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“No, only a Santa suit.”
“Did he have any female acquaintances? Has he ever been married?”
“According to the neighbour, he was at one time. He and his wife lived in the Holt Park area. When she died about seven years ago, he was left with a lot of debts. He sold the house to clear them, and ended up in Middleton.”
“Okay,” said Gardener, bullet-pointing the information Sharp had relayed on the chart. When he’d finished, he turned back to the group. “There’s a task for someone. Find out from his previous address all you can about him. What his wife was like, how the debts accumulated. Speak to old colleagues, neighbours. Go as far back as it takes. Dig up everything you can.”
“Do you want me to cover that?” Sharp asked.
“No, I have something else in mind for you. Anything else to add?”
Sharp returned to his notes
. “Unlike Plum, he paid his tax, national insurance. Had bank accounts, credit cards, and from what I’ve found out, didn’t owe anyone anything.”
“Compared to Herbert Plum he seems like a saint. But someone wanted him dead. So, there has to be an incident in his past. I want to know what it was. Did you search the flat, Colin? Any pornography?”
“It was clean, everything in its place. Food in the cupboards, bed made. The room was pretty tidy, considering he was a widower. No porn, but then again, no computer, which might answer for a lack of porn.”
Gardener had hoped for a different answer. There had to be something to tie Plum and Thornwell together, apart from the fact that they both worked for Summers and were killed in identical circumstances. “Anything else?”
“No,” said Sharp, sitting back down.
“Okay, good work. Your next task is to investigate an entertainment agent by the name of Derek Summers.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything from the day he was born. Find out everything you can. Sean will tell you what we know, but I want you to go and personally build a dossier on the man. Whatever progress you make, you report directly to me. No one else, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The rest of you, listen carefully. Fitz gave us some important information yesterday. The syringe we found in the churchyard contained a lethal poison called curare.”
“It’s Agatha Christie,” shouted Frank Thornton, glancing round, laughing.
“Very droll, Frank.” Gardener waited for the laughter to subside before continuing. “In almost all the cases that Agatha Christie used it in her novels, someone was killed with it. Our killer is not using the curare in fatal doses. Fitz thinks it’s being used as a paralyzing drug. He believes the dose is precisely measured so the victim is aware of what is happening to them. To make them suffer.
“Whoever is using the poison knows exactly the right amount to keep their victim alive and for how long. It’s whatever they use after the curare that’s really doing the damage.”
“Does Fitz know what that is?” asked Briggs.
“Not yet.”
“Do we need to widen the net, include doctors?” suggested Thornton.
“It’s possible,” said Gardener. “It could also be a chemist. I want every hospital consulted on curare, see if any amounts of the poison have gone missing. I want a check of all the doctors’ surgeries. Find out if any of them keep it, particularly Thornwell’s doctor.” Gardener turned to Sharp. “I presume he had one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. We’ll need his details, check him out. I want two of you to continue digging into Plum and Thornwell’s past. Dig deep. Check the sex offenders list. Could only be one isolated incident binding these two. I want to know what it is. For the time being, we can leave the drug dealers alone. It’s not their territory, it’s too specialized.
“The manipulation of the poison suggests the killer knows what they’re doing. They are cunning. The syringe was probably left on purpose. Which means they’re playing some kind of game with us. We need to be on our guard. Sooner or later, they’re going to make a mistake. I want no stone left unturned. I also want someone checking out the dangerous drugs register. It’s a big operation, and it’ll take nearly all of you.”
Gardener allowed the information to digest before choosing his next topic. Hesitantly, he turned to Reilly. “Will you do the honours, Sean?”
Reilly passed an artist impression around the room, a composite sketch of Warthead.
“Does everyone have a copy?” Gardener held his aloft. He’d hesitated before presenting the picture because he knew what the reaction would be.
