The Third Breath

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Cyril smiled to himself and thought immediately of April. He turned and grinned at her. “With names like that sounds right up your street, your chosen subject.”

  She pulled a sarcastic smile in return. “We’ll see.”

  Owen continued. “Also, Forensics have reported back on the inspection of Stephens’s Jaguar. Nothing. I got the distinct feeling it came with the title, I told you so!”

  A number of officers chuckled.

  It was April who brought the meeting to order. “So we know that Baines and Claire Baldwin were with Stephens in March. Interestingly, that’s well before the accident took place at the factory and we’d assumed that Baines and Baldwin had never met. How wrong we were.”

  Cyril scribbled the word March onto the pad in front of him and circled it.

  “They were there for a reward flight the receptionist told Stuart Park. Stephens took friends and employees occasionally as a mark of gratitude. The trouble is, neither was employed by Stephens and according to Mrs Stephens, she could never recall seeing either of them. Remember, however, that she’s still in a state of shock.”

  “Was it just a local flight?”

  “According to the records, yes. Out and back to Yeadon looking at Stephens’s log. There were no names mentioned for that day’s flight in his flying log but then there’s no legal requirement to do so. The forms kept by the club were as good as useless. We’re also relying on memory regarding Thorndyke or Arthur Baldwin or Albert. Yes, he worked for the flying club but he could be anyone who looked similar to Thorndyke. According to Claire’s birth certificate her actual father was a Graham and not an Arthur or an Albert and there were no other children, just Claire, the daughter.”

  Stuart Park added that the owner of the flying club was adamant, immediately querying the name. “I guess when an employee partly destroys two of your client’s aircraft you kind of remember them. Mind, he even questioned the Christian name so… but that was filed.”

  “Remembering the daughter, Victoria, can’t just be a coincidence, surely?” someone piped in.

  “Let’s focus on what we do know.” Owen stood and moved to one of the whiteboards. “We definitely know that Baldwin liked to keep cocaine in the fridge, Stephens liked to dabble and Thorndyke? According to Chris Mott from Clear Foods, he was partial to a drink but then again, he may also have had other bad habits. It has to be said that alcohol was never referenced on his disciplinary record. His poor professional attitude, bad time keeping and failure to follow procedures were cited and may well indicate that he liked a drink but it’s purely conjecture. The traits he exhibited could certainly be similar to the Baldwin employed at the flying club. He might even have been under the influence of either alcohol or drugs when he damaged the two aircraft. The odd one out, the one without any vices, appears to be Baines.”

  Cyril was surprised by Owen’s vocabulary, the words cited and conjecture within one sentence were certainly not Owen’s normal style and as for the word trait, he would have thought Owen to presume that was something for carrying tea and biscuits on.

  “But looking at the photograph of the frozen corpse, the answers to those questions may well remain a secret unless we can find out where and with whom he’d been staying the weeks prior to his death. His last known address has brought nothing other than it’s clearly the home of a man who, let’s say, had a few problems, not least alcohol and drugs.”

  Cyril looked at Stuart Park and immediately noticed that something was puzzling him. “Penny for them, Stuart.”

  “Just a thought. Could the aircraft have landed at a farm strip or remote location on that flight? I recall Jonathan Stephens describing their continental visits and saying that once in the country and after clearing customs, you can go wherever you please. They were here and staying within the country so could they, as the lad said, go anywhere and land anywhere? Granted if they landed at a registered airfield then that would have to be logged but…”

  “From my experience, they could,” said Cyril. “You’re right and that’s something we’ll never be able to discover, particularly if it were for illegal purposes. You’re thinking drugs… moving drugs. If so why take two spectators?”

  There was a knock at the door and it opened quickly. A female officer popped her head round and looked directly at Cyril.

  “Sorry, a moment, sir. It’s important.”

  Cyril went to the door.

