by Malcolm Rose
‘I’m very sorry,’ Troy said. ‘I know it’s a bad time to ask, but did she keep a diary – written or electronic?’
‘A diary? No. Too busy doing. She couldn’t sit still long enough to write anything.’
‘Can I show you three pictures of other people? I want to find out if Miley knew them.’
Her father shrugged.
He shook his head when he saw the photos.
‘They’re called Richard Featherstone, Keaton Hathaway and Alyssa Bending. Do the names help?’
‘No.’
Miley’s mother could hardly see anything through her bloodshot eyes, but she spluttered, ‘No.’
‘Was she on any sort of medication?’
‘She was as fit as a fiddle. Now look at her.’
Troy waited, allowing the upwelling of sorrow to subside a little, before he asked, ‘Has she been vaccinated recently?’
‘Not since she was a toddler.’
‘As far as you know, has she eaten anything out of the ordinary? Perhaps something that no one else tried.’
‘I don’t know. She didn’t say anything.’
‘I don’t want to pry, but can I ask what happened to her grandma?’
‘Cancer.’
‘Have any other relatives or friends been ill recently?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
Lexi looked up and asked, ‘Did she have a laptop or computer?’
‘No. She did everything on her phone.’
With the mobile in her hand, Lexi said, ‘Miley doesn’t seem to have many contacts. Not a lot of friends.’
Her father nodded. ‘That suited her. She didn’t need or want them. She just got on with her own life.’
‘Did she like school?’ Troy asked.
‘She wasn’t bullied, if that’s what you’re thinking. Maybe because she was strong. Physically and mentally.’
‘A lot of major girls rate their friends above their family,’ Troy commented.
Miley’s mother said, ‘Her teachers told us she was a rare girl. Happy without friends. Her grandma was enough.’
‘Did she have any enemies?’
Miley’s mother went back into her protective shell.
Her father answered, ‘No. Why should she? There was nothing to dislike. She was … the best.’
SCENE 5
Monday 5th May, Night
It was a long journey south to the industrial town of Pullover Creek. Stopping next to an enormous garden centre and plant nursery, Troy and Lexi got out of the driverless car and, for a few seconds, watched bats circling eerily near a streetlamp. In the nearest house, they spoke to Alyssa Bending’s husband and two children. The smell from the lavish bouquets in their front room was almost overpowering. So sweet, it was almost sickly.
A toxicity report had concluded that the cause of Alyssa’s death was mercury poisoning. Troy found out quickly that the Bending family did not know the other three victims, Alyssa wasn’t taking any medicines, she didn’t keep any form of diary and, as far as her husband knew, she had eaten only trustworthy food.
‘Near the end,’ Mr Bending said, ‘I couldn’t make much out. Her talking was mixed up.’ He sighed and swallowed. ‘She was trying to say something about the kids, me, love and fish, I think.’
‘Fish?’
‘It sounds strange to you, no doubt, but not to us. She worked in the aquatic part of the garden centre, selling pet fish among other things.’ He put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders. ‘I think she said something about wishing we’d gone on more picnics together.’ For a while, he was unable to control his tears.
Lexi interrupted. ‘Do you know if the garden centre sterilizes their bulbs by dipping them in mercuric chloride?’
He wiped his cheeks and shook his head. ‘I don’t get involved in the technical side of things.’
‘You work there as well?’ asked Troy.
‘In the gardening section.’ He waved towards the bumper collection of bouquets. ‘I do flower arrangements – and sell them.’
‘Would Alyssa have had anything to do with pesticides?’
‘No, definitely not. They don’t mix with aquaria and fish.’
Troy nodded. ‘Have you heard of any spillages or of any of your colleagues falling ill?’
‘No.’
‘How about you – or anyone else she knew? Has anyone else got the same symptoms?’
‘No.’
‘Did she get on all right with the garden centre, or were there any issues?’
