by Bill Rogers
‘Is there any indication of how the perpetrator may have got to and from his hiding place?’ Jo asked.
He nodded, revealing the beginnings of a bald patch on the crown of his head. ‘Yes. The flattened grass and the footprints lead to a path that runs behind the woods, along the perimeter fence for a row of houses, and then out onto Leigh Road. But also eastwards away from the tee in the other direction. The problem is that loads of people have walked that path since Friday, some with dogs. It’s also muddy from the rain, so isolating the shooter’s boot prints from the others is going to be tricky.’
‘Do your best,’ Jo said.
‘I will, Ma’am. And we’ve also taken samples of pollen from the site in case you manage to get approval for palynology in the hope of placing a suspect at the scene.’
‘Is that it?’ Jo asked.
‘Yes, Ma’am. So far that’s all we’ve got.’
‘Does anyone have a question for Mr Benson, or helpful comments?’ Jo asked.
DC Whittle put her hand up. ‘What occurs to me,’ she said tentatively, ‘is how the perpetrator knew that O’Neill would be playing that day?’
‘That’s a good one,’ said Jo, ‘but let’s hold that thought for a moment. Does anyone have any queries or suggestions specifically for Mr Benson and his CSI team?’
Lips were pursed and heads shaken but no one spoke.
‘In that case,’ Jo said, ‘well done, Jack. Given the circumstances, you’ve recovered far more than we might have expected. Give your team my congratulations. Make sure they’re properly fed and watered. And don’t feel you have to work through the night. The search perimeter has been secured, so you can start again in the morning.’
When the video call ended, she turned to DC Whittle. ‘Returning to your question, Carly,’ she said, ‘you’ve had time to think about it. What do you think the implications are?’
‘That he’s either familiar with the victim’s habits, or he’s been following him. Either way it must have taken a lot of planning.’
‘We know that Ronnie O’Neill was a member of the club,’ said Carter. ‘But we need to find out if he was in the habit of playing on Fridays.’
‘He’d only been out of prison for a month,’ Jo reminded him. ‘That’s hardly long enough to establish a pattern. Given the nature of the attack and the preparation required, DC Whittle is right that it must have been planned for some time. Probably while O’Neill was still inside. In which case the perpetrator will have been looking for settings frequented by O’Neill that would provide him with covert cover, ingress, and egress.’
‘Would it be too much of a coincidence for the perp’ also to have been a member of the club?’ DC Hulme suggested.
‘Probably,’ said Jo. ‘But he could have deliberately joined while his victim was inside. That way nobody would view his presence on the course as suspicious. He’d be acting in plain sight.’
‘That’d take some balls,’ said Carter.
‘If the perp’ is a man,’ someone shouted.
Jo waited for the laughter to subside. ‘Not such a daft remark,’ she said soberly. ‘Statistically, women are more likely to use poison to kill. Female serial killers, for example, are more likely to have been harbouring deep-felt grievances and to have killed in cold blood rather than the heat of the moment. And just because a gun’s involved, it doesn’t mean that the unsub is a man. Until we know otherwise, this is a gender-neutral investigation.’
She scanned the room waiting for absolute silence and for every eye to be on her before she spoke. When she did, you could have heard a pin drop.
‘Make sure you remember that.’
Chapter 14
‘You can sew him up, Benedict.’
Sir James Flatman, Home Office pathologist, turned away from the stainless-steel table, ran his gloved hands under a faucet over a sink along the wall and shook them dry. Then he removed his face mask and turned to face the gallery.
Beneath the bright lights signs of his advancing years were cruelly exposed. He had been in his late fifties the first time Jo had met him in this very theatre. Now that he was approaching seventy his hair had turned white. Always on the heavy side, his body was now positively corpulent. Jowls hung beneath his chin. His eyes were hooded and there was a stoop where once he had been the epitome of military bearing. Jo felt sorry for him.
