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“What’s wrong?” asked the officer.
“They’ve stolen the secobarbital.”
“Is that dangerous?” asked the officer.
“It’s classed as a controlled drug under the 1971 Misuse of Drugs Act. Chemists are required to keep strict records and receipts of supplies. I mean, you lot can inspect the records and the stocks any time you want.”
“Anything else?”
Oldham continued until he had checked everything. When he’d finished, he scratched his head. “No. Only the secobarbital.”
“Bit strange, isn’t it? A thief breaking in and taking only one drug?”
“What would he want it for?” asked the other.
“Any number of things,” replied Oldham. “It’s mainly a sleeping pill. It’s sometimes used short term to treat insomnia, or as a sedative before surgery: similar properties to opium.”
Oldham noticed Vincent had paled.
“Still doesn’t answer the question, sir. If you knew what you were doing, could you use it to kill someone, for example?”
“Almost certainly,” replied Oldham.
“What would it do?” asked the officer. “What sort of effect would it have on the body?”
Oldham thought about it. “Well, in an overdose situation, they would go through the initial stages of euphoria, get extremely excited, before passing into a deep sleep and unconsciousness. The breathing and heart rate would become slower and shallower until they stopped altogether. Death would soon follow.”
“So, it’s not likely to be a painful death?”
“Not really. Look more like they’d died in their sleep.”
Oldham saw that Vincent’s expression was now so distant that he may as well have been on another planet.
Chapter Forty-one
By the time Gardener and Reilly arrived in Richmond Hill, a number of vehicles were already parked outside Frank Fisher’s house, which didn’t bode well, given that one was an ambulance.
Bob Anderson and Frank Thornton were standing by the gate. The SIO had given them the task of interviewing Frank Fisher first thing. They had obviously not had that chance.
“Who found him?” Gardener asked.
“The bloke over there with the two medics,” said Anderson. “His name’s Robert Quarry. Apparently, he’s Fisher’s social worker. Came to see him yesterday, was extremely worried about his condition, and decided to book him in to the hospital for some treatment. That’s what the ambulance is for. Sadly, they were too late. Fisher had already committed suicide before they got here.”
Gardener noted the body language of his two officers: something didn’t quite add up. “What are you holding back?”
Thornton leaned in close and whispered, though Gardener wasn’t sure who it was he didn’t want hearing.
“We don’t suspect suicide.”
“Why do you say that?” Reilly asked.
“You’ll know what we’re talking about once you’re inside.”
“Have you already told him?” Gardener nodded towards Quarry.
“No. We’d prefer Fitz to confirm it.”
Gardener sighed. They were stretched as it was. Very little headway had been made in gathering evidence for the murder of Barry Morrison and Nicola Stapleton, and now they were facing another two. If he wasn’t careful, Briggs would have the circus in town, and he’d start to lose control of his own case.