  “This has just come through and I thought you’d need it immediately. Mrs Baines received it, texted to her mobile.” The officer passed the image to Cyril. “After referencing with the photographs we hold it looks like Claire Baldwin, sir.”

  Cyril could see Claire’s features through the layer of ice particles that covered her face and from his recollection of the photograph attached on the incident room board it was Claire. He brought the reading glasses from the top of his head and looked more closely. Her eyes were open, just the hint of blue from the iris seemingly trapped, frozen like a blurred opal. He also looked at the iced garland of what could only be described as ivy across her neck.

  “It was sent from William Baines’s missing phone.”

  “What’s that in her mouth?”

  “We believe it’s a potato, just as in Thorndyke’s photograph.”

  Cyril was taken aback and looked more closely. “A potato. I wonder why someone’s done that.”

  Neither spoke as Cyril inspected the photograph, his arm outstretched compensating for the fact that he had lifted his glasses onto his head.

  “One potato, two potatoes, three potatoes, four… used to play it at school for picking who was to be next. Next person to be It, sir.”

  Cyril raised his eyes and looked directly at the young detective.

  “It,” he sounded each letter. “It, the person to be chosen for a game. Do something for me. Find and copy as many of the variants of that rhyme as you can and let me have them as soon as. Have we tracked down any known relatives, boyfriends, acquaintances?”

  “We know the mother lives in Essex, Woodford Green according to an interview held with local police. Last saw her daughter earlier this year, couldn’t be more specific. Since university they rarely saw each other. The father went off the scene fairly early in her life. We know that he was a Graham and not an Arthur or Albert. Mother and daughter had what can only be described as a turbulent relationship. We’ve tracked down a boyfriend though. The details should be with you. Have you received them?”

  Cyril felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he metaphorically reached out a hand as if to keep another plate spinning. “I’ll check after this meeting. Thanks. Potatoes, as soon as, thanks.” He smiled and watched her leave to give him time to assimilate the latest piece of the jigsaw.

  “We have another piece of the puzzle, people.” He removed his electronic cigarette. He needed nicotine and he needed it right at that very moment. All eyes followed him. He fumbled for the glasses perched on his head before holding up the photograph. “Claire Baldwin, another person frozen in time, kept on ice so to speak, and another inventive use of a missing phone. Everything seems to be linked with bloody cold. We’ve had liquid nitrogen, ice, and frozen bodies.”

  “Cocaine is known as snow and crystal meth is referred to as ice owing to its appearance,” April offered. “Two, possibly three, have known connections with one of those drugs. Both drugs, as I’m sure we’re all aware, are produced differently, one coming from leaves whereas crystal meth comes from a chemical synthesis. However, they can be both smoked in the same way. Give a similar high too, a high that brings with it an increase in alertness. It’s referred to as amping as in over-amped electrical wire. Wagon drivers have been known to use it on particularly long and difficult hauls.”

  “Pilots facing difficult flights?” Stuart Park asked.

  “Same thing, I imagine.”

  Cyril frowned. He had certainly never heard of it being used during the time when he had held a licence.

  April
continued. “Cocaine gives a high for about fifteen minutes whereas ice, crystal meth, can keep you buzzing for eight to twelve hours. However, each will have its own downside.”

  Owen checked his watch and stood. “Sorry, our visitors will be in the meeting room in ten minutes and considering what we’ve just seen, I think four people will be enough to attend: Smirthwaite, Park, Shakti and myself. We’ll report back.”

  “Owen!” Cyril called as he went through the door. “Remember what we said about Strong. You’ll get a feeling.”

  The four left as Cyril checked off assignments to those remaining. He then went to see if Claire’s boyfriend’s file was on the system.

  26

  The three phones were placed in front of him on the work surface. All were by the same manufacturer but could be differentiated by either a personalised case, a designation number or letter. The SE looked the smallest of the three. Mobile phones seemed to have come full circle. Like a small brick originally, the manufacturers’ quest was to reduce the size and within a couple of years they had succeeded but they were back, slim yes, but so big.

