  Connor smiled at Alex Gregson, trying to put her at ease. It was obvious that she was a little in awe at being in the presence of the D.I. in the close proximity of his office.

  “Please come in Gregson, and tell me what you've discovered.”

  Alex Gregson stepped forward with a clipboard in her hand, obviously containing the precious information she'd brought to Clay's attention. She seemed to hesitate for a minute and Lucy Clay gave her a verbal prod.

  “Go on Alex, tell him!”

  “Yes, right. Well, yesterday Sergeant Clay asked us to delve deeper into the past histories of everyone involved either directly or indirectly with the case. I was given the job of looking into the records of the old Prentice case and I checked and rechecked all the information we'd found so far. I went through everything we had and I realised that there was one area we hadn't explored.”

  She paused to draw breath.

  “Go on Constable,” urged Connor.


  “Well, we'd found out that William and Elizabeth Prentice had given birth to a son and a daughter who had both been killed in that light aircraft crash, but having discovered that, the first check was sort of closed as it was obviously thought that there couldn't be any further connections in that direction. Anyway, I went a little further this time, and I found out that James Prentice, the son, had been married a few months before the air crash. His widow is still alive Sir, and here's the point of greatest significance, as I hope you'll agree. Margaret Alice Prentice is the owner of a specialist chocolate and sweet shop in Penzance!”

  Sean Connor almost leaped from his chair in excitement. He grabbed the clipboard from Gregson, looked at it, then quickly turned and placed it on his desk. Sean Connor then took the highly unusual step of gently taking hold of Police Constable Alex Gregson by the arms, and in a wholly politically incorrect gesture he kissed the young officer on the forehead.

  “Constable Gregson, you are without a doubt the brightest star in this station. Well done!”

  An elated Constable Gregson quickly recovered from the shock of her superior's sudden show of emotion, and showing great wisdom she accepted Connor's kiss in the spirit in which it had been delivered.

  “I'm glad I could help Sir, and thank you.”

  Connor once more took hold of the clipboard from his desk, grabbed his jacket which rested on the back of his char and gestured to Lucy Clay to follow him.

  As the two officers surged at top speed through the incident room to the surprise of the officers who sat at their desks and computer terminals carrying out their allotted tasks, he shouted to Lucy Clay who followed in his wake.

  “How far is it to bloody Penzance?”

  Five minutes later they were in the car heading out of the town, and three hundred miles and just over five hours later, he and Lucy Clay arrived in the picturesque seaside resort town of Penzance in Cornwall where they soon located the police station that was the workplace of Inspector Harry Sefton, who Lucy had been connected to as she called from the car on their approach to the town.

  Sefton greeted them warmly as they sat in the small but modern office he called his own. Now, thought Connor, they were about to get somewhere with this so far God-forsaken case.

  Interview Room 2

  Margaret (known locally as Maggie) Prentice sat looking frightened and forlorn in the interview room provided by Harry Sefton. He, Connor and Clay now stood watching the suspect through the one-way plate glass mirror that afforded a view into the room beyond. The brightly lit interview room was a stark contrast to the darkened room in which the officers now stood; part of the secret of the workings of the one-way mirror.

  “She doesn't look like a killer, does she?”

  The words came from Inspector Sefton after he'd observed the woman for almost twenty minutes.

  “They rarely do, do they?” Connor responded.

  “No, I suppose you're right Mr Connor. Are you going to talk to her yet?”

  “No. We'll leave her to sweat for another ten minutes or so. Perhaps if she's scared enough she'll tell us the whole story without too much prompting.”

  “According to the two officers who picked her up at her shop she came along quietly enough. Seems she was really surprised when they walked in and asked her to accompany them to the station. It wasn't `til you met her at the door and told her what she was here to be questioned about that she started to panic a bit.”

  “Which just goes to show how cool she can be,” said Lucy Clay. “She had no idea we were on to her and probably thought you wanted her for something unconnected with this case.”

  “That's possible,” Sefton replied, “though that would imply that she might have something else to hide apart from information about this poisoning case of yours.”

  “Maybe she does,” Connor intervened in the conversation. “At this stage we can't be sure just how much she knows or how deeply she's involved, but I intend to find out, and quickly. Funny thing is that she doesn't look anything like the e-photo we had produced back in Richmond. Maybe that proves my theory that there are two of them.”

  “Or maybe it proves she's innocent Sir,” said Clay, and Connor glowered at her. She said no more.

