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Chapter 53
‘It’spart of a famous quote, Poe,’ Doyle said. ‘A man called Paracelsus is believed to have said it in the sixteenth century. It ends on, “Surely it is the dose that determines that a thing is poison.”’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Would it surprise you if I said that in the right dosage, fruit can be poisonous?’
Poe glanced at Bradshaw. ‘Told you,’ he said.
‘For example, the potassium in bananas is a naturally occurring radioactive isotope. Eat enough and you get radiation poisoning.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘Tilly?’
‘She’s right, Poe,’ Bradshaw said. ‘In an infinitesimal amount obviously. If you give me a second …’ She shut her eyes and began muttering under her breath. Poe and Doyle stared at each other. Poe shrugged in a no-idea-what-she’s-doing kind of way. In less than a minute Bradshaw’s eyes opened. ‘I estimate you would have to eat one hundred million bananas in a twelve-hour period to get a lethal dose.’
‘I need to go to hospital then,’ Poe said. ‘I had one hundred million bananas for breakfast.’
Doyle laughed, the first time she had since they’d been there. ‘And before you start gloating about your diet,’ she said, ‘even cheese can be poisonous.’
He paused, then said, ‘Even cheddar?’
‘I’m afraid so. It’s called tyrotoxism.’
‘Cheeseis poisonous?’
‘My point is this. You have to think round corners when it comes to intelligent poisoners. Gone are the days when cutting-edgemedicine was using dried eel skins as elasticated bandages. Scientists are doing extraordinary things now. They’re editing the genes of crops to make them drought resistant, the genes of babies so they don’t inherit hereditary diseases. And tomorrow’s science is today’s magic, don’t forget. Orblackmagic, as you put it. What’s to say there isn’t someone out there making single-use, designer poisons? Untraceable at source, only reacts when it’s in the body, designed to mimic a known poison.’
‘You think that’s what’s happening?’
‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘But, as you’ve run all your tests, followed your murder manuals, you need to start thinking creatively – he certainly is.’
‘Will you help me?’ he said.
‘From in here?’
‘If I can get you copies of the post-mortem reports?’
‘How will you do that? I understand that some poor soul has to read every inmate’s mail. PM documents will be marked as contraband, Poe. You could get in trouble.’
‘You may as well have dared him, Estelle Doyle,’ Bradshaw sighed.
‘Well, if he gets caught, he can always share my cell. Britney won’t be back any time soon and it gets very cold at night. What do you think, Tilly? Is that a good idea?’
Uncharacteristically, Bradshaw giggled and blushed.
Poe shook his head in exasperation. ‘You two will be the death of me,’ he said.
Doyle smiled. ‘Pretty sure you’re going to live forever, Poe.’
He considered that for a moment. ‘What a horrible thought,’ he said.
Thinking creatively was on Poe’s mind as they made their way back to the car park. Specifically, how he could get post-mortem reports to someone in a high-security prison. He was concentrating so much, when someone shouted his name it didn’t immediately register.
Bradshaw nudged him. ‘Poe, I think that man wants to speak to you.’
‘What man?’