  “Whoever would have thought that the world needed so many mobile phones?” he said as his gloved hands moved over each phone. “One potato, two potatoes, three potatoes, four…”

  After a few recitals, he had removed two handsets before placing them in a cardboard box. Their time was done for the moment, but he would need Claire’s phone shortly. He stood and moved through to the conservatory and admired the view, instinctively rubbing his hands. He glanced at the stone outhouse.

  The Detective Constable had placed the photographs on the counter at the Bauhaus Champagne and Cocktail Bar. He watched as each member of staff viewed the images and noted their responses. Two members of staff recalled seeing both Baines and Baldwin, but they could not remember whether they had seen them together or separately. The third person, Thorndyke, nobody recognised.

  The notes on Claire’s boyfriend could only be regarded as sketchy at best. Her mother recalled seeing him once and had made it clear that Claire had a habit of changing her men on a regular basis. The one thing that made Cyril look twice was the man’s age. On the whiteboard Cyril drew an extended green line, a circuitous route to some space. He added the details, his name, Eddie Lawson, and his date of birth. If the date was correct then he would have been nearly twenty years her senior. Cyril wrote AGE in block capitals to ensure that others would see the relevance.

  Replacing the top to the pen, he studied the boards. He knew that there was something within all of these notes and images that was staring the team clearly in the face. He knew that the critical clue was more than likely hidden within the obvious. He recalled the words: The face, have you seen the face? He was scared of a person. This face was looking back at him.

  Cyril reflected upon the notes and the reports on Stephens and Baldwin before moving his eyes along to the next board to search out the two photographs of Thorndyke and Claire Baldwin. Their blind eyes looked back defiantly as if mocking his inability to find a connection. Were the photographs deliberately planned?

  “As requested, sir, the information on the rhyme.”

  Lost in his thoughts the words, Cyril was startled. He turned to face the officer to whom he had spoken with earlier. She held out some sheets of A4 paper.

  “From what I can get from the Internet, they’re all very similar. Some count up to ten but the more common one goes up to seven as in seven potatoes… more. They were known as counting or ‘dipping’ games. It refers to them as a way of starting a game, to find who was to be It. Kids would stand in a line with their fists clenched and one person would be the counter tapping his or her fist on top of the others. When it came round to their own fists, they would tap them either on their chin, like this, or tap alternate fists.” She demonstrated both methods.

  “When you got to the word more, then the fist you landed on was ‘out’, eliminated and the child put it behind their back. They began again and when both fists were ‘out’ then that person stood away, until they were all eliminated apart from one. The last boy or girl standing, you could say.”

  It was the word eliminated that had a resounding effect on Cyril. He turned and looked at the frozen feature of the two faces. “Eliminated… until only one remains and then they are…. It… whatever It can be in this strange game.” He turned back, took the notes she had made and thanked her. Picking up a pen, he jotted the word Eliminated along the top of each board.

  “That was some bloody show, sir,” Owen said with a great deal of enthusiasm.

  Cyril turned. “Really, and what was that?”

  “Strong and the double act. Just to get things clear from that meeting, I don’t believe Strong is involved in any criminal way. You asked me to come back with a gut feeling.”

  Cyril nodded. “And the double act?”

  “Very clever. They brought in a Dewar and some liquid nitrogen. Blimey, if science lessons had been like that at school I’d have been hooked. It’s magical to watch, and according to the guys it’s as safe as the handler. If you know the rules it’s simple, but if you fail to adhere to them it can have a habit of seriously biting you.”

  Cyril leaned against the wall, his face revealing intense interest.

  “Poured some into a bowl, then stuck a flower into it before removing it. He crushed it in his hands.”

  “Did he wear protective clothing?”

