A Detective at Death's Door

by H. R. F. Keating

  ‘It was just before our friend Bruce Grant stepped into the police station at the Meads and announced he’d seen on old woman poison me. Which is why, until now, I’ve said nothing.’

  ‘Afraid crass old Pat Murphy would — what was it you said just now? — jump down your throat?’

  ‘Well, yes. Yes, that did hold me back as well.’

  ‘All right, from here on out I’ll listen to your every word, however damn nonsensical. But now, tell me, what’s the name of your witness there out at Halsell Common? Name and address?’

  It was then that Harriet had to confess to the debacle that had occurred when she had seen a group of hooligans on bikes attacking Miss Earwaker’s precious Honda.

  Pat was understanding, and eventually agreed there was probably not much to be lost if he sent a reliable detective out to question the old man more thoroughly.

  ‘If he gets something out of your obstinate old devil,’ he said, ‘then I’ll forget about setting up my reconstruction to get proof Bruce Grant’s a liar. But when we have the handcuffs on the Poisoner, I’ll give Grant a talking-to he won’t forget in a hurry.’

  *

  But that moment of dizzying hope was to fade. Pat Murphy rang and told her that out at Halsell Common one of his most experienced detective sergeants had interviewed the old man at the half-ruined cottage, Ernest Brown by name. And he had been no more successful than Miss Earwaker had been. The door had not been slammed in his face, but he had been able to learn nothing more about the digger at the monkshood plant beyond that he was a small man and that he was wearing a grey suit with a waistcoat and a tie.

  And somehow that unexpected disappointment seemed to have plunged the whole inquiry into the doldrums. None of the outstanding interviews of the witnesses at the pool or at the club hall where Sir Billy Bell had met his end had produced anything at all worthwhile, let alone the few remaining uninterviewed youths from the Virgin and Vicar or the youngsters who had seen poor Tommy O’Brien die in City Hall Square. So Pat’s officers were left drearily to patrol the streets, to go into the pubs and the coffee shops, and even into Birchester’s smart restaurants, all on the faint chance that they would catch either a crone-like old woman or a small man in, possibly, a grey three-piece suit in the act of tipping something into someone’s drink.

  The days passed, too, mysteriously without the dreaded news of a sixth poisoning. And, as if in sympathy, the prolonged Indian summer came to an end, not with the bang of a gigantic thunderstorm but with the whimper of continuous soft rain. Day after day it rained. Rained and rained with hardly a break. Pat, still at the central police station at almost every hour that passed, was becoming in his regular calls to Harriet more and more depressed.

  Every day, with no news of another poisoning to report, Birchester Television and the Evening Star found inaction almost as good a stick as action with which to belabour Detective Superintendent Murphy’s broad back. The Star stuck firmly to its unmasking of the witch-like old woman as the Poisoner, while the TV havered between her and a mystery man. Pat, too, was stalled, if for a different reason. He was unable to disprove with a reconstruction Bruce Grant’s identification because, in all the misty rain, he could not reproduce the sun-sweltering conditions when Harriet, on the point of death, had been rushed away to St Oswald’s.

  ‘Sure,’ he said once, ‘I’d have a WDC in a bikini the like of yours out there in two minutes, naked to the rain, if I thought visibility on a desperate day like this would still nail your man Grant. But it wouldn’t, so I won’t.’

  Harriet, feeling herself almost hour by hour more ready to take a part in the investigation, could only agree. She felt able now to take short strolls morning and afternoon, drizzle or no drizzle, into the nearer streets of the city in the hope that it might be she who saw what none of Pat’s officers had seen so far: a hand hovering over a cup or glass about to pour something in. In fact, when she peered into the few coffee shops and the occasional pub in her residential area all that she saw was hands kept flat over the tops of cups or mugs, or newspapers laid over beer glasses that were, even for a few seconds, not under their owners’ eyes.

