14 - Stay of Execution

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘At first examination,’ she began, ‘I had some of the signs that I’m used to seeing in massive and instantaneous heart-attack victims, a little vein suffusion, mainly. It was only when I looked in the mouth that I saw something unusual, a violent irritation of the gums. After I opened him up and found no signs of cardiac malformation or malfunction, I went looking for something else, poisoning.’

  ‘Any specific poison?’

  ‘In a case like this, it’s usually cyanide, because it’s easy to administer and because it’s lethal in very small doses. The man who first isolated hydrogen cyanide in the eighteenth century died when he broke a jar of the stuff and inhaled it. It kills by inhibiting the ability of tissues to metabolise oxygen, and in sufficient quantity it will shut down the brain in seconds. Its most famous application was in the suicide capsules that were given to secret operatives in wartime, and used by some of the Nazi high command, like Goering and Himmler, to beat the executioner to the punch, but there are many examples of its criminal use, most notoriously, the Tylenol case in the US, twenty years ago.’

  ‘Can it happen accidentally?’

  ‘In theory it can, but this man did not have a large quantity of apricot or peach stones in his stomach, and he hadn’t eaten half a ton of chickpeas either. Forget accidental, Bob. Every case of cyanide poisoning I’ve heard of has involved the spiking of food . . . apart, that is, from the people who were executed in gas chambers . . . and apart from this one. I’ve sent the stomach contents for analysis, but there hardly were any. This man hadn’t eaten for several hours before he died.’

  ‘So how was it administered, if he didn’t swallow the stuff?’

  ‘Cyanide can be absorbed through the skin; the more tender the surface the quicker the absorption. That takes me back to the irritation of the subject’s gums. When he died, he was brushing his teeth. You’re looking for toothpaste, Bob. Take, say, three grams of hydrocyanic acid, about an ounce, and inject it into a tube; you have just laced it with sixty times the lethal dose. From the extent of the rash, and the rate of ingestion it implies, he’d have been dead before he’d even had time to wash his mouth out. Your friendly local undertaker did that for him but, fortunately, he left a trace between two of the back teeth. That’s one of the samples that’s going to Howdenhall.’

  Sarah raised herself up and jumped down from her perch. ‘I may have been a little over-confident about that banker suicide the other day, Bob, but if this guy wasn’t murdered, I will quit and take up landscape gardening.’

  Her husband threw back his head and let out a great sigh. ‘Just what I fucking needed,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘It’s not for you, is it? You delegate it to Division like everything else. I suppose that in this case it’s East Lothian, since the death occurred in Haddington.’

  ‘No way,’ said Bob, emphatically. ‘Greg Jay’s getting nowhere near this one. This man was due to play before the Pope in a few days’ time. That alone moves it on to a different level altogether, and makes it one I will definitely be keeping my hands on. But there’s another consideration too, one that makes my blood run cold.’

  He took his phone from the pocket of his slacks, and scrolled through his phone book until he found the number he was looking for, under P. He called it and waited, until a gruff voice answered. ‘Dan? It’s the DCC here. How’s your Sunday been?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Pringle, cautiously, ‘but I’ve a hell of a feeling . . .’

  ‘You’re right. It’s going to get worse. If there’s a saving grace, it’s going to make you feel like a real detective again.’ He smiled, wickedly. ‘Do you know that my wife’s a sort of old-fashioned fortune-teller? That’s right; she can look at your entrails and tell how bad your luck’s been. In this case she’s been looking inside a deceased Belgian, Monsieur Lebeau, who was signed off as a coronary case. Sarah says that’s wrong, though; she says he’s a cyanide case, and that it couldn’t have been accidental.’

  ‘Jesus. Where did it happen?’

  ‘Haddington, last night.’

  ‘East Lothian? Greg Jay, then.’

  ‘He’s not even in post yet, Dan. I want you to head this investigation personally. This isn’t your ordinary famous Belgian. This one’s a bandsman, and he was due to be playing for the Pope this week, at his personal invitation. That makes it a wee bit sensitive. Pick your own team, but run it hands on and keep me in touch all the way.’

