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“Curare!”
“Pardon?”
“Takes some believing, doesn’t it? I’m certain it belongs to the killer. It confirms earlier thoughts of the victim being incapacitated by something. You see, most drugs take time to act, which means the victim is capable of resistance. An injection of curare would paralyze the victim almost instantly, making a struggle impossible.”
“What exactly is curare?”
“A skeletal-muscle-relaxant drug of botanical origin. It’s used in modern medicine primarily as an auxiliary in general anaesthesia. But it’s more widely known as a very old and lethal poison. One of the earliest encounters appears to have been during the exploration of the Lake Maracaibo region in Colombia by Alonzo Perez de Tolosa in 1548. Scientific studies of the substance began in the latter part of the eighteenth century with the Akawai Indians of Surinam. They used it as a poison on their arrows.”
“Any idea why it’s being used now? Here?”
Gardener was struggling to accept Fitz’s findings. Lethal poisons, body-destroying chemicals. The outlook was growing bleaker by the day.
“Almost certainly as a blocking agent. It produces flaccidity in striated muscle. Which means it prevents nerve impulses from activating skeletal, or voluntary muscles. It’s pretty dangerous stuff. I think the person you’re looking for knows exactly what he’s doing with it. It first affects the muscles of the toes, ears, and eyes, then the neck and the limbs and, finally, respiration. In fatal doses, death is caused by respiratory paralysis.”
“Is curare capable of destroying the body?”
Fitz sighed. “No.”
Gardener cursed and glanced upwards. “Marvellous.”
“I wouldn’t give up just yet. At least we know how the killer is operating. My guess is, the victims know the killer. I imagine they’re taken by surprise, immediately injected with the curare which renders them disabled. Then the killer has the time to perform the real task.”
“Would the victim be aware of what was happening?” asked Gardener.
“Almost certainly. We’ve done tests with curare. In fact, I did one yesterday with Richard.” Fitz chuckled. Richard was his lanky assistant ignoring him in the corner. “Gave him a small dose. Frightened him half to death. He was aware of everything, even heard me talking, but he couldn’t move a muscle. It wore off after a few minutes. He was all right. He didn’t want to do it again, though.”
That meant Gardener could certainly rule out Craig Sutton. Apart from the fact that Sutton was right-handed, he suspected Sutton was too big to work with such precision. Not to mention he lacked the intelligence to handle such a deadly toxin. The field was open again.
Gardener thought about Summers. Although he was convinced the agent had withheld information, there still wasn’t enough evidence to suggest his involvement. Where did Warthead fit in? The motive was clear – revenge. Someone out there had a grievance, a score to settle. The biggest question, however, was what had Thornwell and Plum done to warrant such a terrible death? Christ! What a can of worms.
“What are you thinking, Stewart?”
“I’m trying to eliminate suspects. Maybe I need to study the medical sector more closely.”
“Possibly. As I’ve said, use too much, and you’ll kill the victim. Your man is using the exact amount to keep his victim alive. Maybe even sadistic enough to talk to them, tell them why he’s doing this before administering something even more disturbing. It’s someone who’s extremely intelligent, highly efficient. I think the syringe was deliberately thrown into the bushes for you to find. Whoever it is, they’re more than likely playing games with us now.”
“And you’ve still no idea what’s destroying the body?”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could help you, but there’s a distinct lack of evidence in that department. Matthew Stapleton is still no further on than I am.”
Gardener rose and picked up the bag containing the syringe.
“So, where the hell do I go from here?”
Chapter Forty-one
Gardener’s team was in the incident room at eight o’clock sharp. The air of trepidation was palpable. The last person in was Briggs, who shut the door and sat in one corner with his arms folded.
“There’ve been some new developments, but I’d like to see what you’ve gathered first,” said Gardener. He was standing next to the spider chart with a pen at the ready. Glancing at Sharp, he asked, “Colin, what have you found out about Thornwell?”
Sharp addressed the gathering with the help of his notebook. “In some respects, he was similar to Plum. Bernard Thornwell was a sixty-three-year-old single male who lived in a bedsit in Middleton. Seems he had few friends, but a neighbour has confirmed one of them as being Herbert Plum. Thornwell was last seen on Friday afternoon when he left for work dressed as Santa Claus.”
“Dressed as a Santa?” Gardener asked.
“Apparently, he used to get changed before he went to work. He was often seen in the local pubs wearing his uniform.”
“Did this neighbour say anything about a clown’s outfit?”
