Purple Death

by Brian L. Porter

  “If there was something on those files that would lead us to the killer, and I suspect there is, or why would he have taken the time to delete them, then we're going to find it Lucy, and when we do…”

  “When we do Sir, we'll have the sod.”

  The two detectives were joined by D.C.I. Lewis who had remained studying the scene while the forensics team worked.

  “Well Sean, what d'you think? Does this bring you any closer to solving the case? We can't take much more of this you know, bodies turning up all over town and the police appearing incapable of finding out who's responsible.”

  “I won't know that Sir until we find out what was on that computer. I just hope the computer techs can retrieve the missing files. Then we might just have a chance of tracking the killer down.”

  Detective Constable Simon Fox took that moment to come running up the driveway with an elated look on his face.

  “Sir!” he called out as he ran, the delivery being directed at neither senior officer in particular. “I think I may have found us a witness. One of the neighbours, a Mr Vetchinsky, remembers seeing a car parked on Mr Forbes's drive about a week ago. He can't tell us the make of the car unfortunately, as he says it was mostly hidden by the trees on the driveway. It was unusual because Mr Forbes didn't get many visitors apparently. Not only that, but the witness says that the driver of the car was a man, not a woman. He doesn't know if he can give us a detailed description, as he was in his garden at the time and didn't pay too much attention to the man when he went into the house. He just saw him in passing so to speak, but he says he'll do his best with the police artist if we want him to.”

  “Vetchinsky? Is he Polish or something Fox?”

  “Russian by birth Sir. Full name is Vladimir Nikolai Vetchinsky. Says he's lived in this country for over forty years. Seems he was a refugee from the communists and we gave him asylum a long time ago.”

  “I take it his English is good then?”

  “Perfect Sir, apart from a slight accent. Why?”

  “Just wondered if he'll make a good witness in court if we need him. As long as he's fluent he'll come across as a stronger witness, that's all.”

  Connor's boss had seen Fox's approach and had been listening to the conversation.

  “Looks like you were right Sean,” said D.C.I. Lewis.

  “A man! Yes Sir, it does doesn't it? There's something else I've had niggling at the back of my brain as well. We know about Maggie Prentice in Penzance but, apart from the fact that we got a description of a woman who was a little furtive from the hotel receptionist at The Regency we don't have any real evidence to suggest that The Chocolate Woman, or rather, another Chocolate Woman, has actually been at work here in Richmond. What if we've been barking up the wrong tree all along? We could be looking for a man, rather than a woman, for all of the local killings.”

  Connor was of course as yet unaware of the visit by the woman to Arminder Patel's shop. Had he been so, he might not have been as confident as he now sounded. For now though he had hope, real hope that he was close to discovering the identity of the man, as he now believed the killer to be, who was the real influence behind the woman or women who had been the delivery system for his vengeance, if indeed vengeance were the true motive for the murders.

  Perhaps Connor thought that the eye of the storm had passed. If he did, then unfortunately he was to be proved wrong.

  Bedtime Story

  “That was a pretty gruesome scene this afternoon, Catherine don't you think?”

  “I've rarely seen worse, I must admit, Sean.”

  Catherine Nickels had joined Connor at his home after what had been a gruelling day for both of them.

  Connor's long trip to and from Cornwall had left him drained and worn out and he'd been surprised when Catherine had called from her office just after ten at night to ask if he fancied some company.

  He'd readily agreed to her driving over to his house. He needed the diversion that another human being would provide. He was getting too bogged down by death and too preoccupied with tracing the aconite killer. In short Sean Connor needed a touch of human warmth and Catherine was just the person to provide it.

  “I don't really want to talk shop at this time of night, but has your preliminary examination of the body revealed anything we don't already know?”

  “Not yet, Sean. I think I was right in saying that the victim died seven or eight days ago, I'll be more precise tomorrow, and there's little doubt about aconite having been used once again. So no, nothing new I'm afraid, not yet, at least not in that area anyway.”

  “Are you by any chance saying you have news in another area?”

  “Actually Sean, yes I am. You remember the little study that Gary Hudson and I put together to track down incidences of the use of aconite?”

  “Of course I do, but when you hadn't mentioned it for a day or two I thought you'd hit a dead end.”

  “At first, so did we. I'd spoken to our local expert Professor Medwin, who'd given me plenty of advice to follow and I'd contacted various medical and scientific journals who were all happy to release any articles they'd previously published going back almost a hundred years, but nothing seemed to have any relevance to this case. Then, Gary Hudson phoned me just this evening. He's very lucky because, being based in Birmingham he has certain contacts who allowed him access to the files of the UK Forensic Science Services laboratories who are located in the city. The FSS have a state-of-the-art database that contains references to a million and one items of medical and forensic trivia that probably wouldn't mean a thing to anyone who wasn't specifically looking for that exact item. Anyway when Gary's contact checked out what Gary had asked for, he was surprised to find that someone else had been looking into the same thing just a few weeks ago. It appears that one of his colleagues in the historical archive section had been approached by a man who said he was studying the historical uses of aconite as a poison and that he needed the information for an article he was writing. The man identified himself as a free-lance journalist who was preparing a piece for one of the big Sunday newspapers.”

