The Third Breath

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  38

  Cyril sat at home listening to Gorecki’s Symphony number 3, the Symphony of Sorrowful Songs that had been played to accompany the opening sequence of the Mr Potato Head video. He had to admit that it did nothing for his mood but he was enchanted by the quality of the soloist’s voice. He wrote down his thoughts on the case as they came to him, trying to work retrospectively. Occasionally he kept stopping to wonder how Thorndyke, a man initially on the periphery of the investigation, a man whom they believed to be the first murdered, could be the killer. He needed to identify a motive. Yes, he could see the associations between Baines and Baldwin but then those connections did not seem to be a strong enough reason to kill. Revenge was always a possibility, but for what? The link had to be with Stephens and the likely illegal importation of drugs, but then why the potatoes, the cocktail glass? Unless they found Thorndyke, Cyril doubted that the truth would ever be known, after all, who was he looking for, Thorndyke, Monk or Baldwin?

  Owen was in bed when his mobile danced across the bedside table, its shrill and annoying ring awakening him. His uncontrolled hand flapped about, trying to catch it but he did nothing but send it crashing to the floor. He could see the name of the caller on the screen. He sighed.

  “Good morning, sir,” his tone sarcastic.

  There was a pause as Cyril checked the time; it was well past midnight.

  “Sorry, Owen. Were you in bed?”

  “For the last two hours. I’m trying to redress my work life balance, sleep being a vital part of that balancing act, seeing as I did fourteen hours today.” He wanted to ask if his boss had wet the bed but thought better of it.

  “When Thorndyke suffered the injury at work, do you recall whether we checked all his personal details? He must have had a hospital record.”

  “To be honest I don’t, but I could always get out of bed, shower, dress, drive to the station and check then give you a call back.”

  “Are you sure? That would be so helpful, Owen. Always said you were as keen as mustard.”

  “I was being facetious, sir. It’s the middle of the night. Ring control, they’ll get someone to look. I take it you’re not with Dr Pritchett?”

  Cyril’s tone immediately changed. “I’m sorry, Owen, I never thought. I’ll see you in the morning. My apologies.”

  Owen looked at the empty space next to him and smiled.

  “Sorry for last night, Owen, wasn’t thinking straight, forgot the time.”

  “Hospital records. Do we have them?”

  “Description is that of Thorndyke and we’ve checked the address he gave. Shithole if I remember, but it hadn’t been lived in for some time. We’ve nothing on Albert Baldwin, that was a fictitious address he gave the flying club. The farmer and the Wilbors have confirmed Monk to be our man. They remember a car too, blue Honda CRV, 4x4. Parked at the house. No idea of registration number. We’re running checks from the local ANPR records. If he’s changed his name then he’ll have a number of registration plates. Any news on Jonathan Stephens?”

  “We’ve arranged round the clock armed security. As soon as he can be interviewed we’ll have someone there. The flask, the Dewar found in the car seems a likely match for the one placed in Baines’s vehicle. Liquid nitrogen is the silent killer according to the lab people, takes just three breaths if you’re in a confined space where it’s released. It pushes all the oxygen and you’re out for the count. Within a minute or two it’s goodnight, Vienna. He’s a bloody lucky lad.”

  Shakti knocked on the office door and pointed to Owen’s computer. “We’ve intercepted another video from Claire Baldwin’s phone. This one was sent to Jonathan Stephens’s mobile. We’ve had it here since he went missing, to help monitor any activity. The video is, we believe, directed at both you and Owen, sir.”

  “Owen!” A degree of urgency rang within his voice.

  He moved quickly to the desk and brought up the relevant file. The familiar strains of Gorecki’s Symphony number 3 could be heard against a black screen before a slide show commenced. The individual images of the masked photographs of Thorndyke, David Stephens, Claire Baldwin and Jonathan Stephens appeared before reverting to darkness. A video started. The decorated potato heads were again shown in a line, this time, however, the first was sitting in an identical cocktail glass to that found in Stephens’s car. The second was sitting on a beer mat, the same as that found at Baines’s murder scene. Owen immediately pointed to them.

  “Look, sir. They must represent Stephens and Baines.”

  Cyril leaned forward, his reading glasses on the end of his nose.

  The camera slowly panned to each face, to every potato before pulling back. Suddenly a hammer crashed onto the first one in the row. Owen jumped back. It had appeared from nowhere and the act of aggression had taken him by surprise. Pieces of potato, cocktail glass and plastic fragments flew in all directions before the hammer crashed down onto the second one and then the third.

  “Bloody hell, wasn’t expecting that!”

  The hammer was then rested in front of the last potato in the row; the one they believed represented a police officer. The screen went black again and the music slowly died. All three watching said nothing for a few moments.

  “Location of the call?” Cyril knew the answer before he asked the question.

  “Harrogate, sir, and strangely enough, less than a mile from here. That, however, means nothing as it could have been a delayed post.”

  “Counting the damaged potatoes, he thinks that Jonathan Stephens is dead. The officer who saved Stephens, is she being watched?”

  “No. She wanted to stay in work, said she was fine.”