‘We’ve had arguments about noise and traffic, but we can’t complain too much. It gives us a living.’ Alyssa’s husband broke down again. ‘It gave us a living.’
Lexi examined Alyssa’s laptop but found nothing relevant to her death or her recent movements. She looked at Mr Bending and asked, ‘Can I see her mobile phone?’
Alyssa’s husband sniffed and then replied, ‘No. She lost it.’
‘When?’
‘She had a couple of days away last week. It was to do with work. She went off to the north coast to scout out sources of fish and supplies. Something she did now and again. When she fell ill, she told me she couldn’t find her mobile. She said she must have lost it when she was away. Unless she was confused about that as well.’
SCENE 6
Tuesday 6th May, Late morning
Keaton Hathaway’s flat in Pickling was decorated not with paintings, prints or photographs, but with crystals, fossils and rocks. A geological specimen seemed to rest on every flat surface. On the table, there was a clear plastic box with a rough mineral or mineral-like rock in each small compartment, like a collection of colourful eggs in individual nests. Each one had been lovingly labelled.
Lexi peered at the samples in turn. ‘Jade, jet, gold, gypsum, feldspar, emerald, diamond, cinnabar.’ She stopped reciting names and looked across at Troy. ‘That’s mercury sulphide.’
Ill at ease, Troy nodded as he wandered around.
Lexi moved towards a shelf and gasped at the selection of spiral fossils. ‘He’s got lots of ammonites. Never seen so many in one place. Fantastic. Shells as well.’
While Lexi admired Keaton’s samples, Troy explored the small one-bedroom apartment. It took less than a minute. Then he said, ‘He lived on his own – with a passion for geology.’ He put on latex gloves, moved a couple of bones from a pile of notebooks on Keaton’s desk and picked up the top one. Flicking through its pages, he soon realized that Keaton had recorded every find, every rock, every fossil.
Examining the windowsill, Lexi called out, ‘There’s a prehistoric fish here. Brilliant fossil.’
Troy held up the most recent diary. ‘He was as methodical as you. Dates, locations, specimens, everything. A super-keen fossil hunter and amateur geologist. But why have the latest few pages been torn out?’
‘Really?’
Troy sighed. ‘Yes.’
‘I’ll bag it as evidence. I want to know who ripped them out. Fingerprints, DNA, anything.’
While outers and majors looked much the same, forensic science could easily distinguish the two human races. Their body chemistry was different. Outers bore no fingerprints, their DNA was distinctive, and their diet was based on insects. They also lacked the enzymes that made alcohol an intoxicating substance to majors.
‘It wouldn’t have been Keaton himself,’ Troy said. ‘Looks like he’s obsessive about keeping records. If he made a mistake, he’d cross it out, not remove it. Then he’d have a record of the mistake as well.’
‘I’ll request a full forensic team. They can hunt for the missing pages – as well as any trace evidence. And I’ll get them to scan all his notebooks into a database.’ Lexi stood beside her partner to examine the journal.
Troy tilted it towards her. ‘The last ten days have gone.’
‘It might have told us when and where he was poisoned – and where the mercury came from.’
Muted, Troy shrugged.
‘Don’t tell me it’s coincidence, be
cause I don’t believe it.’ Lexi glanced at him and added, ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘Sure?’
He took a deep breath. ‘If you must know, Pickling’s not my favourite place.’
‘You must have been here before.’
‘No,’ he almost snapped.
‘So, how do you know you don’t like it?’
‘I just don’t. Let’s leave it at that.’
SCENE 7
Tuesday 6th May, Evening
Richard Featherstone’s bedroom in Hoops was a mess, like a grotesque, bloodied murder scene. His wife had barely touched the place where he had died. If she had slept at all since his death, she must have laid down somewhere else. Lexi looked at the mercury thermometer on a shelf. It was unbroken. It could not be the source of the mercury that had poisoned him.
