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“We don’t,” said Gardener. “We had hoped you’d recognize it and save us some time and trouble.”
“So, if it wasn’t in his flat, where was it? His car?”
“His stomach,” said Reilly, straight to the point, as ever.
“Where?” said Billy, blinking excessively.
“I’m afraid it was in his stomach,” said Gardener.
“His stomach?” repeated Billy, as if he’d either misheard, or refused to believe them.
“Yes. We think he’d been made to swallow it, which is why we’re not sure it’s his. We really would like to find the box it opens.”
Billy remained silent, his brain probably struggling to accept what the detectives were telling him.
“Who would do a thing like that?” he finally said.
“Somebody who had a grudge, maybe trying to teach him a lesson,” said Reilly. “We asked you yesterday if you’d had any trouble with the business. Can you still not bring anything to mind?”
“Even if we had, I can’t imagine anyone would go so far as to kill our Barry like this. Like I said, the odd fare dodger. Sometimes people would ring us up and when we got there it turned out to be a hoax. No one at that address either wanted a taxi, or ordered one. A lot of it was mischief stuff, nothing serious.”
“You never know,” said Gardener. “It can start out as mischief, but soon escalate into something much bigger. For example, you go to one of these addresses and no one wants a cab. Let’s say the driver is tired and decides to kick off, it ends in a major argument. Before you know it, the person who started the joke then has a grudge against the company and decides to get revenge.”
“Revenge is one thing. Killing someone’s going a bit far.”
“We know that,” said Reilly. “That’s why we’re here. So, can you think of anything that might have led us to this?”
Billy shook his head and put his hands to his mouth. Gardener could see he was struggling to hold it together.
“Is this how he died?” he finally asked. “Someone made him eat a key and it ripped the lining of his stomach?”
No one had touched their drink since the conversation had started.
“No,” said Gardener. “Sadly, it was something much more serious than that.”
Billy Morrison’s expression would have halted electricity. “More serious how?”
“He died of something known as blocked superior vena-cava syndrome, which is the big vein that drains blood from the upper body to the heart.”
“What? This key caused that?”
Gardener suspected Billy was clutching at straws because the truth was too hard to take.
He leaned forward. “Is your wife in?”
“No. What’s she got to do with anything?”
“I was checking to see if you needed someone with you, Mr Morrison. What we’re telling you isn’t very nice. I just wanted to make sure someone was here to offer support. We can call for an officer.”
“No, she’s out. And I don’t need an officer. However bad this is, I need the truth. I need to know what happened to my brother.”
“I’m just trying to make it easier,” replied Gardener. “To answer your question, no, the key did not block the vein.”
“So, what did?”
“Sealing wax.”
Billy Morrison stood up and walked over to the conservatory window, staring through it. Gardener left him alone to work his head around the information. He returned quicker than Gardener had suspected he would.
