The Third Breath

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Julie considered her words carefully, she felt as though she were passing bad news to a bereaved relative but knew it must be done for Cyril’s sake and for Wendy herself.

  “I know a little of Cyril’s past. He’s talked of many things but one thing that seemed to affect him more than anything else was his telling of the day he discovered his father’s infidelity. Had it not been for spotting that car, the one his father wants him to cherish, on a country lane, he might never have known, he would have remained ignorant of the facts. However, he did know and only recently learned that this affair, your relationship with his father was condoned by his mother, maybe even instigated by her. Imagine the maelstrom of confusion that was generated in his young mind, interpreting the confronting situation as he did. I think he still has to come to terms with the fact that his own mother wanted you to be part of their lives so that when she had gone, Cyril, her little boy would not be without a mother figure, but in the care of someone who truly loved them all.”

  She watched as Wendy removed a handkerchief from her sleeve before raising it to her nose.

  “His mother and I had discussed it over many weeks. As she grew weaker she became convinced it was best for all concerned. Had we known that Cyril had witnessed what he had, we would have done things differently. You must remember that time was not on our side. His mother, bless her, and I for that matter, did it for the right reasons, to protect the ones we loved.”

  Neither spoke. The birdsong seemed to fill the uneasy gap perfectly as each considered their conversation and what might happen in the future.

  4

  Owen was sitting at his desk trying to fish food crumbs from his computer keyboard using the end of a penknife and a paintbrush. Occasionally he blew at the stubborn objects but with little or no success. His tie had often worked effectively as a food chute to send lost morsels directly to the computer’s keys where they had lodged in the crevices and seemed to stay indefinitely. Why he was endeavouring to clear the detritus today of all days was anyone’s guess. He then looked at the screen. That too had been the target of a number of coughs and sneezes considering the spatter patterns that, in the artificial light, looked not too dissimilar to a Jackson Pollock painting. He soaked the end of his tie in his mouth and attempted to wipe clean the screen.

  DC Stuart Park walked past Owen’s desk, dropped a blue file into the tray and whistled the tune, When I’m Cleaning Windows. The subtlety went over his sergeant’s head.

  Owen sat back and admired his handiwork. He could almost hear Cyril’s comment, “Bloody hell, Owen, you’ve improved it worse!” He frowned.

  Grabbing the file, he removed the autopsy report on David Stephens and flicked through it. He quickly scanned the more technical terminology:

  …no evidence of epilepsy and tests show ischemic hypoxia looking at the metabolic dysfunction and cell death. History of heart failure and recent infarction…

  It was not as Caner had initially suspected, natural causes. The advice was that the death should be considered as open owing to some contradictory factors running parallel with the severe nature of the long-standing heart problems. There was little evidence to contradict his original theory but there was doubt.

  Considering the conflicting findings, it would be impossible at that stage to say whether they were or were not contributory or resultant factors. Caner’s advice was that they were resultant. Owen flicked back hoping to discover the exact reason for the change in diagnosis.

  …tested results for blood oxygen saturation demonstrate that it was less than eighty-six per cent and therefore severe and rapid…

  Owen tossed the file back onto the desk. In some ways he was reassured but an open verdict seemed contradictory to the confident first prognosis. However, he could see that there would be no reason to investigate further as the autopsy results and David Stephens’s medical history suggested that his death was the result of a sudden heart attack. Some toxicology results were still outstanding, but from those received to date, there was evidence that he had been taking his prescribed medication but, more pertinently, there were positive signs of cocaine use. Further peripheral blood tests had been sent for analysis. Owen was intrigued to read that the findings suggested that Stephens was more poorly than at first thought by his family. Owen read an attached handwritten note from Caner.

  Owen,

  Drug use may prove to be a contributory factor in the further development of his medical condition but more tests will help. However, normally cardiac troponins are released four to six hours after a heart attack and can stay elevated for up to two weeks. If you compare the figures here you can see that our man was in rather poor health and that he had possibly suffered a number of minor heart attacks recently. We shall await further toxicology results but it seems clear. I feel there will be no inquest, even in light of the Class A drug use.

  Regards,

  Isaac Caner

  Although concerned at the findings, Owen thought that if all the cases were as easy as this he would be able to spend more time rooting around the keys of his computer and less time actually on it. His desk phone rang.

  He listened. “Ask them to come in, sooner rather than later. A cocktail glass you said? Under the driver’s seat? And a…” He paused as if checking what he was about to say made any sense. “A potato? Ring me as soon as you have an appointment time.”

  Owen put the phone down, stood and went in search of DC April Richmond.

  Wendy and Julie had returned to the kitchen when they heard the Bentley crunch its way up the drive. Glancing out of the window, a mug of coffee in her hand, Julie watched the car come to rest. She observed Cyril as he climbed out of the car and she could see from his demeanour that he still had the same dilemma. She grabbed a cup and saucer from the cupboard and prepared a coffee for him. It was going to be a difficult day.