Downstairs, Mrs Featherstone looked out of the window as the sun slowly submerged below the horizon. ‘We were … okay, you know. At the stage where the passion had gone out of it – worn down by time, children and other demands. You know. Maybe you don’t. You’re young. Anyway, that’s what happens. We were busy. Other things gobbled up our time. Less time for each other. We were fine, though. Still cared for each other very much. Plenty of respect. No doubt about that.’
She seemed jittery to Troy. He guessed that the words spilling from her were not so much information for a detective as an attempt to convince herself that she’d shared a loving relationship with Richard. But he noticed that she avoided talking about love.
‘I thought he’d got a hangover, you know. That’s all. I wasn’t even sympathetic. He’d been out with mates for a drink and he’d had too much. What was I supposed to think?’ She groaned. ‘Bad mistake. I should’ve called a doctor when he talked about his hands and feet being numb.’
‘I don’t think it would’ve made any difference,’ Troy said gently. ‘By that time, he was almost certainly beyond medical help.’ He gazed at her kindly, knowing that his questions would cause her further pain. ‘Was he often out doing his own thing?’
‘Yes. But he always came back to me. A married couple need their separate interests after a while, don’t you think?’
‘Do you know the things he did in the last week or so?’
‘Some.’ She sighed. ‘I should’ve asked more. I regret that. He went fishing one day. On his own. Golf with friends, I think. That’s at Hoops Golf Course. I don’t know where he went fishing. He had tickets for a football match, I think. Or something like that. He trotted off to his friends’ houses for drinks – and to one of the pubs in town. I don’t go. A glass of wine and you’d have to hold me up. Goes straight to my head, you know. Richard, well, he could knock back quite a bit. Not like an outer, though. He got woozy and he’d have a sore head in the morning. Sometimes, he’d be sick.’ She shook her head sadly at her husband’s foolishness. ‘Now, I wonder if he was getting his excitement that way instead of getting it with me.’
‘Was he on any sort of medication, or was he vaccinated recently?’
‘He took hangover cures. That’s all. Only they don’t cure anything, do they? Not drinking alcohol in the first place is the only proper cure.’
Troy took a gulp of water. ‘You said you’d looked at his phone.’
‘Yes. Funny, that. Nothing on it at all. He’d reset it. No stored phone numbers or anything else. I don’t know why. My guess is that he’d tried to call me. You know, just before he got really bad and passed out. Maybe he hit the wrong button. That’s almost certainly it, don’t you think?’
Clearly she was hoping there was nothing sinister or secretive in Richard’s actions, so he replied, ‘Confusion’s one of the symptoms – along with poor memory and tremors – so, yes, you’re probably right.’ He showed her the images of the other three patients and told her their names. ‘Do you know any of them? Or do you think Richard would’ve known them?’
‘I certainly don’t. As for Richard’ … She shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know. I should’ve asked after his friends more. I shouldn’t have let the gulf grow wider and wider.’
‘It’s not your fault. Being close takes two people.’ Troy’s attention seemed to stray but, a moment later, he was fully focused on the interview. ‘I don’t suppose you asked much about the food he’d been eating or any strange drinks he’d tried?’
‘No. We should’ve shared more, like it used to be when we were young.’
Outside, the sun ducked behind a building and was gone.
‘Do you know if any of his friends have gone down with something similar?’
‘No, I don’t. If only I’d taken the trouble to …’ The sentence faded to nothing.
‘What did he do by way of work?’
‘He was always artistic. He could paint, model wood, almost anything. Really good with his hands. Creative. He used to make hats. Now, he makes furniture.’
‘Hats?’ Lexi queried.
Richard’s wife smiled sorrowfully. ‘Yes, hats. Someone’s got to do it. Richard switched to furniture about a year ago.’
‘Was he well? Did the hat job make him sick?’ said Lexi.
‘No. Why?’
‘I bet you’ve heard the phrase: mad as a hatter,’ Lexi replied. ‘Rabbits’ or hares’ fur was made into felt and mercuric nitrate was used to smooth it down. A slow reaction in the felt gave off mercury vapour. It made hatters tetchy and mixed up. Basically, a bit mad.’