  On Sunday morning, over the breakfast croissants John had got from the shop in smart Aslough Parade which prided itself on selling them fresh from the oven, she even found herself wanting to have a look at one of the bulky newspapers he was speedily flipping through, leaving on the floor underneath him a messy heap of discarded advertising brochures and unwanted supplements. She realized that this was the first time she had felt that much curiosity about the goings-on in the great world, aside from her duty-urged reading of any news or half-news about the Poisoner in the Evening Star.

  ‘When you’ve finished with that one,’ she said to John, ‘you might pass it over.’

  ‘Well, who’s back to her old self?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, quite. But, yes, I don’t feel as awful as I did a week ago. I might even have a go at the garden later on, if the rain eases up. If I give the seedpods on the sweetpeas a good picking-over we may yet get a final batch of flowers.’

  ‘Well, if you feel up to tackling forty-odd Sunday morning pages of mostly guff, you have to be fitter than you were, by a long way. Look at this. Big page one headline: Gays on the March. And what’s it all about? Nothing. Just that there’s going to be, later on today, a demo down in London, a few hundred gays and lesbians having a bit of a parade.’

  ‘At least they’ll be having a good day for it. The radio said this morning it’s going to be hot and sunny down there.’

  ‘Rather them than me, though. I’d had enough of the heat before it came to an end.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. But nothing in the paper about the problems of the fair city of Birchester?’

  ‘Not a thing, unless I’ve missed a paragraph tucked away on an inside page. But I suppose, with nothing new having happened since poor old Sir Billy’s death, the story’s gone dead as far as they’re concerned down in the south.’

  ‘I imagine so. And when is the story going to break into life again here?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eerily unsettling as the inexplicable lull in the Poisoner’s activities had been, it did not last beyond the next twenty-four hours. As Harriet lay, on Monday morning, trying to decide if it was time to get up or whether she could allow herself another quarter of an hour in bed, she heard the phone.

  She began heaving herself up to answer. But after just two rings it ceased. She realized that John must not have left the house, and sank back on her pillow.

  Then, some three or four minutes later, she heard his hurried steps on the stairs.

  What? Who ... ? Why? Why, if it was for me, isn’t he just calling to me up here?

  She felt her heart at once beating too fast.

  Before she had managed to control it John came in.

  ‘Bad news,’ he said. ‘Nothing to worry about, not the twins or anything. But not good all the same.’

  She pushed herself up into a sitting position.

  ‘It was Pat Murphy, of course,’ John said. ‘To tell you it looks as if the Poisoner has struck again now. But this time in London.’

  ‘London? He’s sure?’

  ‘Oh yes, almost certain. It happened there yesterday, and now, all bar the final tests, it’s been confirmed as poisoning with aconitine. It can hardly be a coincidence.’

  ‘No, I should say not. But do you know any more?’

  ‘Yes. You remember I said something yesterday, while we were reading the Sundays, about a Gay March down in London? Well, apparently, one of the marchers, a lesbian by the name of Margery, or Marge, something-or-other, was offered a can of drink — it was a fiercely hot day down there — by someone watching the show from the pavement. And the lady took a big swig from the already opened can. And ... well, we both know what must have happened then.’

  ‘That twitch at the hint of a bad taste. The tingling and pricking on the tongue, that feeling of freezing cold ... ’ She cou
ld not check a sudden shuddering. ‘And then, what you saved me from with your pushing and probing fingers, the vomiting that’s violent but not violent enough.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Harriet felt then a prickle of unease at the back of her mind. Was there something wrong about that list of her symptoms? Something she ought to be able to lay a finger on? Not to do with Margery or Marge down in London, but wrong in some other way?

  But no explanation came to her.

  She shook her head.

  ‘And does Pat know any more than that?’ she asked.

  ‘He certainly does. Just before he rang he’d been told that the National Crime Squad is taking over the whole investigation. Their team will be arriving in a few hours.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose that’s to be expected. It’s become a nationwide affair now. I can’t say I’m sorry either. A poisoner who poisons at random and seems never to leave a clue; it’s become too much for a single police force to deal with. Not that Pat hasn’t been doing everything that’s there to be done. And I dare say it’ll be too much for the NCS, come to that. But at least there’ll be more personnel available.’