  “Did he give a name Catherine, come on now; don't hold out on me.”

  “Yes Sean, he did. He gave his name as Roger Cahill, and Sean wanted to find out if the name was genuine and just before I came here this evening he called me back with the news.”

  “Catherine. Tell me!”

  “The name is genuine Sean. Not only that, but Roger Cahill was a reporter for the Richmond Echo at the time of the Prentice murders and he was a reporter who obtained at least two interviews with Elizabeth Prentice before her death. His paper carried her accusations against the police, Stride, and Miller”

  “And just how did you find all this out in so short a time my dear Doctor?” asked Connor with a smile on his face.

  “I didn't Sean. Gary did. He asked his friend at the FSS if his colleague had checked out Cahill's credentials and he had done just that, and he'd recorded Cahill's details on the system. They don't just give out that kind of information to just anybody you know. He wanted to be sure that Cahill was genuine, so ran a background check on his bona-fides before releasing the information to him. When Gary ran a cross-check using aconite as his search key he found some articles Cahill had written for the Echo about the Stride woman's suicide all those years ago. Simple!”

  Connor was more than impressed.

  “So, if Cahill was trying to find out about aconite and its uses, he may be the man we're looking for. After all, if he just wanted background information on the Prentice case, he should have had all he needed from his previous work on the story. If he wanted to use aconite himself however, he'd need that kind of information in order to obtain the stuff or to at least work out how best to use it as a murder weapon. Catherine, you're a bloody genius; and your friend Gary of course.”

  Connor pulled Catherine Nickels close to his body. He looked down at her face, his eyes peering softly into her own. Their lips met, and they dissolved i
nto each other. A long minute passed before they pulled away from each other and Catherine grinned at Connor.

  “Well, Detective Inspector, I hope you're satisfied with my efforts to assist you in your inquiries.”

  “I must say that I am truly impressed Doctor. First thing in the morning I shall start tracking down our friend Cahill. That gentleman has a lot of questions to answer.”

  “Oh, he won't need much tracking down Sean. The address he gave to the FSS lab is recorded on their files. He still lives right here in Richmond. Would you like it?”

  “Would I…? Come here young lady!”

  Connor gave Catherine a playful slap on the rear and the two began a game of `chase' through Connor's house until the two of them fell laughing and giggling like a pair of teenagers onto the sitting room sofa.

  After a pause for breath Connor sat up and looked into Catherine's eyes once again, this time with a more serious expression on his face.

  “You know, laughter apart, this could be exactly the breakthrough we've been looking for. Between the pair of you, you and Gary Hudson could just have given us the killer on a plate. I don't know why this reporter would want to suddenly begin killing people with a connection to the old Prentice case, but sometimes a killer doesn't need what you or I would see as a logical reason to do what they do. Tomorrow we'll see just what Roger Cahill has to tell us about his own aconite investigations and what it has to do with our murders.”

  “You really think he could be the one?”

  “There's only one other reason, well, perhaps two, that would have him researching aconite at this time.”

  “Which are?”

  “One, he is genuinely trying to write a piece on the uses of aconite as a poison, perhaps inspired by his previous connection with a case of a similar nature and in response to what's been happening lately. It could be a profitable exercise for him if one of the major Sunday papers were to pick up his story.”

  “And two?”

  “Ah yes, two. Well, suppose he has an idea about who the killer is, and thinks that he can crack the case himself? Journalists often think that they make better investigators than the official police force even though they usually end up hindering rather than helping any investigation they get involved in. That could be his angle. Tell me, just how long ago did he request the information from the FSS lab? Was it before the killings began, or after they'd started?”

  “It was well before the killings started Sean. Three weeks before in fact, giving him plenty of time to put to good use any information he'd gleaned on how to produce the poison himself.”

  “Right,” said Connor. “That knocks out option two straight away and also leaves option one looking shaky. Why would he dredge up an article on aconite poisoning when the subject wasn't even topical at the time he dug up the information? No, Mr. Roger Cahill is smelling a little fishier by the minute as far as I'm concerned. I can't believe that you've managed to find all this out so quickly Catherine. You and Doctor Hudson have done more than well. You're a pair of geniuses if you ask me.”

  “That's a bit strong Sean, though I appreciate the compliment. It was nothing you and your people couldn't have discovered in time though. I'm sure you'd have got there eventually.”

  “Maybe, but time doesn't appear to be something we have on our side at the moment. Every time we turn around or think we've got a lead we're faced with another corpse to add to the body count. If it wasn't so late at night I'd assemble the whole team and raid Cahill's house right now.”

  “So why don't you?”

  “Because I don't think he'll be killing anyone tonight, if he is our man. He probably thinks he's safe from detection and by this time of night he's probably tucked up in his bed. I will make a couple of calls and have Sergeant Clay and a couple of constables meet me outside his address very early in the morning, if you don't mind me leaving you to lock up when I go.”