  “Only safety glasses but he said that really they were unnecessary. He poured the stuff into a bowl of water. Huge clouds of white rolling smoke tumbled and flowed everywhere. He even let some fall onto his hand and run off without damage. The danger is if you stick your digit into the stuff apparently. And then there was a trick with a balloon…”

  Cyril raised his hand. “I thought it purged the air of oxygen and that would be dangerous.”

  “I talked about that very thing. It depends on the size of the space and the quantity of liquid nitrogen. He gave me this chart. A Dewar of this size full to capacity with liquid nitrogen and left open in an enclosed vehicle would push out all of the oxygen as every vehicle is vented and anyone stepping into that car would immediately be affected by it. Initially they’d be rendered unconscious and then they would die.”

  “The vents on the Jaguar and the Volvo were closed.”

  “According to them, a car isn’t a sealed box. When the nitrogen gas is released the pressure builds, but in a car there are enough gaps to push away the oxygen and prevent too great a pressure build up. If the vents were closed it was deliberate to allow a quicker…” He paused and looked at some notes he had written on the back of his hand “… Enrichment of nitrogen. Importantly, to create a safe space you simply let air flood back in.”

  “Open the doors and leave them ajar so that there’s no trace. The flattened carpet that Forensics discovered was probably where someone positioned the Dewar or flask.”

  “You’re now asking the same question I am, sir. Who has or had access to liquid nitrogen?”

  Cyril raised his eyebrows. “Thorndyke? But he’s dead, frozen.”

  “What about Paul Ashton? He kept it in the cocktail bar.”

  “Stephens had just saved him from bankruptcy. Never went near the aircraft or was seen at the flying club. Make some enquiries. Check on their distributor. It’s worthy of some time.”

  27

  He lined up seven potatoes on the dark grey work surface. All were about the same size and shape, obviously chosen for their consistency. Music drifted from the lounge, an orchestral number, containing a plaintive plea from a soprano. He had chosen this piece as it perfectly suited the morning’s clarity and the task that lay ahead. He emptied a polythene bag of coloured plastic pieces; ears, lips, eyes, onto the surface. Picking up various plastic facial features, he pushed them into each potato. The point attached to each perforated the potato’s shallow skin allowing the vegetable to bleed transparent, starchy fluid. He giggled occasionally, interrupting the melody as e
ach potato took on the appearance of a disgruntled face. He constructed every character with care; the ears, nose, and, usually by choice, a sad mouth. He had even selected the type of plastic hat to either match the colour of certain parts or the character’s demeanour. The fifth one, however, he adorned with a large, green moustache for no apparent reason.

  “You never expected that! How very, very smart for a potato, a perfect appendage, even if I do say so myself!”

  The final potato, created to look like a policeman, was wearing a hat comprising a shield-shaped badge labelled, ‘Spud 1’. The officer sported a smiling, upturned mouth, the only face in the line-up that was depicted with a positive expression; the others all appeared sad. Like a child, he took the final potato and bounced it down the line as if on parade and inspecting the others.

  “Very smart. Chin up, cowboy. Nice moustache. Oh! Look at you, first in the line!” He returned it to the end.

  Once satisfied with his work, he adjusted the setting on Claire’s phone camera to video before placing it on a small flexible tripod in preparation, ready to focus on the seven Mr Potato Heads sitting in a neat line. He stood and started the music again, a specific piece he had planned to match the moment’s mood. He rubbed his hands and blew on them before picking up the phone. Slowly panning along the row of heads, he paused momentarily at each one to allow all the features to be seen and fully appreciated. Only then did he move on. Once done, the phone’s camera was positioned at a suitable distance to capture them all in the row. He stood and changed the music, an opera, for him, a total contrast to the previous piece as it commenced giving a more intense and sinister atmosphere. He was ready for the denouement. If all went to plan well then the effect would be perfect. He pressed the record button.

  A gloved hand slowly came into shot, removing one potato, then the second whilst quietly and slowly whispering the rhyme in an exaggerated French accent in time to his hand’s movement: