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Gardener brought his car to a halt outside the pathology lab. Switching off the engine, he sat motionless for a moment, reliving the events of the previous two days. As the case unfolded, it was proving more complex.
A house-to-house inquiry of Rawston revealed very little. General opinion proved that Plum had neither been liked nor disliked. He was simply one of the millions who shuffled by inconsequentially. He was someone you acknowledged, then promptly forgot. According to the turf accountant and his landlady, he had a money problem. He’d died owing them both. Shop assistants had seen little of him. Those who had couldn’t remember what he’d bought.
The seedier side of the investigation revealed Plum had not purchased his pornography in Leeds or the surrounding areas. Seeing as he had no computer, it was unlikely he’d bought anything online. Gardener assumed he had sent abroad for it. There were enough outlets, all of them too difficult and time-consuming to chase down.
Plum had no bank records, no building society accounts, no legal documents of any kind. He had neither contributed to the Inland Revenue nor National Insurance. He had no pension, and his bills had been paid with cash. Gardener could find no employment details. He had no medical records, and only one dental document, for a pair of false teeth supplied twenty years previously, also paid for in cash.
So, where and how did he earn his money?
Gardener returned to The Black Bull, where he found the landlord more cooperative than Reilly had. Thornwell’s description bore a resemblance to Plum’s. He was a similar age, portly built with thinning grey hair, beard, and moustache. He walked with a limp. He only used the pub occasionally, with Plum. Never by himself.
The landlord said he had not seen Thornwell since before the brawl. He also confirmed what Briggs had said about the incident involving C
raig Sutton and his girlfriend. The landlord hadn’t been sure what it was about, but Sutton had been extremely angry, taking a pop at both. What Sutton had declined to tell Briggs, which had been overheard by the landlord, was Sutton telling both men if he saw either of them in the pub again, he’d kill them.
Later in the evening, the landlord also heard Sutton saying, “It isn’t over. I’ll get even with them. Both of them!”
So far, Gardener had been unable to find Bernard Thornwell. He and Plum had socialized together, very possibly worked together. Now one was dead, the other missing. The mystery deepened. Gardener was awaiting copies of both men’s birth certificates. Reilly was still digging for information. The team was still investigating. An appointment with Fitz beckoned.
Gardener was hoping for something positive. He left the car, nursing his still swollen cheek.
Gardener found Fitz at his desk. Unlike most pathologists, he kept a tidy office. Folders were neatly stored, easily accessible. On a shelf behind him sat a MIDI hi-fi, currently playing a CD from an opera. He had a computer on his desk and a fresh cup of coffee. Apart from a couple of prints and a framed photograph of his wife, the only other item decorating the walls was a plaque, which read: “Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. This is the place where death rejoices to teach those who live.”
“What happened to you?” asked Fitz, glancing up.
“It’s a long story,” replied Gardener.
“It must involve the Irishman, then.” Fitz finished playing with his computer and turned his attention to Gardener. “How’s the case progressing?”
Gardener briefly took the pathologist through what he had learned.
“Come with me.” Fitz took a sip of coffee before leading Gardener through to Herbert Plum’s corpse. The vile smell was still prominent.
“I’ve examined the bones thoroughly. See here?” Fitz held one aloft. “They’re hollow, no bone marrow present. And take a look at this.” Fitz picked up a magnifying glass, directing Gardener to the skeleton’s trachea.
“What am I looking for?”
Fitz used a long needle to pinpoint the exact location. “The third cervical vertebra has slight damage. That pinprick is the mark of a syringe, which could mean that the killer has some medical knowledge. Although on this occasion, they’ve gone too far and hit the bone.”
“What were they after?” Gardener straightened, following Fitz as he returned to his office.
“At the moment I’m only guessing, but I suspect the jugular vein.” Fitz sat down behind his desk. “The jugular carries blood from the brain to the heart, where it’s pumped around the body. There, it mixes with the rest of the body’s blood. Inject the vein with a lethal compound, and within minutes, the entire body is contaminated.”
“Could it be a poison?”
“I don’t know. The vast majority of fatal poisonings are suicidal or accidental. Less than six percent of homicides are due to poisoning. I’ve discussed the case at length with Professor Matthew Stapleton, probably the country’s leading toxicologist, up in Edinburgh. I considered aconitine, a poison widely used in ancient times. Mainly in Greece and Rome for the elimination of political enemies. The Greeks called it ‘Stepmother’s Poison’. It has the same effect as a depressant on the central nervous system. Symptoms include numbness, increase in body temperature, vomiting, visual disturbance, and quite a number of other unpleasant side effects...”
“But?”
“It’s not capable of destroying the body. It could be a mixture of a few poisons causing a severe reaction. Antimony is another, made famous in the trial of George Chapman for murder in 1903.” Fitz leaned forward, a little excited. “Chapman was a sinister character with experience as a barber-surgeon, which had led to the speculation he was Jack the Ripper…”
“Fitz!”
“What?”
“Can we stick to the point? I’ve got Briggs breathing down my neck. I need facts.”
The opera CD finished. Fitz pressed the play button again. He gave Gardener an expression of disappointment. Fitz loved nothing more than to share his encyclopaedic knowledge.