The door behind her opened. Carly Whittle slipped in and took the seat beside her.
‘Good of you to join us, Detective Constable,’ said Flatman. ‘Most of them don’t make it back.’
‘Don’t mind him,’ Jo whispered. ‘He’s like that with all the girls.’
‘I heard that, SI Stuart,’ he boomed.
Jo leaned into the mic. ‘Good,’ she said.
He roared with laughter. ‘Not lost any of your feistiness then? Rank doth become you.’
Carly Whittle’s jaw dropped.
‘We go back a long way,’ Jo told her. She raised her voice. ‘We’re in a bit of a hurry, Sir James. Can we just get on with it, please?’
He chuckled and stepped to one side, conscious that he was in the mortuary technician’s way. Behind him they could see Ronald O’Neill’s violated corpse. The chest flap retracted over the head, ribs split open, the empty cavity where the organs and intestines had been. Jo forced herself to concentrate on Flatman’s lips.
‘Did I tell you he still had his electronic tag around his ankle when they wheeled him in?’ Flatman said. ‘I had to wait for someone from the monitoring service to come and remove it. That was a first. So was the modus operandi. Never had poisoning by pellet before, although one of my colleagues had something similar. The Markov case?’
Jo nodded. ‘Georgi Markov, 1978. I was one at the time. I had to google it.’
‘That’s the one. Bulgarian defector. A colleague, Dr Bernard Riley, treated him at the time. The medics and the police hadn’t a clue what had happened until he discovered a tiny pinhead-sized pellet embedded in Markov’s thigh. The victim thought he’d been bitten by something because there was just a red mark like a pimple on his leg. Unknown to him that pellet was releasing ricin into his bloodstream. He died four days later.’
‘And you’re saying that’s what happened here? That he was poisoned with ricin?’
Flatman shook his head. ‘I can’t say that. You’ll have to wait until the samples have been analysed. Even then you may not be able to establish that.’
‘Why not, Professor?’
‘Because the ricin, if that’s what it was, may no longer be in his system. Your best chance of identifying the foreign agent that killed him is to find the pellet in which it was transported.’
‘We have,’ Jo told him.
‘In which case, don’t let your Forensics services near it. Get it straight down to Porton Down. Whatever it was, they’ll be best placed to tell you.’
‘Shit!’ murmured Jo. She pulled out her phone and began to compose an urgent text for Jack Benson.
‘What I can tell you,’ Flatman continued, ‘is that in this case the cause of death was consistent with ricin poisoning. When it’s absorbed into the skin, as opposed to being ingested, it has the effect of preventing the body from producing the proteins needed by every cell in the body. I won’t bore you with the details. All to do with amino acids and messenger RNAs. The point is that over the course of two to five days it leads to the breakdown of all the major organs and the central nervous system. I also found at the puncture site on the neck evidence of erythema, vesication, ecchymosis, and oedema – redness, blisters, bruising, and fluid retention for the layman – that are symptomatic of an allergic reaction. I am confident that analysis of the samples,’ he waved his hand in the direction of the three refrigerators behind him, ‘will confirm that this was what happened here. There are other poisons of course that can lead to all of this, which is why you need to see what Porton Down has to say.’
‘So, he died of . . . ?’ said Jo.
‘Multiple organ fa
ilure and shock.’ Flatman shook his head. ‘A bloody awful way to go.’
‘Thank you, Professor,’ she said.
‘You could be looking for a fan of Breaking Bad,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Breaking Bad. Walter White tried every which way – adding it to an addict’s meth, sprinkling it on food, lacing a cigarette, substituting it for artificial coffee sweetener. Pretty far-fetched really. Your perpetrator appears to have come up with a much more effective and dastardly solution.’
‘That’s because truth really is stranger than fiction,’ Jo replied. ‘Isn’t that what you tell your students?’
Chapter 15
It was gone 10 p.m. when they arrived back at Nexus House. Jo quickly brought Nick up to speed.