  ‘Okay boss. I’ll use my own guy, Ray Wilding, for a start. I don’t suppose you’d lend me Jack McGurk, would you?’

  ‘You’re welcome. I was going to offer him anyway, as my eyes and ears.’

  ‘Good. Where do we begin?’

  ‘With the undertaker who moved the body from the house where he died. You need to talk to him and confirm that he washed residual toothpaste from the dead man’s mouth. We reckon that’s how the poison was administered. If he still has the wipes that he used, we’ll need to get hold of them, as evidence and on safety grounds. You come to Little France to meet up with me, then we’ll head for the house where the man died. I’ve got all the relevant notes here.’

  He looked at the brief report of the attending constable, and read the address at which Lebeau had died. ‘While we’re doing that, get McGurk and Wilding out to the undertaker’s to interview him and take possession of anything that might be relevant. We’ll try to find the man’s toothbrush and toothpaste, although we’ll need to handle them with great care. The things are probably still lethal.’

  ‘I’ll bring evidence bags, then. I always keep some around.’

  ‘You do that, and . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘What are you thinking, Bob?’ asked Pringle.

  ‘I’m thinking what I’ve always been trained to think . . . the worst. This man was killed by poison administered through toothpaste. What if the tube that he bought wasn’t the only one that was spiked? What if someone went into a chemist’s or a supermarket and planted a whole shelf of the bloody things? As well as your evidence bags, Dan, maybe you should bring a panic button . . . just in case we need to press it.’

  38

  ‘So what did you think of your first rugby international, Colin?’ Mario asked as they walked from the ground to his car, in the police park.

  ‘Impressive,’ the American admitted. ‘Some of those guys make our gridiron players look like pussies. It’s fast, it’s continuous . . . we have time-outs in our game . . . and it is certainly rough. Did you ever play the game?’

  ‘I played at school, and for a while after I left. I was a prop forward, but I was a bit light for the top class.’

  ‘You were? Man, you’re a brick shit-house.’

  ‘Maybe, but in those days my top weight was a hundred kilos. You try shoving against a hundred and twenty kilos for eighty minutes; it does your back in. I did think for a while about switching to the back row, but I was too slow for that.’

  As they approached his car, a silver Alfa Romeo sports hatchback, he pressed a remote control to unlock it. They climbed inside and headed for the exit, McGuire flashing his warrant card at the young constable on traffic control to pull rank shamelessly on the civilian vehicles coming from their area.

  Soon they were at the Western Corner traffic lights, where he turned left, heading westwards until he came to Clermiston Road. ‘It might seem like we’re going to Glasgow,’ he said, ‘but this’ll get us back quicker, I promise you.’

  The journey back to the Malmaison took less than fifteen minutes. ‘If we’d gone the straight way we’d never have got back,’ said McGuire, ‘and that would have been bad news. Paula’s cooking tonight and we do not want to keep her waiting.’

  ‘Man,’ the American exclaimed, ‘we had lunch at Neil’s already. I can’t let you feed me again.’

  ‘Do you want to tell her that? ’Cause I sure as hell don’t. Besides, what else are you going to do?’

  ‘That really is too kind of you both,’ said Mawhinney.

  ‘Mince,’ M
cGuire replied amiably, as he pulled up outside the waterfront hotel. ‘You get yourself round to my place for six. We’ll walk up to Paula’s and maybe call in at the Wee Black Dug on the way. I want to check that place over.’

  39

  Old soldiers are the same the world over, Skinner thought, as he looked at the Belgian veteran. Colonel Auguste Malou cut an imposing figure in his civilian clothes; he was a little overweight, but he had a crispness about him, a neatness that the Scot recognized as the mark of the military man.

  Nonetheless, he was also extremely distressed; his moustache quivered as he spoke. ‘It was terrible, gentlemen, most terrible,’ he said, in accented English that was as precise as his dress. The shock of his friend’s death was still written all over his face.

  The two detectives had not told him the reason for their visit, but his host, Major Alfred Tubbs, another old soldier, turned farmer rather than bandsman, was worldly enough to know that a deputy chief constable and a detective chief superintendent did not turn out in the aftermath of an ordinary sudden death. He hovered in the background as Skinner spoke to Malou.