  “I want full protection, I want someone with her. We take no chances. Owen we’re going to pay the flying club a visit. I’d like a word with…” He glanced at the notes he had made the previous evening. “Frank. I think he knows more than he admits to. Shakti, make some enquiries about the club, finances etc. and keep me up to speed on Stephens’s condition. When he’s awake I want to know.”

  “What about April coming along too? She’d be able to befriend the receptionist, Frank’s other half.”

  Cyril smiled and nodded.

  Owen turned off Victoria Avenue, Yeadon and into the airfield pulling up in sight of the flying club. Two aircraft sat some distance away. Cyril stood leaning against the car as the sound of a distant jet from over by the passenger terminal mixed with the wind bringing a slight smell of jet A1 fuel. It brought back memories of his time at Speke and Liverpool Flying School. Owen and April stood looking at their boss.

  “Those things make me sick and I’d rather not bother,” Owen announced looking across at the Piper Cherokee. “Bean can with wings and bloody dangerous to boot!”

  April giggled. “For a big man you can be real soft.”

  Cyril smiled at the memory of flying back from Nice with Owen, recalling how he had turned the most gruesome shade of green.

  As they entered the flying club, a student and an instructor were sitting together looking over one of the charts. The student was plotting the wind using a handheld device; neither looked up as they entered. They walked to the reception desk. Owen smiled and held out his ID.

  “Good morning. Sorry to bother you but we’d like a word with Frank.”

  “I’m sorry but he’s off for a few days. Can I help?”

  “Off where?” Owen asked; the politeness had leached from his voice leaving her in no doubt that their visit was serious.

  “He’s taken an aeroplane to sell; a private sale. Should be back tomorrow either with it or…”

  To Cyril, her smile seemed false and wrapped in a degree of insincerity as well as uncertainty. “We’d like to look around David Stephens’s aircraft.”

  “Now that’s difficult as that’s the aircraft he’s taken. We part owned it, as you know, and his family were happy to sell it. Maybe too many memories.”

  “I take it he filled out a flight plan?” Cyril knew immediately from her ex
pression that something was amiss.

  “Was he flying alone?” Cyril watched her eyes.

  She shook her head. “Baldwin.” She pushed the flight plan across the desk.

  Owen and April looked at each other and both instinctively thought of Claire but quickly remembered Albert Baldwin.

  “It’s Thorndyke!” Cyril snapped before taking out his phone.

  He rang police control and asked them to link with Europol. He checked the flight plan, next his watch and read out the aircraft registration. “Should have landed at Le Touquet approximately four hours ago. I’m informed that he might then have headed to a small airfield near Abbeville, a club which was interested in the aircraft. On the other hand he might be returning here unannounced. I want a check on all public crossings so liaise with Border Force. Let them also know there’s a chance that he could return by private aircraft. He has the necessary connections.”

  Cyril thought about it and knew that tracking a light aircraft would be near impossible considering it could land almost anywhere. “It’s urgent. Let Owen know when everything’s done.”

  The three officers simply stared at the woman behind the reception desk. They could clearly see the anxiety that had spread across her face.

  39

  Jonathan Stephens stirred. Opening his eyes, his right hand went immediately to the transparent oxygen pipes that ran into each nostril.

  “You can leave those be!” The male nurse quickly went to his bedside. “Good of you to join us in the land of the living. For a while we didn’t know whether you would or not.”

  The bleeps and audible sounds showing that life continued echoed within the room. They were constant and ignored. It was only when they stopped or changed tone did anyone take notice and act.

  It was clear from Jonathan’s facial expression that he did not fully comprehend what was being said. His eyes followed the nurse as he approached. Jonathan blinked a few times as if trying to focus and then he lifted his hands as if in self-defence.

  “You’re fine. Safe. My name’s Keith. You’re doing fine.” He held Jonathan’s wrist and monitored his pulse. “As I said you’re doing fine.”

  Jonathan moved his head, his eyes scanning the room as if trying to make sense of his surroundings. He held up his hand to see the cannula taped securely to the back of it. He tried to speak but made only a small grunting sound. Keith watched and waited knowing it would only take a moment before he found his voice.

  “Where?”

  “That’s a start. Airedale Hospital. You’re in the High Dependency Unit. Poorly sick when you came in, but once you were stabilised you were subsequently transferred here to be cared for by my specialist team. Another day or two if you keep on making these improvements and we’ll be moving you to a normal ward.”

  “What? Why?” Words dribbled from his lips, the weakness still clearly audible.

  Keith said nothing but noted down his exact words on the chart table positioned just by the door as he had been instructed to do.

  “The man and the masks, the mill, the manne… dummies? What happened to them?”

  Keith added further notes and then leaned outside to call the seated armed officer. “He’s talking. I’m notifying the consultant and if he thinks he’s strong enough he might be okay to interview later today.”

  The message was sent for Cyril’s attention.

  The instructor and student had left. “Who’s booked in today?” Cyril asked.

  “We’ve that one and then one at five. It’s quiet at the moment.” Pat Blackwood’s voice quivered and she fidgeted with her hands.

  “Owen, please wait by the door. No one in.”

  Owen moved to the entrance but remained inside the reception area.