  ‘Yes. But there’s something else I’ve got to tell you.’

  There was a plainly anxious note in his voice.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Just this. Pat wants you to come down to the incident room as soon as you can.’

  ‘Did he say why? Why now?’

  ‘He didn’t actually. He just said he wouldn’t have asked unless he felt he had to, but that he’d like you to be there before the National Crime Squad team make their appearance. Which will be first thing this afternoon. But I did learn from him, incidentally, that Mrs Piddock took it into her head the other day to resume her existence as Detective Superintendent Martens and interview a witness, one Mrs Dora Long. All without saying anything about it to her anxious husband, at the time or afterwards.’

  ‘Oh God, yes. Yes, well, I’m sorry. But, well, I knew you’d kick up a fuss if I told you, and so ... I thought what you didn’t know wouldn’t do you any harm.’

  ‘Did you indeed? So what are you going to do if I say to you now that, however much better you think you are, you’re still under medical advice to take things quietly and that you oughtn’t to be going over to Waterloo Gardens?’

  Harriet sat there in her rumpled bed and tried to think what her answer should be.

  ‘All right,’ she said at last, ‘you know perfectly well that I am going to go, and I know perfectly well that in an ideal world I’d stay lolling about at home. And, yes, I know that’s probably what I ought to do if I don’t want to risk my head or my health being permanently damaged by what the Poisoner did to me.’

  ‘Well then,’ John said, ‘I’ll run you over there as soon as you’re ready.’

  She felt a rush of affection for the understanding man she’d married all those years ago. But all the reward she felt capable of offering him at this fraught moment was a small smile.

  *

  ‘Harriet, thank God.’ When Pat Murphy’s warm exclamation came to her ears she felt such a jolt of pleasure that tears almost came into her eyes. I’m wanted, she thought. I’m here in the incident room and Pat, the Senior Investigating Officer for perhaps the most serious crimes that have ever occurred in Birchester, is plainly glad I’m here.

  ‘So,’ she said, by way of finding out why Pat had asked for her so pressingly, ‘we’re about to be privileged to have the mighty National Crime Squad coming up from London.’

  ‘A privilege I’d rather not have been offered, so I wouldn’t. The high-and-mighty interfering buggers. That’s why — I’m not ashamed to say it — I’m wanting a kind of angel hovering near.’

  So, that’s my answer.

  ‘Well, yes, Pat,’ she said. ‘I know what you mean. Those people are going to be critical, whether they show it or not. The we know best mob. Yet I suppose, in a way, it’s a good thing to have as much backing as possible. If the hand-picked Londoners can advance things even a little, there’s more hope of catching this man. Or this evil woman, if we’re to believe fantasist Bruce Grant.’

  Pat had opened his mouth to reply when, with two crashing thumps, the double doors of the room banged open and in strode an officer in uniform with the insignia of a Metropolitan Police commander at his shoulders.

  Early. An altogether unexpectedly early arrival.

  ‘Rance,’ he announced. ‘You’ll know the name.’

  Commander Rance was, Harriet took in, a man of just below average height. But he was holding himself so erect that he seemed to be as tall as Pat Murphy himself. A thin face. A strip of narrow moustache above tight-set lips. Two sharply piercing grey eyes.

  At once Pat strode over towards him, a grizzly bear poised between bun-hungry friendliness and long-clawed aggression.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Murphy,’ he said. ‘So the National Crime Squad has come to the rescue.’

  Harriet, taking a step backwards out of the way, could not help allowing herself an inward smile at the manner in which Pat had managed to imbue the words with neither a trace of irony nor a hint of subservience. No fool at all, Pat Murphy, despite his lumbering appearance.

  Behind Commander Rance as he stepped further into the big room there came a dozen other Squad members, in an array of smart suits rather than in the uniform their leader had chosen to wear.

  ‘Yes,’ Rance snapped. ‘The NCS, here to see what’s to be done.’