  ‘I’m sure it was,’ the DCC replied. ‘As I understand it you found him, that was all.’

  ‘That’s right. Bart went to the bathroom to shave and freshen up for dinner . . . he had a very heavy beard and often shaved twice a day. He didn’t come back quick and I wanted in there, so I went to give him a hurry-up call. He did not answer my call, so I went in and found him on the floor.’

  ‘He had been brushing his teeth, I understand.’

  Malou nodded. ‘Yes. There was paste all around. At first I thought he was having a fit and was foaming at the mouth, but then I took a closer look. I’ve seen dead men before, sir. You can believe that. I’ve seen them blown up, seen them with their throats cut, seen them with bullets through their brains, but their eyes were all the same. When I saw Bart’s eyes, I didn’t need any lady doctor to tell me he was dead.’

  Major Tubbs tapped Skinner on the shoulder. ‘What’s this about?’ he asked quietly.

  The deputy chief constable saw no need for further delay. Quietly he told both men about the outcome of the autopsy on Lebeau. Malou stared up at him, his ruddy face suddenly devoid of colour. Tubbs gasped. ‘In my house? This happened in my house?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Technically it’s subject to confirmation, and I’ve got our toxicologist working on tissue samples right now, but I can’t afford to wait for that. There are all sorts of considerations, and the most pressing is that of public safety.’ He looked at the Belgian. ‘Colonel Malou, do you still have the toothpaste that Monsieur Lebeau used?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘It’s still in the bathroom, and so is his toothbrush.’

  ‘Thank your lucky stars you didn’t use it yourself,’ Dan Pringle exclaimed.

  ‘I thank those stars that I have false teeth, sir,’ the bandleader retorted.

  ‘Do you know, by any chance,’ asked Skinner, ‘where your friend bought the toothpaste he used?’

  Malou shook his grey head. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to look through his effects, to see if we can find a receipt. It’s vital that we identify the source.’ He turned back to Tubbs. ‘Major, we have a forensic team on the way here. I’m afraid there’s going to be a degree of disturbance to your household. You might like to explain to your wife what’s happening. But please, ask her not to talk to anyone about it in the meantime. This has to be kept quiet until we have some answers; I cannot afford to start a public panic.’

  40

  When he opened the door, he was wearing an apron emblazoned with a naked, voluptuous female form, its breasts cupped in two large hands that appeared to come from behind.

  Maggie laughed. ‘Who the hell gave you that?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Technically, my three-year-old nephew, last Christmas, but actually it was my sister-in-law.’

  ‘And you wear it?’

  ‘Of course I do . . . but never outdoors,’ he added, taking her overnight bag from her and following her up the short stairway into his hall. She had been there once before, briefly, when she had called in on him after shopping at the nearby Cameron Toll shopping centre.

  ‘Nice day at the office?’ he asked her, as she hung her hat on the stand in the corner.

  ‘Entertaining. I didn’t have anything to do really; Brian was in charge, and it all went fine. But please, let me get out of this uniform.’

  Stevie showed the way upstairs, carrying her bag and depositing it on his bed. He leaned over her and kissed her softly. ‘Make yourself at home.’

  She grinned, and began to unbutton her jacket. ‘I can do that,’ she murmured. She nodded towards the open door of the en suite. ‘Can I have a shower as well?’

  ‘You do that too; there’s plenty of towels. I have to get back to the sauce.’

  ‘Oh, Stevie,’ Maggie called after him as he turned to leave, ‘there is just one thing, I sort of forgot to mention before. I’m not on the pill or anything. I don’t think it’s a high-risk time, but . . .’

  His smile dazzled her. ‘I thought about that,’ he replied. ‘Worry not.’

  She undressed, arranging her uniform on a hanger she found in his wardrobe, then stepped into the bathroom. As the warm jets of the power shower pulsed over her, she found herself wondering whether she had ever felt so relaxed before.

  He was stirring a large pot when she came into the big kitchen, concentrating so hard that he did not hear her as she came up behind him, her hair still damp, dressed in a sweatshirt, jeans and moccasins. She slipped her arms round his waist, pressing her unfettered breasts against his back. ‘Can I do anything?’ she asked.