‘Porton Down?’ said Nick. ‘How long is that going to take?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Jo, ‘given we’re talking about a top-secret government establishment.’
‘Does Benson know?’
‘I reached him just in time. The pellet is downstairs with the Forensic Science Service. They haven’t touched it, thank God. I’ve arranged for one of our motorcycle officers to take it as far as our boundary with the Cheshire Force. It’s going to be motorcycle-relayed all the way to Wiltshire.’
‘Like a kidney transplant.’
‘And every bit as precious. Except I couldn’t get approval to use the Police National Air Service.’
‘Welcome to the real world,’ said Carter. ‘Cutsville. Also known as Austerity City.’
‘Have we made any progress while I’ve been at the post-mortem?’
‘Not really. CSI have packed up for the night as per your instructions. I also called a halt half an hour ago to the house-to-house enquiries around the perimeter of the golf course and in the vicinity of Ronnie O’Neill’s home. I hope that’s alright, Boss?’
‘I’d have done the same. They’ll have caught quite a few people who work during the day, but then those are the ones who wouldn’t have been around on Friday morning either. They can start again tomorrow. It’s not as though we’re working a golden hour. The shooting was—’ she glanced at the clock ‘—eighty-three hours ago.’
She scanned the incident room. There were close to thirty officers working away at their desks. Heads down, jackets over the backs of their chairs, sleeves rolled up. Cans of energy drinks were in evidence. Three more officers were queuing at the coffee machine.
‘I’ll give this lot the option of clocking off now and coming in as usual tomorrow,’ she said. ‘But by the look of it, if they do go home they’re not going to sleep till dawn crawls over the horizon.’
‘What are you going to do, Boss?’ he asked.
‘Make a start on Gordon’s in tray. Most of it will be GMP stuff that I’ll have been out of the loop for. I’ll save that for you to deal with. I’m also going to put an email together for my colleagues on The Quays. I’m hoping to enlist some support with Alecto.’
‘I thought you said they were tied up with an honour killing operation?’
‘They are. But I was assured I could tap into NCA resources. Nobody stipulated which ones. I’m going to ask Andy Swift, our forensic criminal psychologist, if he can put together an initial crime profile for the killer. Just a sketchy one. Something to be going on with. And I’m going to ask my NCA colleagues to work through their databases for anything that might relate to similar offences.’
Nick frowned. ‘You don’t want Duggie Wallace getting the impression you don’t trust him,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘He won’t. Don’t forget they worked together on all the other cases where GMP involved both me and the BSU. Duggie’s got the HOLMES 2 database. These will be different resources – ones that GMP won’t have access to.’
‘Sounds a bit clandestine to me,’ said Nick.
‘That’s because you believe in conspiracy theories.’
‘Only when they’re my conspiracies.’
‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘Now I suggest you get home to your family, Nick. I’ll hold the fort here providing you’re back for six in the morning?’
‘Are you sure, Boss?’
‘Just go, before I change my mind. It’s not as though I’ve anyone to rush back to,’ she murmured as she watched him leave.
The next four and a half hours crawled by. She gave up on the in tray an hour in. Every single document related to previous investigations, bean counting, or policy memos. She turned her attention to her own policy file, ensuring that all her key decisions concerning lines of enquiry and resource deployment were up to date. Then she checked on those of the house-to-house manager and Jack Benson, the senior CSI and crime scene manager. Everything seemed watertight.
She left her office and went from desk to desk checking that those officers who had opted to stay behind were okay. Any that looked like nodding off, and the two that already had, she sent home.
‘And please don’t fall asleep at the wheel,’ she told them. ‘For your own sake, and that of your kids and partners, if not for mine.’
DC Hulme was by the water dispenser. She went to join him.
‘Are you alright, Jimmy?’ she asked. Even for her, formality went out of the window at three in the morning.
‘I’m fine, Boss,’ he said. ‘How about you?’