  “Anything you say…” Cyril cautioned Pat Blackwood. “I’m not at this stage arresting you for being complicit in the possible murder of three people…” He did not have to say any more. He could see from the way she suddenly crumbled that she was going to talk openly. She was broken.

  “It’s really not how it looks. It wasn’t meant to be like this. He promised me that we wouldn’t get into trouble.”

  April observed as the woman broke down but neither moved nor spoke. They simply waited knowing that the vacuum of silence would help elicit more of the truth.

  “It was a case of putting a blind eye to the telescope, of knowing but not heeding. What or whom is a little contraband booze and other bits and bats for personal use going to harm?”

  “The flasks?”

  “I don’t know. Hidden from sight, part of the aircraft to unknowing eyes.” She looked up hoping that they would understand. “It helped keep the business afloat. We live in difficult times.”

  “So tell us about Albert Baldwin.”

  “David Stephens introduced him to us as a good friend in need of some work. He said that he couldn’t work in the licensing trade and we assumed that he had a dependency. He also wanted to gain a pilot’s licence. He had the necessary CAA medical. Stephens said he’d pay if he were allowed to help out, washing aircraft, cleaning, anything, he said, to keep his mind active.”

  “So was he responsible for the Stephens’s aircraft?”

  “Only with certain things. David was very particular. Everything had to be just so, but he allowed Albert to help unload, and as I said wash and clean. When the aircraft returned from abroad and it faced a possible customs check, I often saw Albert take certain things and put them in his van.”

  “And the damage to the aircraft your husband mentioned?”

  “David, Albert and my husband had a huge row, something about dropping things from the aircraft. It’s illegal, as you know. Frank had heard that on a few occasions during these ‘reward’ flights an object had been dropped from the aircraft. It was usually in the same location. He had told David that, should it occur again, his aircraft was no longer welcome and that he would have to buy out our share.”

  “Did it stop?”

  “I don’t know. That’s when after another argument between Albert and Frank, he climbed into one of the planes and crashed into the other. He simply walked away, climbed into his van and left. We never saw him again.”

  “Were the police involved regarding the malicious damage?”

  Her look told him everything.

  “I take it that’s a no?”

  “How could we?”

  “You denied seeing him when one of my officers came here. Remember you’re under oath. The DC here is making notes.” He turned and looked at April.

  “I recognised him but I really didn’t want to be involved. I believed then that he could have been responsible for David’s death. I saw his anger, his manic expression when he left the day of the crash and I really believed that he could be capable of doing anything.”

  “So your husband just flies him over to France for fun, this dangerous man, as you describe him?”

  “I didn’t know. He’d filed the plan online and I printed it after he’d gone. I wasn’t concerned as it shows just one occupant.” She pointed to the relevant section. “He sent me a text saying that he was with Albert Baldwin and he was all right. He also said to say nothing to anyone, that this would be the end of it. Those were his words. The end of it.”

  Cyril’s phone rang. Owen turned to look and then went outside.

  “Bennett.” He moved away from the desk and listened carefully. “Get Shakti there plus one other. See if she can get a full statement from him. As soon as she has anything I want to know.”

  Cyril returned to the interview. “There’s no van in the car park.”

  She shook her head. “I looked when I got Frank’s message. I checked with security and they have no record of his arriving on site. The only thing I can think of is that Frank smuggled him in.”

  April spoke next. “You don’t seem too anxious, Mrs Blackwood. If it were my colleague, let alone husband, I’d have contacted the police straight away even knowing that the proceedings here in the past might
have been against the law.”

  She broke down again and nodded. “Whichever way I’d have moved I would have been in the wrong.”

  Owen opened the door. “A minute, sir.”

  Cyril went outside.

  “The French police. The aircraft landed but not at Le Touquet. The flight plan was altered mid-flight and he landed at a small airfield near Abbeville where we believe the aircraft was due to change hands. Strangely, the transponder appeared to have been switched off mid-way over the Channel too whatever that means. The story of a sale has not been corroborated. No deal was done.”

  “The loss of the transponder code means it would be difficult to track the aircraft and if he flew in low… The head count was correct, one passenger?” Cyril asked.

  “Customs was cleared at the field by special arrangement. Took on fuel. There was no mention of an aircraft purchase but what we do know is that within the last twenty minutes the French police have received a report of a light aircraft touching down briefly at a disused airfield just west of Amiens forty minutes before our man landed at Abbeville. I’m assured that the timing corresponds for it to be our man. This could have been the dropping off point for Thorndyke.”

  “Like SOE all those years before, Owen. Get him to keep you informed.” Cyril returned to reception. “He’s on his way back, his job’s been done. It seems your husband changed his mind half way over the Channel, decided to travel straight to Abbeville. Apparently the aircraft wasn’t sold, in fact, there was never a sale lined up was there?”

  She shook her head. “Albert Baldwin is a dangerous man, believe me.”

  “Let’s hope your husband has the common sense to head straight back home.”

  “Owen, I want an armed police officer here within twenty minutes, one from the airport. April, notify air traffic control to put out a watch for light aircraft coming from the east.” He turned. “Mrs Blackwood, when he arrives we’ll be arresting you…”