The Third Breath

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Dan Grimshaw looked more than a little flustered when he paused, slightly out of breath, in front of Cyril.

  “What do you think I’ve found regarding the phone records and the social media accounts for the two dead and the missing woman?”

  Cyril stood patiently, waiting for a punchline. “I don’t know. What have you found?”

  “They had not communicated with any of the others in the past. None had Facebook, Twitter or any other social media account, from what we can discover.”

  “And, your point is?”

  “Who doesn’t have some sort of social media account these days, even a lapsed one that you tried and gave up on? It’s like not having a television. Who doesn’t have a TV today?”

  Cyril paused. Experience told him what Grimshaw’s reply would be after he informed him that he did not have a television. He mentally bet himself a tenner. “I don’t have a TV, Grimshaw… not had one for years.”

  He saw the frown develop on his colleague’s forehead and waited as he watched the information sink in. “Really? I don’t watch much, don’t know why we have one, usually a load of the proverbial. The wife likes the soaps. Me? Can’t stand them.”

  Cyril smiled inwardly. He’d won his bet. “Is that all you have to tell me?”

  “No, sorry. Information on the two missing phones, they’re their personal ones. We know the make of each and we know the calls made over the period of ownership. They’re still receiving some calls but nothing outgoing. I’ve checked the numbers and Baines has received calls but they’re from business acquaintances who are, as yet, unaware of his death. Stephens’s personal account dried up pretty quickly as the news hit the press. That gives us an insight into their address books but from experience it will be impossible to get any further. There’s no co-operation by the manufacturers and we’re at a dead end.” He raised his eyebrows as if knowing that his words were somewhat inappropriate.

  “From what you’ve said, the phones are still active, neither has been cancelled?”

  “Yes, our procedure, particularly considering the circumstances.”

  “Keep them active. Inform both families and also notify Baines’s business partner, Strong. Just say it’s to do with forensics.”

  “Understood. I’m double-checking all numbers to see if any are duplicated. I’ve also tracked Claire Baldwin’s. She had only one. I’ve called the number a few times but it goes straight to answerphone.”

  “Leave it now. Cross check Baines’s and Stephens’s numbers with her account too. With all the coincidences, I have a hunch that you might find a connection.”

  Cyril stood at the back of the auction resting on a shelf that ran across a radiator. The room was not large. A hotchpotch of chairs was organised in lines, leaving two narrow walkways down either side. Along each wall, smaller items of brown furniture were positioned, each displaying its lot number. The auctioneer sat behind what once was a pulpit and to either side of that were two Doric columns painted to look like marble.

  Letting his eyes drift around the room, Cyril recognised a few of the people: the odd dealer and a couple of keen amateur art collectors like himself. As their eyes met, there would be smiles and the occasional nod. One pointed to a particular painting on the wall before pulling a fearful face and crossing his fingers. Fortunately, it was a Lowry signed print and Cyril had little interest but he politely mouthed, Good luck.

  Checking his catalogue, he noted that his lot would be coming up in the next twenty minutes. The only painting he was interested in was The Coal Cart by Norman Cornish. He took out a pen and jotted notes to the corner:

  Jag forensic results?

  Interview with staff at Clear Foods. Outcome?

  Claire Baldwin photograph distributed to press and social media? Results?

  Librarian: Names, etc. from the day Baines was discovered.

  He was sure that none of these factors had been discussed at a briefing nor had they been added to file or the boards.

  “Lot 93, The Norman Cornish…”

  Cyril was suddenly alert.

  22

  Shakti burst into Owen’s office wearing a huge smile. A number of heads turned and offered greetings. Walking directly to Owen, she dropped a small parcel into his hand.

  “Small for a stick of rock that, Shak!” He looked down at the parcel. “Always loved getting rock when people returned from being away, especially Edinburgh rock; it’s so soft, doesn’t destroy your teeth like the normal pink stuff.”

  “Sorry, don’t sell rock in France, or Italy for that matter. Saw that though and thought of you.”

  He opened the packet and looked at the key ring spelling the word, NICE.

  “Nice?” Owen mumbled. “Thanks.”

  “Nice not nice... give me strength, man!”

  Owen winked, moved around his desk and gave her a hug. “Good to have you back. Have you seen Smirthwaite? You’re taking over his part in the investigation and you’ll need to get your skates on, things are beginning to warm up.”

  DC Shakti Misra had been with the team for a good while and she was a reliable officer who worked well, particularly with Owen, having taken him under her wing after the death of a colleague. There was a strong trust and a firm friendship.

  Shakti rubbed her hands. “Can’t wait.”

  “Me neither. Thanks for this. I have an appointment in York.”

  The Clear Foods factory was not what Owen had been expecting. He had imagined it to be relatively small, tucked away on an industrial estate on the outskirts of York and so to find it nestled on the outer edge of a relatively compact and quaint village came as a pleasant surprise. It was larger than he had envisaged too.

  Three articulated lorries queued to the left of a designated delivery gate. Before the first wagon, Owen could see what appeared to be a trapdoor set into the ground. He would later realise that it was a weighbridge, there was also one on the opposite side of the security office for those wagons exiting. He watched as the driver inched the vehicle forward. Once in position, paperwork was passed between the security office and the driver. The lorry then moved away to be lost within the factory confines.

  Owen walked to the main entrance. He had made an appointment and as he approached the security office, an attendant immediately greeted him.

  “Detective Sergeant Owen?”

  Owen held up his ID.

  “You’re expected. Mr Mott is waiting for you. Have you parked over there?”

  Owen nodded and smiled.

  “Good, thank you. I’ll escort you to his office.”

  Before moving away, Owen was handed a fluorescent jacket, safety goggles and a hard hat. “Health and Safety.”

  “Do I not need steel capped boots too?” Owen said tongue in cheek but the joke soared over the man’s head.

  “No, only if you’re in the warehouse working or loading and unloading the wagons but I doubt they’ll have you doing that.”

  Owen smiled.

  The office was small but pleasantly organised with one window looking down onto a view of the processing part of the factory. Owen observed what looked like potatoes tumbling down a mesh conveyor belt. Two people at either side watched as they bounced and rolled past. The stainless steel structure looked complex and very efficient.

  “Detective Sergeant Owen?”

  The voice made Owen jump.

  “Sorry, you were engrossed. Chris Mott, I’m one of the factory managers. Pleased to meet you, sorry for the delay. Enjoying the view I see? The machines look complicated don’t they? It’s quite simple this side of the operation. The conveyors carry different vegetables. Some of those will go to make soups whilst others will be canned. We did try to make a mashed potato many years ago but it didn’t catch on.”

  “I’ve come to talk to you about Arthur Thorndyke. I believe he was in charge of the area where you had a number of accidents, including one to himself?”

  “Thorndyke, yes. He was initially hospitalised, quite serious an
d he’s been off work now for some time. He’s been suspended pending the inquiry. As you’re aware, there were shortcomings on both sides during that period, one that we’re not proud of, I might add. We had, or shall I say we thought we had, trained our staff to an appropriate level when dealing with machines, chemicals and gases. There are rules to keep people in the workplace safe and the factory functioning within the statutory legal requirements. We do, I can assure you, take those responsibilities extremely seriously and even in the most well organised factories and places of work accidents happen. One can never plan for every eventuality, as I feel sure you’re aware, especially considering your demanding profession. The majority of incidents here are human error… and by that very fact… accidents! Usually when people lose concentration or simply get it wrong.”

  “So what happened and what happened to him? I’ve read the report but I’d like to hear it from you, Mr Mott.”

  “How long have you got, sergeant?”

  Owen looked at his watch. “As long as it takes.” He took a Dictaphone from his pocket. “Do you mind? It saves you coming to the station on Fulford Road.”

  “I think the best thing would be to go to the area where you can see everything first hand. That’s why you’ve been issued with those and that’s why it’ll take time.” He pointed to the safety apparel Owen had placed on the chair.

  Within twenty minutes, Owen was standing in front of three caged large white cylinders which reminded him of parts of a rocket. Pipes and valves appeared from the bottom and disappeared to the right. A heavy coating of white frost had formed around some of the lower pipes.

  Mott blew on his hands before rubbing them together. “Liquid nitrogen, sergeant. We use it for our purification and freezing tunnels. Food frozen rapidly keeps its flavour. Managed well, it’s cheap and exceptionally efficient. It’s computerised, the flow and use, even down to when we reorder. To put you in the picture, there are many ways of freezing depending on the product: air freezing, blast freezing, fluid freezing and de-hydro freezing, to name but a few.”

  Owen looked at Mott. Owen really was not interested in the history of frozen peas, more the story about Thorndyke’s errors “So what was the problem on that particular day?” he asked, failing to keep the frustration from his voice.

  “Sorry, yes, quite. The pipes travel through to the tunnels along here and then into here.” Mott opened a door. “You can see from this monitor that all’s well. An alarm would sound if there were a build up, a concentration of nitrogen gas. As you can see we have a normal reading so it’s safe to enter. Each operative would carry a personal N2 detector.” Mott lifted his jacket to one side and pointed to the bright yellow device attached to his belt. “One of the problems, sergeant, is with red tape. When working with liquid nitrogen we have to monitor the oxygen levels and have a change of atmosphere over a set period; this can be inconvenient as it takes energy to build up a working temperature. Ensuring that the air is changed at regular, statutory intervals, as directed by H&S, is a problem for our engineers in maintaining their energy targets.”

  Owen was beginning to lose the will to live. “Thorndyke?”

  “On that day, Thorndyke was, for some reason yet to be explained, filling a Dewar of liquid nitrogen. A Dewar is a pressurised flask. When liquid nitrogen is stored it boils at a ridiculously low temperature, minus one hundred and ninety-six degrees Celsius. Gas is given off as evaporation and if the liquid were not stored in a vented, pressurised vessel it would simply explode. So, he said that he found a faulty valve and had burned his hands on the metal as a stream of liquid nitrogen, forced out from the valve under pressure, struck and affected his lower abdomen. When I say burned, I mean that those areas affected by the escaping liquid had suffered severe frost damage. It’s minus 195, it’s comparable to putting your hands into a naked flame considering the temperature differential, and consequently he’d been unable to turn it off. The leaking liquid nitrogen then ‘burned’ off, evaporated into nitrogen gas and as the area was confined the nitrogen gas filled the space. When it does that the oxygen is pushed out, purged and the nitrogen gas settled. Remember, sergeant, that although nitrogen gas is slightly lighter than oxygen, the cold vapour coming from liquid nitrogen settles. Thorndyke was receiving treatment, he’d moved away from the area but suffered breathing difficulties; no doubt his fight-or-flight instinct kicked in. Sadly, others working in the lower confines of that area were unaware of the danger. I believe you’ve read the reports?”

  “I don’t see why it was Thorndyke’s fault, surely it was the valve?”

  “We have engineers for that. We also don’t know why he was filling a Dewar, that’s certainly not his job. Had he followed the correct operating procedure, he’d have sounded the alarm and the other employees would have been evacuated from the area and then the valve would have been made safe. The nitrogen gas was going nowhere. Once the staff was clear and the ventilation improved, it would just dissipate, no harm would have been done. That’s why we have, and I’m sure the police have, rules and procedures. They’re there to keep the staff and the public safe. As it was, he put himself and other members of staff in harm’s way.”

  “If they all had alarms surely they’d have been warned of the build up of nitrogen?”

  “And this is what I said. When something goes wrong, the infamous Murphy’s Law states that it tends to go wrong in a big way….”

