Purple Death

by Brian L. Porter

  “We do indeed Mr Cahill, but why would you assume such a thing?”

  “I'm not a fool Inspector. The police don't make house calls at six thirty in the morning just to discuss a parking ticket now do they? Also, I'm aware that my father was involved in reporting on a case years ago that had some sort of connection with the poison that's being used today. Am I correct?”

  “Quite correct Mr. Cahill. Now, about your father?”

  “I've already told you, he's not here.”

  “Yes, I know that, but where is he? That's what we need to know.”

  “I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to tell you that Inspector. Dad doesn't want anyone to know where he is for the time being.”

  “I'll bet he doesn't,” said Lucy Clay with more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

  “Why use that tone Sergeant?” asked Cahill. “Oh, I get it. Wait a minute. You don't think Dad has anything to do with these murders do you?”

  “The thought had crossed our minds Mr Cahill.

  “You're mad. He's never harmed a soul in his life!”

  “Then why has he disappeared?”

  “Look Sergeant, Inspector, I'm not sure just what you've been told or what you think Dad's done, but the only reason he's gone away is because he was scared out of his wits when the killings started and believed that he was the next one on the killer's list.”

  “Then why did he contact the Forensic Science Services laboratory a few weeks ago and make certain inquiries relating to the use of aconite as a poison?” The question came from Connor, taking over from Clay once more.

  “What? No, you're mistaken. He never did such a thing. Look, if I tell you what I know will you promise to leave Dad alone until all this is over?”

  “I can't make any promises Mr Cahill, but if your father has got nothing to do with the killings then we won't have to bring him in for questioning, though if he's in danger he might be better to make contact us so that we can offer him police protection.”

  Connor's comment seemed to go unnoticed as Roger Cahill junior took a deep breath and began his story.

  “Look, it was about six weeks ago. The phone rang and Dad was just ages talking to whoever was on the other end. Afterwards, I asked him who'd been on the phone. He said it as an old colleague from his days as a newspaper reporter, someone who'd worked for another paper but who he once knew quite well. Anyway, this man had told Dad some disquieting news about an old case and said that there was a chance that it was about to become headline news again. He wanted to know if Dad had kept his old records of the interviews and his investigative research from the old days. Dad had told him that he had of course. They were in a filing cabinet in his office across the hall there.” Cahill pointed to the doorway, indicating the office as being across the hall.

  “This man then told Dad that he thought that someone was after anyone who was involved in the case though he hadn't explained to Dad why that should be. Dad thought it was all something and nothing, and told me that he thought the man might be becoming deranged or at least a little senile in his old age. That told me that he was about the same age as Dad, though he is far from senile, let me assure you. Anyway, this man had told Dad that he should be careful, and that was about all. Dad told me that there was nothing to worry about. All he'd done was to report on a case that happened over thirty years ago and done a couple of interviews with someone's widow and that would hardly put him on some crazy person's death list. He told me to forget about it.

  I thought no more of it until a couple of days later. Dad was in town on his way to the library when he was mugged. You can check that with your own people Inspector. He wasn't badly hurt, just a few bumps and bruises, but his wallet was stolen and he lost fifty pounds or so in cash, his credit cards and driver's licence. Two young men were responsible, though the police never found them or Dad's wallet and documents. The same night as the mugging we were robbed here at the house. Well, when I say we, I mean Dad was. Someone broke into the house and ransacked his study, but the only things taken were his papers relating to the old case that the man had called about. Dad was convinced it had something to do with the case but the police constable who came round the next day said it was probably the lads who'd mugged Dad who had broken in. They would have got the address from the driver's licence of course, and probably just broke in to cause mischief. Dad had no proof of anything otherwise so though he was getting a bit worried there was nothing else he could do.”

  Cahill paused for breath. Connor and Clay said nothing. They waited instead for the man to continue. Certain fragments of the case seemed to be joining themselves together as Cahill spoke and they were content to listen to his narrative and mentally join those pieces to what they already knew.

  “Anyway, Dad became very nervous over the next couple of days and he tried to call his old colleague on a couple of occasions, but he told me that he couldn't reach him. He was never at home apparently. The phone just kept ringing. I told Dad that the number he had for this old acquaintance might be out of date but he insisted it was current. I suppose he'd checked with directory enquiries. When the news came in some time later about the poisonings in town, Dad very nearly had a stroke on the spot. He was terrified Inspector. He made numerous further attempts to contact the man who'd called him, without success. Dad told me that he and this other man were probably in great danger from whoever was killing these people. After all, that was what the man had said wasn't it? That someone was out to get anyone involved in the old case? That day he made arrangements to disappear from town, and he's been in hiding ever since. He calls me every day Inspector just to let me know he's ok, but he won't even tell me where he is. He says it's safer for me that way. That's about all I can tell you, but at least it shows that Dad isn't your murderer doesn't it?”

  “Maybe,” said Connor, “and maybe not. It could all be a blind of course, but I must say I tend to believe you Mr Cahill. However, I must agree that it's possible that your father is in great danger, and we must find him and speak to him as soon as possible. Please, when he calls you today tell him about our visit and tell him that it's imperative that he calls us. We will protect him, I promise you.”