  “Do I take that as an invitation to stay the night Sean Connor?”

  “Er, yes of course it is. Unless of course you have somewhere else you'd rather be?” he teased.

  “Well, it's hardly the most romantic invitation I've ever received, but it is quite late at night I suppose.”

  Now it was her turn to tease Connor.

  “Hold on,” said Connor as he picked up the telephone. It took him less than two minutes to set up his `assault team' for the following morning's visit to Cahill's house, and then he returned his attention to Catherine.

  “Now, where were we?”

  “Something about me driving home alone in the dark was it, Detective Inspector?”

  “Oh shut up and come here,” said Connor as he took Catherine Nickels firmly by the arm and led her from the room, turning out the lights as they went.

  “It's very dark Sean; do you think you can find the bedroom in the dark?”

  “I said shut up, and stop teasing.”

  “Yes Sir, Detective Inspector. Shall I set the alarm clock when we get up there?”

  “Catherine!”

  She laughed once, then `shut up' as instructed. The top stair creaked, but neither of them noticed. They had other things on their minds.

  The Art of Misdirection

  Sean Connor rose early, just after five thirty a.m. and true to his promise he left Catherine sleeping peacefully. She stirred only once, when he left the house just before six after a quick breakfast of coffee and toast. After dressing Connor padded his way upstairs to the bedroom and leant over the bed, kissing her gently on the forehead. Her eyes flickered open for a second or two as she kissed him back, then he was gone, and Catherine slept on for another hour.

  At the very moment that Catherine's feet touched the bedroom floor, Lucy Clay was knocking on the door of the home of Roger Cahill, Connor by her side. The neat three bedroomed semi-detached house was in the middle of Acton Road, and was flanked by a row of very similar, nineteen thirties-built houses which all bore the marks of time. Built in the style typical of the era, the whole street appeared a little rundown, though the bay-windowed houses retained something of an air of faded art-deco elegance in their exterior decorations and gateposts. Elm trees were spaced at equal intervals along the pavements on both sides of the street, planted in open patches of well tended and weed-free earth and Acton Road looked the epitome of everyday suburbia. Was this the kind of place that a killer might live? Connor knew better than most that killers are not some set-apart breed or sub-species of the human race. They are for the most part ordinary people who live ordinary lives; their friends, relatives and neighbours so often unaware of the dark secrets that they harbour. So, the answer to the question was yes, it was just the sort of place that a killer might live.

  On the third knock a voice from somewhere inside the house shouted;

  “Yes, yes, I'm coming. Just a minute whoever you are. Do you know what time it is?”

  Connor knew very well what time it was. The crack of dawn was always the best time to take down a suspect, when the sleep was still in their eyes and their brains still befuddled by slumber.

  The door opened and a man wearing a well-worn velvet dressing gown stood staring at the entourage of police officers gathered at his door and on the driveway of his home. Connor had the instant thought that the man who was looking at him as though he were a creature from another planet couldn't possibly be Roger Cahill. Cahill had to be at least seventy years of age, and this man was probably no more than forty, though his dishevelled hair and unshaven visage probably made him look older than he was. Thirty-five then, perhaps.

  “Who the hell are you, and what do want at this time of the bloody morning?” asked the man.

  “Police officers, sir. I'm Detective Inspector Connor, and this is Sergeant Clay. We're looking for a man named Roger Cahill.”

  “I'm Roger Cahill. Now what am I supposed to have done that merits so much attention before the sun has risen Detective Inspector?”

  “I'm sorry,” said Connor. “I was under the impression that Roge
r Cahill the former journalist lived here. Our information must be incorrect. The man we want is at least…”

  “My father.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You want my father. You were about to say that the man you're looking for is at least seventy five years old, weren't you? Well, that's how old Dad is. I'm afraid you're out of luck though Inspector. He's not here.”

  Somehow, that information didn't surprise Connor too much. He'd gotten used to disappointments in the course of this investigation.

  “Look Mr Cahill, it's very important that we find your father. We think he can help us with an important inquiry we're conducting and it's a matter of urgency that we speak with him.”

  “You'd better come in,” said the younger Roger Cahill, beckoning Connor and Clay through the door. Connor gestured to the waiting officers to stay where they were while he and Clay accompanied the man into the house.

  “Can I get you some tea or coffee?” Cahill asked the two officers as he led them into the kitchen. “I need some coffee. I just can't function in a morning until I've had at least two shots of caffeine.”

  “Yes please,” Connor answered for the two of them, hoping that the familiarity of drinking together at the breakfast table might make the man more receptive to his questions, as was often the case.

  They waited until Cahill had boiled the kettle and made the coffee before taking seats opposite him at the table. The coffee was strong, but tasted good to Connor and Clay. Obviously the Cahill's, or at least this younger one, liked quality in the delivery system for their daily caffeine intake.

  “Now Mr Cahill, about your father?”

  “Yes Inspector. I presume you want to speak to him about these murders that've been taking place?”