  The acronym, FUBAR came into Owen’s head straight away. Fucked up beyond all recognition!

  “Two had left their gas alarms in their lockers and the other person was well away from the other two. Just so happened the two without alarms were together. This is why the legal side to this incident is not clear cut, there were faults on both sides.”

  “So how dangerous is liquid nitrogen?” Owen asked, hoping to understand fully the nature of the gas.

  “When controlled, like now, it’s as safe as houses. Handled properly you have no worries. However, it can be deadly and a force to be reckoned with. Put some in a steel container without a vent and the pressure will become so strong it will destroy it, blow the container apart. These cylinders in front of you are vented for that very purpose. Like all things, give a car to a maniac driver and you have a killing machine. We’ve seen that too often recently, but handled well and driven safely it’s a very different story. Millions of miles are driven every year without a problem, so too with liquid nitrogen, in the hands of a fool it can be lethal.”

  Those words set alarm bells ringing inside Owen’s head.

  Owen wasted no time. Once in the car, he rang Cyril. “Thorndyke failed to follow procedure, probably thinking he was doing the right thing but… liquid nitrogen, sir. Despite serious cold burns to Thorndyke’s hands and lower abdomen as well as suffering breathing problems, Mott didn’t consider the man to be a victim. According to him, it was his action that inadvertently put others in danger. He was, as you know, suspended even though he was ill. Mott said that they could never fully understand what he was doing there and they still haven’t been able to get a full report from him. Even so, they say that they tried to ensure that he received the appropriate support but he failed to respond to their offers. I thought that the manager wanted to force all the blame onto one man, see an end to it all. A potential scapegoat maybe, sir. Not sure.”

  “So why get rid of the H&S company that was there to keep operatives and the factory safe if it’s one man’s error?”

  “They allowed things to slip. According to Mott, after the accident and subsequent inspection they were seen to have given inadequate training, that and not following the latest H&S guidelines. Something to do with the number of air changes, the more changes, the greater the cost! They’d worked fewer changes in the past without a problem until Thorndyke’s accident and subsequent closure of part of the works.”

  “Get hold of Strong. I want him to come in and talk to us about the Health and Safety issues around liquid nitrogen. I also want a representative from the
gas supplier. As soon as, Owen, as soon as. And Owen, be courteous. It’s info we need right at this minute.”

  23

  Owen rang the bell. He waited in the entrance lobby, conscious of the cyclopic eye of a domed ceiling-mounted camera pointing in his direction. It seemed an age until he heard the door mechanism click. He was a few minutes late for his appointment as his meeting with Colin Strong had taken longer than anticipated but he had managed to organise two people from a gas supply company to talk at a briefing as Cyril had requested.

  The waiting room was quiet and he heard the voices of the chiropodist and his patient in a room further up the corridor; they were obviously both running late. Owen stared at the framed posters and diagrams positioned along the walls. Some advertised comfortable and sensible looking shoes whilst one showed a cutaway drawing of a foot. Around the centre of the walls was a border illustrating the outlined silhouettes of different creatures’ feet. He tried to match the animals to the feet. The duck, he thought, was the easiest.

  Within five minutes, he was sitting facing Craig Gillan, his bare feet stretched out in front of him.

  “How’s your foot been?”

  “It was a little sore to begin with but seems okay now, thanks.”

  Gillan removed the adhesive pad and inspected the verrucas. “They seem to be healing well, another week and you’ll not know that they were there. Your nails, however, could do with a trim. Do you want me to do them while you’re here?”

  “Thanks.”

  He collected a tray of instruments from the store. “Solved the mystery murders, Mr Owen, or should we still be trembling in our beds?”

  “Still ongoing.” To quickly change the subject, he mentioned something that he had touched upon during his previous visit. “Last time I thought you’d burn the plantar warts off with ice, liquid nitrogen. Is it difficult to store and use?”