  “I'll try Inspector, if you think it's that important.”

  “It is Mr Cahill, believe me.”

  Connor and Clay left the younger Cahill with his thoughts, and hoped that the man would be able to convince his father to get in touch with them when he next called. As they drove back to the station Connor and Clay reviewed their early morning expedition.

  “What do you think then Sir?”

  “What I think Sergeant, is that we're up against a very clever and a very devious killer. I believe that he was the man who called Cahill, and put the wind up him in the first place. Then I think he paid some thugs to mug the old man in order to get hold of his credentials, which he later used to obtain the information from the FSS lab using Cahill's identity. They do check identities at the lab you know. They don't just give out information to anyone who asks for it. This man whoever he is, was also responsible for the break-in at the Cahill house. There must have been something in Cahill's files on the case that would either incriminate the killer, or at least lead us to him. Cahill might not have realised the significance of what was in those files so he wouldn't have taken any special precautions to prevent their theft. As far as he was concerned they were probably just archives of his past career as a journalist. When the killings began, he ran in order to save himself from the killer.”

  “But why didn't he just call us, Sir?”

  “Because Sergeant, he thought that this other man from his past was on his side. He'd tipped Cahill off that there was someone after them hadn't he? Cahill probably never thought that the man could be the killer himself. He ran because he thought he'd be safe, and also because the man who phoned him probably told him something that would make him afraid of going to the police, perhaps something to do with incriminating himself in some way. I'm afraid I'm in the da
rk as to that question Sergeant, but I think I'm pretty much on the spot with the rest.”

  “We're as close as we've come so far Sir, without actually having a name for the killer.”

  “Yes, like I said. He's a master at the art of misdirection He uses other people's identities the way I change my tie each day. Every time we think we've got him, it turns out he's using someone else's name. I also think he's connected with the original case as well. Cahill told his son that he was a reporter, like himself. That could be true or it could be that he was using a fake identity again. It would be easy to disguise his voice after all those years. Cahill couldn't be expected to remember the man's voice that well, because voices change with old age. We need to check out every news report and reporter who wrote in depth about the Prentice case. He's clever alright, very clever, but we're getting closer Sergeant, I know we are. He's going to run out of fake IDs soon, and when he does, he'll be like a rabbit trapped in the headlights of a car. We'll have the bastard, you can count on it!”

  As they pulled into the police station car park, Connor allowed himself a small smile. He felt it was now only a matter of time before the killer made that vital slip-up that would lead to his capture. They might not know who he was, but they were rapidly discovering plenty of people that he wasn't!

  As they got out of the car and walked towards the steps that led into the building Lucy Clay made one observation that might have had Connor questioning his most recent thoughts on the case.

  “Sir, you know that bit where you said that the killer changes his identities the way you change you tie each day?”

  “Yes, what of it?”

  “Well, it's just that you've worn the same tie for three days now, Sir.”

  Clay ran up the steps, narrowly avoiding the playful slap that Connor directed at her head as she did so.

  In Conference

  The conference that was called by Detective Chief Inspector Harry Lewis took place in a rather less than cheerful atmosphere. Charles Carrick and Sergeant Lewis Cole were there, invited as a courtesy along with Connor, Clay, and the D.C.I. himself.

  “Since this case began we haven't exactly made startling progress have we?” asked the D.C.I.

  “That's true Sir,” Connor responded, “though we do seem to be narrowing things down a bit. We think we just might be on the verge of identifying a prime suspect.”

  “I know Sean, but you've said that before and it looks like you're only getting this far because all of your possible suspects are being killed themselves.”

  “I don't think that's quite fair Sir,” Carrick interjected. “Sean has been working flat out trying to get a handle on the case, as have we in Birmingham. It's just that this character whoever he is a real slippery customer. We'll get him eventually though, I'm sure of it.”

  “I'm not making any personal accusations here Inspector Carrick. I'm simply pointing out the lack of tangible evidence and the fact that people continue to die while we stumble around in the dark. I mean, look at this e-photo of the so-called suspect as given to our police artist by this Vetchinsky character. It's so bland and relatively vague that this could be you, Sean or even me, God Forbid!”

  Lewis passed the e-photo to Carrick who had to agree that it wasn't much to go on. The face could have belonged to almost anyone.

  “Well, Sir, you must remember that the witness did say he didn't get a good look at the man. He was gardening at the time and only looked up for a moment when he saw the man get out of his car. Most of his view was from the back and the side. His vision was partially obscured by the trees in the street.” Lucy Clay was obviously doing her best to back up her boss.

  “Yes, of course Sergeant,” said the D.C.I. “Now, what about this reporter who seems to have eluded you? Is he a suspect or a witness or what? Nobody seems to be too clear on his status at the moment and I don't like to be kept in the dark Sean, you should know that.”