‘I’m in the red zone, close to empty,’ she admitted, slipping a beaker under the dispenser.
‘This one will cheer you up,’ he said. ‘What’s all the rage in the custody suites these days?’
‘I doubt I’d have a clue on a good day,’ she said.
He grinned. ‘Suspects asking if they can have a selfie mug shot.’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Cell-fie?’
Jo forced a weary smile. ‘Thanks for that, Jimmy,’ she said. ‘You’ve made my night.’
Every team needed a Jimmy Hulme, she reflected as she made her way back to her office. Being a detective was a privilege. Exciting, challenging, sometimes dangerous, and often distressing. But most of the time it was downright boring. You needed someone to keep the spirits up. Even if it was with a well-worn joke or a bit of banter. Jimmy Hulme was their someone. That’s why they tolerated him. But when you saw past the joker and the polymath, he was actually turning into a damned good detective.
Chapter 16
DAY TWO – TUESDAY, 17th OCTOBER
‘Are you ready, Ma’am?’
Helen Gates peered over the senior press officer’s shoulder into the packed media suite. The room buzzed with anticipation.
‘Where the hell have they all come from?’ she murmured. ‘We were supposed to be keeping the lid on this until we had a better idea of what’s really going on.’
‘Too many people were aware of the circumstances of Ronnie O’Neill’s demise, Ma’am,’ Grace McAndrew replied. ‘His fellow golfers, the staff at the Royal Infirmary, and at the mortuary. It was inevitable that word would get out and speculation grow.’
‘They’re not going to be satisfied with what I’ve got for them.’
‘When are they ever, Ma’am?’
‘That’s true,’ Helen replied. She took a deep breath, pulled her shoulders back, and nodded. ‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
A hush fell over the room as they took their seats. Helen pulled the microphone towards her.
‘I am going to read a prepared statement,’ she said, ‘after which I will be happy to respond to questions before asking you to assist us in appealing to members of the public for information that may assist us with our enquiries.’
She waited for the several murmurs to die down and then began.
‘Yesterday morning, my officers were called to Manchester Royal Infirmary following the death of a fifty-three-year-old male. He had been admitted in the early hours following a 999 call from his home. It quickly became apparent that he was suffering from total organ failure. Despite the best efforts of the
medical staff, he died at 8.16 a.m. I am now able to confirm, in the light of a post-mortem carried out yesterday evening, that we are treating this death as suspicious and investigating it accordingly. Relatives have been informed and the investigation is ongoing. I will take questions, but I am sure that you realise that at this early stage there is a limit to the amount of information I can share with you.’
A host of hands were raised.
Grace McAndrew selected them in turn. ‘BBC North West News. Mr Grice.’
‘Do you have a name for the victim?’
‘The deceased is a Mr Ronald O’Neill, who had been living in Longsight with his wife and son,’ said Helen.
The press officer pointed to a female on the front row. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have your name?’
‘Alex Southgate, Manchester Evening News,’ she replied. ‘How did he die?’
Helen was tempted to say ‘horribly’ but sanity prevailed. ‘He died of multiple organ failure.’
‘Yes, but what caused the organ failure in the first place?’
‘That has yet to be established.’
The next question came uninvited. ‘You must have some idea, or why else would you be treating it as suspicious? Is it true that you believe he was poisoned?’
Helen recognised the voice and tone. He was telling her that he already knew the answer. Testing her to see how much more she was prepared to give away. It was that damned investigative reporter again. What the hell was his name?
The senior press officer read her expression, placed her hand over the mic, and whispered in her ear. ‘Ginley,’ she said, ‘Anthony Ginley.’
That journalist who they’d had down as a suspect in the Operation Juniper serial rapes a couple of years back, and who’d been a thorn in GMP’s side ever since. Now he’d presented Helen with a dilemma. Did she give away a little more than she’d intended, or risk him revealing it himself and making her look either ill-informed or evasive?