  Paul Ashton had been shocked to hear of his partner’s death. He tried to busy himself in the lounge area of the Bauhaus Cocktail and Champagne Bar but he realised he was not achieving very much. He had initially been the sole owner until the venture faced serious financial difficulties. It was then that Stephens had proposed a partnership; he had been part owner for just over nine months and business had flourished. David had brought not only the necessary funding but also years of operational experience. They had become close friends. Although Paul did not like to think about the welfare of the business at this sad time, he was a realist and knew that David’s death could not have come at a more difficult moment.

  Paul had decided to close at lunchtime out of respect but to open for the evening trade as closing for the whole day would have been the last thing David would have wanted. It was, however, very clear that Paul’s heart was not in it. His two staff would be able to handle the bar. Being a weekday it should not be too busy. He would be around in case they need him.

  Mrs Stephens sat in the informal interview room, accompanied by her son and daughter. No one had chosen to accept the coffee offered and it was clear that they were all still in a state of anxiety. Owen and April entered, Owen introducing them both. It never ceased to amaze him how formalities continued in the most difficult of circumstances. He noted that Mrs Stephens looked a good ten years younger than he had imagined even at such a traumatic period in her life.

  “Thank you for coming in at this difficult time, our condolences to you and your family.” He paused, giving her time to compose herself. “Can you tell me why you contacted us, Mrs Stephens?”

  “It was the glass, the glass my son found under the seat when the car was returned to us.”

  Owen failed to comprehend the significance. He looked across at April hoping she had picked up on something he had failed to see. She too seemed in the dark.

  “Jonathan, my son, had washed and cleaned the car the day before. He’d vacuumed the inside and he knew that the glass wasn’t in there the morning my husband left for Harrogate. I know that he didn’t take it with him; he only took his phones and laptop.
I walked him to his car.”

  “Was there a potato found too?”

  “Goodness me, yes, a small one. How could I possibly forget that? It was sprouting too. I threw it away. I can assure you that he’d never go shopping in his car and certainly not to buy vegetables!”

  “So it could have been there a while considering the state of it?” Owen said.

  “No, the car’s new. It can’t have been and it wasn’t there the day before.” Jonathan’s tone left Owen in no doubt that it must have been added on the day his father died.

  “So how do you think they found their way under the seat?”

  There was a disconcerting pause as Jonathan’s mother raised her eyebrows. “Mr Owen, Sergeant, I’m not a policewoman. The potato, goodness knows, but what I do know is that this glass…” She took the glass from her bag and peeled away the bubble wrap as she continued to speak,“…Was not in the car when he left home so either he collected it from somewhere else that day and it fell under the seat at some point on his journey or someone put it there.”

  “Did you know your husband’s timetable for the day?” It was April’s turn to speak.

  “Yes. He was in Harrogate all day. He has two businesses in the town. The other is in Knaresborough. He rang me as he was leaving the Bauhaus.”

  “At what time?”

  “About nine. He said he’d be forty minutes, that the car was parked in the usual place; Tower Street, I assumed. He always parks there. He liked the security of the CCTV. He never liked parking on the roadside.”

  Owen simply looked down. “Cameras, right! Could the glass have come from the bar?”

  “Mr Owen, forgive me, but I believe David passed away before taking his car from the car park. If he had collected it that day, why hide it beneath the seat? Surely it would be on the passenger seat?”

  Owen took a deep breath and glanced at April.

  April responded immediately. “So he didn’t stop anywhere before he arrived in Harrogate, as far as you know?”

  “If he did, then it’s a surprise to me. Maybe your roadside cameras could answer that question, the ones that check number plates against road tax and the like. They seem to be everywhere these days.”

  Owen raised his eyebrows and made a note to check. “We’ll need to keep the glass. I’ll get our Forensics Team to take a look. We’ll need your fingerprints to eliminate you from the procedure.” Owen noticed her look of horror as she looked at her beautifully manicured nails.

  “There’s no ink, we scan them digitally now.”

  Owen turned to Jonathan. “You cleaned the inside of the car yesterday?”

  “Yes, it’s new. We have a few cars and I simply enjoy the task. I can assure you that the car was perfect when I’d finished. There was certainly neither a glass nor a potato in the car when he drove away.”

  Owen tapped his fingers on the table, glancing at the daughter too upset to be questioned. He considered the implications of the find. “Thank you, thank you for coming in at this difficult time.”

  “Do you know the F-Type?” Jonathan asked looking at both officers in turn. “It has two seats and very little room. The back of the seats cannot come forward other than by adjusting the rake angle to suit the driving position. That glass could not have fallen from a parcel shelf during a drive, it had to have been deliberately placed under the seat. The potato could have fallen from his pocket and rolled but why would he carry a potato? It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Thank you.” A small bell rang in Owen’s head. He did not like the way this interview was going. Clearly there were questions and he had to find the answers. So much for it being a simple case.

  An officer entered with a digital laser scanner and within minutes the prints had been taken. April escorted them to the front desk where they were signed out before she returned to the interview room. There was a momentary silence as each glanced at their notes. Owen sat back, folded his arms and stared at the cocktail glass.