  “You're not being kept in the dark Sir. Roger Cahill was a reporter on the Echo at the time of the original Prentice murder. He reported on the case itself and also conducted follow-up interviews with various family members. He's close enough to the case to be considered a suspect under normal circumstances, but his son has given us a pretty convincing argument to the effect that his father fled town because he was in fear of someone, possibly the real killer, and I tend to believe him.”

  “Hm,” said Lewis thoughtfully. “Any idea where he is yet?”

  “Not yet, but I've asked the son to let me know the minute he hears from his father, and begged him to get his father to come out of hiding and come and talk to us.”

  “I want to know the minute you find out where this man is Sean. He could be vital to our solving the case, do you understand?”

  “Of course. I'd do that anyway, as a matter of course.”

  “Yes, I'm sorry, I know you would Sean. Now, what about the woman who was seen in the Regency Hotel? Are we any further along in determining who she is?”

  “No, Sir.” It was Lucy Clay who responded. “We not only have no idea as to her identity but the forensics people did find one thing that was of interest to us when they conducted a follow-up examination asked for by the Inspector.”

  “Oh yes? Didn't know about a follow-up examination.”

  “It was just an idea,” said Connor. “I thought it wise to go over the place a second time with a fresh team, and I never thought they'd find anything, but they did.”

  “And?”

  Lucy Clay came into the conversation once again.

  “They found tiny traces of glue, adhering to the sides of the waste basket in the room. It was the type of glue commonly used in wig-making, and we think that it may have come from our Chocolate Woman when she removed her wig at the dressing table. The waste basket stood right beside it. If she wore a wig, then it might explain why she's been so hard to track down. She could have completely changed her appearance to become the Chocolate Woman and then changed back to her ordinary self when she'd left the Regency.”

  “You make her sound like Superman, Sergeant, switching identities at will”

  “Yes, I know, but that seems to be what she did, and also seems to be something our killer is quite good at; assuming the identities of other people.

  “Right, well, once again I insist that you keep me posted on developments. Now, how about you Inspector Carrick? Has your investigation been in any way more successful than ours here in Richmond?”

  “No Sir, I'm afraid not. I'm convinced that the centre of the investigation has to lie here, and that the death of David Arnold in Birmingham was just pure chance. He could conceivably have died anywhere along the train's route, and you could now be having a conversation with a detective from Bristol, Worcester or any of the towns along the Penzance to Glasgow line for that matter.”

  “And the FSS lab in Birmingham. Did they give us anything that could help identify the killer?”

  “No Sir.” This was Connor. “They dealt with the man's application by e-mail, and he provided sufficient verifiable identification to convince them of his bona-fides. He then sent them a signed document to back-up his request for information and they were only too happy to help him it seems.”

  “I hope they're gong to do something about their checking procedures in future.”

  “They are sir. They're horrified that they might have unknowingly helped a serial killer by providing him with information.”

  “A bit late now,” said Lewis.

  The conference continued a while longer as the officers present exchanged scraps of information and ideas. When they eventually left the D.C.I.'s office that afternoon they were all quite subdued. Even the usually cheerful Charles Carrick and his sergeant declined the offer of tea or coffee, instead choosing to depart for Birmingham straight away. Connor and Clay returned to Connor's office where they sat quietly for a minute or two. It was Connor himself who broke the silence.

  “I suppose Lewis is getting a lot of pressure from the Ch
ief Super on this one. That's why he's getting a little tetchy.”

  Chief Superintendent David Hodges was the head of the local police division, and Lewis's boss. He would certainly be pressing the D.C.I. to come up with a solution to the case, as he himself would be coming under increasing pressure from his own superiors. It wasn't every day that a town like Richmond-on-Thames became the haunt of a serial killer, and it wouldn't be long before even more weight was brought to bear on him to resolve the case, Connor knew that.

  “I know, but he didn't have to bite your head off like that,” said Clay, sympathetically.

  “Never mind Sergeant, it goes with the job.”

  There was a knock on Connor's door. It opened to reveal the face of D.C. Simon Fox.

  “Sir, I've just taken a call from Roger Cahill.”

  “Has he heard from his father, Fox?”

  “It was the father. Roger Cahill Senior himself. He said that he'd spoken to his son, and that he would call you personally in an hour to discuss meeting you somewhere to talk. He wouldn't tell me where he was, though I did try to get him to reveal his location. I wanted to put him straight through to you but he said he needed more time to put a rendezvous together that wouldn't compromise his safety.”

  Connor grinned from ear to ear.

  “Thanks, Fox, well done for trying. Don't worry about it. I can wait a little longer. Close the door as you go, there's a good chap.”

  As the door snapped shut Connor turned to Lucy Clay, and for the fist time in days she saw a glint of expectation in his eyes, as though he were a fox on the scent of a hound.

  “Lucy,” he said “I do believe we're getting somewhere at last!”

  A Brief Interlude

  “My sources tell me that the police know about the wig. They found glue in the waste basket in the room at the Regency.”

  “Yes, well, they can't trace me from a bit of glue can they? It's not as if I left anything containing my DNA in the room did I? “