  ‘Tell you the first thing to be done, boss,’ one of the Squad chipped in, ‘find a good hotel and a decent lunch.’

  He turned to Pat.

  ‘Where’s the best place in this town of yours?’ he said.

  Pat looked at him steadily.

  ‘There’s a sandwich bar at the comer where they do a very reasonable class of baguette,’ he answered. ‘I’ve been living on them here for the past month, those and canteen tea, and I’m none the worse. As for a hotel, we’ll give you a list when you’ve settled in.’

  ‘Ah, well, mate, in the Squad we take better care of ourselves than chewing on baguettes.’

  ‘It’s Superintendent. When you’re not calling me sir.’

  ‘Have it your own way ... sir. But just tell us where we can get a good lunch. We’ve been belting up the motorway and we’re hungry.’

  ‘That’ll do, Marsh,’ Commander Rance said. ‘Ask someone else, and when you go, be back here in one hour, no less.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Rance turned back to Pat.

  ‘Right, Mr Murphy. Be so good as to put me in the up-to-the-minute picture. Your office, if you please.’

  *

  Harriet, listening to good wishes and inquiries from officers she knew, could not quell a growing feeling of depression. Not ten minutes earlier she had been experiencing a sense of pure jubilation at being in the big, noise-buzzing room with its phones constantly ringing, its fax machines chattering, its computer screens winking with envelope icons for incoming e-mails. She had been welcomed into the nerve-centre of the operation. It was where she had longed to be able to play a part, however unofficially. But now, even before she had had time to ask Pat what the state of play was and to bring him the titbit she had learnt from Mrs Long about the manning of the gate at the Club, she was acutely aware that the barging-in Londoners were intent on running the whole investigation.

  What part can I play now, she asked herself, when it’s plain enough that Commander Rance is going to take over, lock, stock and barrel? Look how he pretty well marched Pat off to give him the latest information, the information Pat was going to give to me.

  She wondered whether she should simply leave Pat a note and make her way back home. To sit idly. Or go back to days in bed. But, she told herself, in the end that would be to admit defeat. And that was something she was not going to do.

  So she accepted an offer of a cup of tea from a DC she had worked with once — Christ, I can’t remember his name, I know it and
I just can’t remember it — and sat where she was. Time passed.

  The NCS team returned from whatever lunch they had secured for themselves, a good one it seemed from the aroma of alcohol that swept in with them. She watched them for a little, noting their total failure to mix with the Birchester officers.

  Then Commander Rance came down with Pat from his office.

  He went straight up to the low platform at the top end of the room.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he called out. ‘A few words with you, if you please.’

  The voices in the big room fell away into silence, even those of the slighted women officers.

  ‘Now, I have been hearing Mr Murphy’s full report, and I have to tell you that I have formulated the way the investigation is to be carried out from now on.’

  A rat-tat of a cough, and he continued.

  ‘It is plain to me that all the incidents that have taken place in Birchester, as well as the one in London yesterday, have been planned with just one object by Target. Target, for the benefit of my own officers, is a woman who has been identified by one of the security staff at the Majestic Insurance Sports and Social Club where the first attempt at poisoning took place. Detective Superintendent Murphy, in his cautious way, appears to have some doubts about this identification, and I intend to see the man who made it, a Mr Bruce Grant, myself in the course of today. But in the meantime let me tell you that I see this woman, Target, as preparing to acquire for herself some very large sum of money. Within days now, believe you me, we are going to be presented with the first of her demands. The investigation will proceed henceforth in expectation of that attempt and in taking steps to frustrate it by arresting the perpetrator. Thank you.’

  There came a murmur of renewed optimism from every part of the big room. Harriet noted that the Birchester officers seemed to be as much enthused as the NCS team by Commander Rance’s pulsing determination. She hardly was herself, but put that down to the knowledge that she was unlikely now to have any part in the hunt.

  ‘One thing more,’ Rance cut into the excited murmuring.

  Another sudden hush.