  “Where the bloody hell did that come from and why was it there?”

  April jotted down a few notes before she spoke. “She’s obviously read the autopsy report but showed no real concern. Neither did she mention the poor state of her husband’s health nor the use of drugs.” She repeated Owen’s internal words. “So much for it being a simple case.”

  “Drug use I’ve kept for later. Put someone on to checking journey times using available ANPR cameras. That should give us a clear idea of where he went on that day.”

  5

  Cyril threw a cover over the Bentley, releasing a cloud of dust particles that were immediately caught in the sun’s beaming light. He marvelled at them momentarily; they had the appearance of minute fireflies. He ensured that the battery was connected to the trickle charger, wondering if that small action was an admission that the car would survive. He had connected it to a life-support system. The drive and the menthol vapour from his electronic cigarette had helped focus his thinking.

  The house would eventually be his. All the mystery and secrets that he believed it once held had somehow drifted away over the last few days. It held no ogres but it still retained within its walls some bad memories. He would also admit for the very first time that it held some fond ones too. He neither needed to nor was he about to make a decision about the car but would leave it here in the garage.

  As often as work demands permitted he resolved to return knowing that he needed and wanted to see Wendy. She was the custodian of his past and he was aware of his obligations if he wanted to discover the inner truth about his mother and the complexity of the tangled relationships of his parents. Knowing the truth might finally allow him to break down the barriers and escape his own personal demons.

  On returning to his desk, Owen pulled up a chair for April. “Have you read the autopsy on David Stephens?” He looked up as April nodded. “Although it’s an open verdict and Caner clearly feels that it’s natural causes why am I not fully convinced? Is it because of that?” Owen pointed to the glass wrapped within the protective bag. “Or is it the discovery of traces of cocaine in his system? We need to discover why that glass was there and more importantly why it might have been put there. We need to get it to Forensics pretty smartish.”

  She smiled at Owen, knowing what she would be doing for the rest of the day. “For it to be anything else, and I know you’re edging towards unlawful killing for whatever reason, you’ll need clear and indisputable evidence to back up that claim. What you expect to get from… ” She didn’t finish but collected the glass. “A thought. With respect, you might also need permission to expend valuable resources on what might be a wild goose chase.” She held up the glass.

  Owen frowned realising her words were wise. “Thanks, April. What’s the state of David Stephens’s businesses, I wonder? Before you take the glass to Forensics, please ask Smirthwaite to do some digging. You know the drill. Check for loans, lease agreements, family debt, maybe too many financial commitments. Something’s just not right here unless Stephens was a bloody brilliant actor and kept his health issues and his drug use a closely guarded secret. But if so, why? I think I’ll pay a visit to the Bauhaus Cocktail and Champagne Bar.”

  April simply smiled and shook her head. Owen would do what he felt to be necessary and he would make the request when he had a little more to go on. “Lovely. Have one for me when you’re there.”

  Owen parked on Raglan Street just behind Harrogate’s library. He remembered that this was the area from which Stephens had made his final phone call. The traffic was busy for late morning but then the sun was out and that always attracted the shoppers. The Bauhaus was a well designed double-fronted bar positioned in a large, modern stone development. Grey frames were filled with distinctive frosted glass bedecked with lettering spelling the word, Bauhaus, the ascenders of letters ‘b’ and ‘h’ extending to the top of the window. It was elegant, well executed and probably cost a small fortune to build.

  The bar was busier than Owen had expe
cted. He glanced at the large room; the paint scheme continued the grey theme giving the room a sophisticated yet dour air. Large coloured block posters were beautifully presented around the room and the settees and chairs, all grey leather, added to the overall appearance. He made his way to the bar.

  “What can I get you?” The young lady behind the bar slid across a cocktail menu. Owen in return lifted his ID.

  “Mr Paul Ashton, please.” Owen smiled wanting to add, ‘shaken, not stirred’ but resisted the temptation.

  Her response was professional, as if it were a normal, daily occurrence. She smiled and moved away towards a door at the rear of the bar. Owen watched as a few metres away a cocktail was poured into a glass. What appeared to be steam drifted downwards from the rim until it settled around the stem making him immediately think of a miniature witch’s cauldron; the purple contents only enhanced the image.

  “Rather have a pint,” he mumbled to himself as he fidgeted uncomfortably. The entry of Paul Ashton came as a relief.

  “Paul Ashton. How may I help?” He offered his hand across the bar.

  “I’d like to talk about David Stephens if you have somewhere more private?”

  Julie dropped Cyril on Robert Street.

  “Ring me later.” She blew a kiss and drove away.

  Within an hour, Cyril had unpacked, loaded the washing machine and made a pot of tea. He checked his watch, shook his wrist and looked again, 3.55pm. He settled in a chair, removed the cosy from the pot and poured a cup. Dialling Owen’s number, Cyril put his phone on speaker and sipped his tea.

  “Owen, just wanted to let you know that I’ll be in tomorrow. How’s the car park death going?”