‘No. Nothing like that,’ his wife replied. ‘Besides, it was a long time ago. I wish I’d asked him more about his jobs. You do at first but then … your mind’s on other things, you know, and you get tired of hearing the same old story every day.’
‘Did he keep a diary or jot notes on a computer?’ Troy asked.
‘No. Not when there’s golf to play. Nothing else got much of a look in.’ She sighed once more. ‘If only I’d developed an interest in golf. Things might have been different.’
SCENE 8
Wednesday 7th May, Morning
The beginnings of a spreadsheet decorated the large screen in the forensic department of Shepford Crime Central. Lexi sipped beer and ate cricket pâté on banana worm bread as she entered data methodically.
‘Shepford in the middle of the country, Pullover Creek and Hoops down south, and Pickling up north. Not even close on an atlas. A school student, a seller of pet fish, a furniture maker and a fossil hunter. Pick a common factor out of that lot, if you can. By the way, Keaton’s real job was in his local insect farm. Yummy.’
‘An insect farm?’ As part of his breakfast, Troy swallowed a chunk of black pudding.
‘You don’t have to be an outer to make outer food. But he wasn’t the most dedicated worker. He cracked open more rocks than water beetles. More interested in hunting fossils than producing meat.’ She paused, thinking. ‘There’s a sort of common thread between two of them. One deleted everything from his phone and another lost hers. Richard Featherstone and Alyssa Bending.’
‘That link’s hanging by a thread,’ Troy replied with a grin. ‘Way south of solid. Both could have been an accident.’
‘Yeah. But it’s about all we’ve got. Except that all four were healthy before they died. Swimming, cycling, climbing, chasing fish around the country, golf, smashing rocks.’
‘What did you get from Keaton Hathaway’s latest notebook?’
‘I went through it last night. No fingerprints – which means a careful major ripped the pages out with gloves on, or it was an outer. But there was a hair. Human, silver colour. Short. A bit like mine. Before you ask, no, I’m sure it’s not contamination. It’s not mine.’
‘Good find. I hope you’re giving it some welly.’
‘I would, but you keep dragging me off to the four corners of the country. I’ve given it to the specialists to analyse the DNA in the root. Waiting for results. They’ll tell us for sure it’s not mine.’
‘Did the forensic team find anything else in his flat?’
‘Lots, b
ut what’s relevant and what’s nothing to do with it? No mercury except for the tiny amounts in his rock samples. And they didn’t find the torn-out pages.’
‘We’re at a crossroads,’ said Troy. ‘But instead of three ways to go we’ve got hundreds.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t want to follow up Richard Featherstone first because the woman who knew him best hardly knows anything. Married, but barely in touch with each other. She’s not going to help much. I think Alyssa’s a better way forward. I’m going to contact the garden centre where she worked.’
It didn’t take him long to set up a video call to the manager of Pullover Creek Garden Centre and Plant Nursery. After introducing himself and his investigation, Troy said, ‘Alyssa Bending. She worked in your aquatic centre.’
The manager nodded. ‘Yes. I was very upset to hear the news. We all were. It’s bad enough for us here in the garden centre. It must be awful for her family.’
‘Do you use mercuric nitrate for sterilizing bulbs?’
On-screen, she looked surprised for an instant. ‘Not for ages. No. It’s harmful.’
‘Do you still have old stock?’ Troy asked.
‘I’d be very surprised. But I’ll check and let you know if we do. What’s this got to do with Alyssa?’
‘I heard you sent her on various trips to fish suppliers.’
‘Yes. It was part of her job description. She got to go all over the place. She took advantage, mind.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m not complaining. I’d have done the same. If it was somewhere nice or the weather was really good, she’d turn a half-day outing into a day. A day’s worth of work got turned into two days.’ The manager smiled. ‘She tacked on mini-holidays.’
‘When was her last trip, where did she go and how long did she take?’