  ‘You’re doing it,’ he told her. ‘I’m just about finished here; I’ll give it an hour to cook gently then I’ll do some rice. Go on through to the living room and put on some music; I’ll be there in a minute or two.’

  When he joined her, there was a CD on the player that, although it was his, he failed to recognise. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, trying to pin down the guitar riff.

  ‘Blue City: Ry Cooder. He’s one of my heroes, but I’ve never heard of that one.’

  He located it in his mental filing cabinet. ‘Ah, yes, that one. It’s an obscure movie soundtrack album from the eighties, very good, only nobody went to the movie.’ He slid down beside her on the couch and handed her a glass of white wine. ‘What did you think of the game, then?’ he asked her.

  ‘I didn’t watch it; I was being professional, and watching the crowd. I gather the result was as predicted, though.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he sighed, ‘we’ll never beat those guys.’

  ‘That’s what Mario always says. I saw him at Murrayfield, by the way; he gave me a blessing and a warning at the same time.’

  Stevie’s mouth fell open. ‘You mean you told him?’

  ‘Of course not. D’you think I walked up to him in my chief super’s uniform and said, “Guess what? Stevie made me come and you never could”? Mind you,’ she mused, ‘I might as well have done. Mario can read me like a book. I’m sure he knew just from looking at me that something of that nature had happened.’

  ‘What was the warning?’

  ‘I think he told me not to trust you too much. I sort of told him that he didn’t trust people enough.’

  Stevie nudged her with his shoulder. ‘You can, you know. Trust me, I mean.’

  She kissed him. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I had any doubt about that, love.’

  ‘Say that again?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That word you just said.’

  ‘Love?’

  ‘That’s the one. Did you mean it or was it just a casual familiarity, like?’

  She put her head on his shoulder. He looked down at her, feeling the dampness of her russet-coloured hair through his T-SHIRT. ‘I think I did. But what I feel most of all is comfort in a way I never have till now. It’s taken me completely by surprise, and I can’t tell you h
ow good it feels, how good you make me feel.’

  ‘You ready to tell me your story yet?’

  ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘the time’s not right. Let me enjoy this.’

  ‘Whatever it is,’ he told her, ‘you needn’t be afraid. There is nothing you could tell me about you that would make the slightest difference to the way I feel about you.’

  ‘What? Not even my sex change?’

  ‘They’ve made a bloody good job of it,’ he murmured into her hair, ‘that’s all I can say, sir.’

  She exploded into a laughter that was more natural and spontaneous than he had ever heard from her. He felt her shaking against him and he joined her in it, hugging her to him as Ry Cooder played a tender tune.

  ‘I love your house, Stevie,’ said Maggie, when they were both still once more. ‘It’s got real character.’

  ‘Yeah, hasn’t it? It’s just a house, though: it’s what happens within its walls that’s really important.’

  ‘I agree.’ She kissed him again. ‘I wish we could take tomorrow off work.’

  ‘Me too; of all the bloody days, though. You making your debut as the big boss of Torphichen Place, and me being sized up by Mary Chambers.’

  ‘Mary’s already sized you up; she asked me about you on Friday.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  She shrugged. ‘Aw, you know, that you were a solid, dependable plodder; a real Sunday Post reader who thinks that there truly is a Francis Gay.’

  ‘But there is,’ he protested. ‘He rides shotgun on Santa’s sleigh.’

  ‘That’s good. Mary’ll be pleased to hear that, her being gay as well. If you really want to know what I told her, I said that she should let you run things for as long as it takes for her to get to know all the troops and to familiarise herself with the territory. That’s what she plans to do.’

  ‘Nice to know. I’ve had a word with Regan, by the way. I’ve told him that the first time I hear a gay joke in the office he’ll be singing soprano. Actually,’ he continued, ‘I’ve got an outing planned for her tomorrow. I forgot to tell you, but I had a call earlier from Mrs Whetstone. She wants me to go and talk to her son tomorrow; explain to him personally what’s happened. I thought I should take the new boss along, just in case there’s any follow-up from the fiscal’s office.’