  When the door to the interview room finally opened to allow Connor and Clay to enter, Maggie Prentice turned sharply to see who was coming into the room. Her chair had been strategically placed so that she would have to twist right round in order to do just that, thus increasing her discomfiture with her current situation. She was smaller than Connor had expected, maybe only a shred over five feet tall, with short mousey brown hair cut in a bob. He judged her age at between fifty and fifty five, which would have made her about twenty when the Prentice killing took place all those years ago. She'd been a widow for some time, and it kind of showed in the slightly unkempt appearance she portrayed. There probably wasn't another man in her life, and probably never would be.

  The two detectives sat in chairs directly opposite the suspect. Just when Maggie Prentice thought the interview was about to begin, the door opened once more. She wasn't sure this time whether to turn and look at the new arrival or to concentrate on the two officers who sat facing her. She continued to look at Clay, refusing to look Connor in the eye, probably believing she would get a more sympathetic response from a woman. She was wrong, as she would soon discover. The two Richmond detectives were now joined by Inspector Sefton, who pulled up a chair from the side of the room and joined them in facing Maggie. If she'd felt uncomfortable and intimidated by the sight of the two detectives sitting opposite her, she now felt even more so with the addition of yet another policeman on the other side of the table.

  The detectives were silent for as long as they could be in a premeditated attempt to put pressure on the woman.

  “Wh…what am I doing here? Why have you had me brought here?” she suddenly blurted out, her voice trembling and displaying the fear she was obviously feeling.

  “I think you know very well why you're here Mrs Prentice,” Lucy Clay began. She and Connor used a well-practised interview technique, with the sergeant beginning the questioning and Connor stepping in when he felt it necessary to do so. This always served to increase the pressure on the suspect by making them aware that Connor was the superior officer and that when he spoke, it was on matters of greater importance than the routine questions posed by his sergeant.

  “You're here to answer questions relating to the murder of David Arnold.”

  “Murder? No, never, I never killed anyone. I didn't do it.”

  “Oh, but I think you did Mrs Prentice. You approached him early on the morning of his death as he walked to work and somehow convinced him to take and eat a chocolate laced with aconite. You killed him as sure as if you'd pointed a gun at him and pulled the trigger. We'll find out whether you admit it or not. There's team of police officers and forensic technicians crawling all over your shop even as we speak, so if there's anything there we'll find it.”

  “They won't find anything, I mean, there's nothing there, I…”

  “You destroyed the evidence, is that it?” asked Clay in a voice that totally dispelled any thoughts Maggie Prentice might have had that she would get an easier ride from the female officer.

  “No, of course not, there was never anything…”

  “Never anything on your premises. Is that what you mean Mrs Prentice?”

  This question came from Connor, who saw a chance to go for the jugular early in the interview. This woman obviously wasn't a career criminal and he judged that she would be relatively easy to break down. She was already tripping herself up in response to Lucy Clay's questions, which of course were specifically worded to encourage the suspect to do just that.

  “No, that's not what I mean.”

  “So they were on your premises then?”

  “Yes, no, I don't know. You're confusing me. You're trying to trick me.”

  “I've no need to trick you Mrs Prentice. None at all. All
I want is the truth and that shouldn't be so hard for you should it? If you have nothing to hide why would you think I'd even need to try and trip you up, as you put it?”

  Connor knew she was close to cracking, to revealing whatever she knew about the killing of the train driver.

  “All I meant was that you've brought me here and accused me of murder, and you don't know the first thing about me.”

  “Oh but we do Maggie.” Clay rejoined the interview. “We know you were married to James Prentice, who was the son of William and Elizabeth Prentice We know that your husband died in tragic circumstances, and we also know that your mother-in-law had vowed vengeance on those she thought were in some way responsible for her husbands, and your father-in-law's death. We know that she was an expert on poisons and that she headed up the research lab where the wife of one those accused of the murder lived. He was cleared and never charged, but that didn't stop your mother-in-law believing him guilty did it?”

  “I don't know I tell you. I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “Yes you do.” This was Connor. “You cold-bloodedly administered a lethal poison to a man who was about to take out an express train loaded with over a hundred passengers. Didn't you stop to think for one minute that he could have died while that train was travelling at over a hundred miles per hour? Your bloody revenge killing could have killed all the people on that train but for a stroke of luck in that the poison didn't hit him until he'd slowed down to stop at Birmingham.”

  “I didn't know it would kill him…I,”

  He'd got her!

  “Yes Mrs Prentice? You what?”

  Maggie Prentice was beaten, and she knew it. Connor's last verbal assault on her had forced her to reveal her involvement. She knew there was no going back and that she would have to try a damage limitation exercise if she was to avoid a very long prison sentence.

  “I thought it would just make him poorly for a while. At least that was what he said.”