Blood is Thicker Than Water

by Paul Gitsham

  “Well even with the silly house prices down here that’s enough for twenty-five per cent or more on a very nice property. I guess he could always stand to boost that fund a bit more, but it doesn’t sound as though he’s in desperate need.”

  * * *

  “Ian Mackay’s turned up.” Gary Hastings appeared at Warren’s door. “He’s in Addenbrooke’s Accident and Emergency receiving treatment for an assault.”

  “What condition is he in?”

  “He’s giving a statement to uniform as we speak. They reckon he’s suffering from cuts, bruises and a profound hangover but nothing too serious.”

  “When he’s discharged I want him back here for questioning. We need to know where he’s been going every night for the past month and exactly where he was the night his father-in-law took that tumble.”

  “Should we arrest him?”

  Warren thought it over for a minute, before reluctantly shaking his head. “We don’t have enough to justify it yet. But I think you should strongly imply that it would be in his best interests to come in to help us with our inquiries.”

  “Will do.”

  * * *

  Ian Mackay looked as if he just wanted to crawl under a duvet and die quietly. Adhesive plasters covered the edge of his swollen right eye and the wince elicited every time he shifted in his seat hinted at the bruising inflicted on his ribs by the group of youths who had decided to relieve the incapable man of his wallet and mobile phone.

  A potent combination of body odour, stale alcohol and urine wafted across the table towards Warren and Sutton.

  “I think we can guess where you’ve been for the past two days, but why don’t you tell us?” Sutton’s tone was sympathetic, but firm.

  “Mostly around the railway arches. I found somewhere I could be on my own to think.”

  “Why did you leave home? I imagine your wife could have done with your support right now.”

  Warren’s tone was non-judgemental, but the words had the desired effect. The man in front of them sank into his seat, his face a picture of misery and guilt.

  “I was ashamed,” he whispered.

  “Of what? The drinking? Or was there something else?”

  He nodded and Warren took that to mean the alcohol.

  “I’ve been sober five years and Kathy and the kids were with me every step of the way. I can’t face her. I’ve let us all down.”

  “So why did you start again, Ian? It sounds as if you were doing really well.”

  Mackay wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. “Everything’s been getting on top of me, you know? And then Charles died. Kathy’s taken it really badly and suddenly it was as if all of the light was sucked out of the house.” He gave a short humourless bark. “Hell, you’d think she’d be glad to see the back of the miserable old bastard, but I guess she’s still Daddy’s little girl.”

  He coughed and wiped his face again.

  “I went into the Costcutter on the way home from work for some milk Wednesday morning. They were selling cans of lager, four for three quid.” His eyes lost focus as he thought back. “I stared at the display for so long the old man behind the till asked me if I was going to buy anything. I only bought the one can. Just to take the edge off, you know.” His eyes searched Warren’s face. Warren nodded in understanding.

  “I waited a full sixty seconds before I took that first swig, just to prove I could. But I knew the moment I pulled the ring I wasn’t going home that night. I finished the can in less than five minutes, then went back again.” He paused. “I bought a full four pack.”

  “What happened then?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know really. I know I went back again, then I went down to the railway arches. That’s it. Next thing I know it’s this morning and I’m back on the street outside the off-licence again, flat on my back with some little shit kicking me. Shop keeper reckons they followed me in and must have seen me take my wallet out.” He smiled tightly. “I guess they must have clocked me as an easy target. Apparently I could barely stand up and it looks as though I didn’t check into the Ritz and order room service last night.”

  “OK, Ian. I’m sure that uniform are doing everything they can to get your property back and arrest your attackers.” Mackay’s expression suggested he wasn’t pinning much hope on their success. “In the meantime, we would like to ask you a few questions about your father-in-law’s death.”

  Mackay blinked in surprise and for the third time in twenty-four hours, Warren found himself explaining that it was his job to investigate the circumstances behind all unexpected deaths. Mackay gave a short nod; it was clear from his expression that he just wanted the whole thing to be over so that he could seek out the duvet he so clearly craved. Warren suspected that his wife might just be standing between him and that bed. He didn’t envy him that discussion.

  “First, could you just confirm your whereabouts on the night your father-in-law died?” Warren’s tone was casual, almost bored.

  Mackay licked his lips.

  “I was at work; I do the night shift.”

  “That’s interesting, because according to your supervisor—or should I say former supervisor—you were laid off a month ago. They haven’t seen you since.” Sutton’s tone was hard, all traces of sympathy gone.

  “Shit…” Mackay’s voice was soft.

  Sutton held up a computer printout. “And according to your bank statements, you haven’t had a regular income since then.”

  Now it was Warren’s turn. “So try again, Ian. Where were you really in the early hours of Tuesday morning? And where have you been going every night for the past month?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  Interesting…

  Warren smiled disarmingly. “Come on, Ian, help us out here. We just want to tick all the boxes and write this up as an accident.”

  Mackay shook his head again.

  “OK, Ian. It isn’t important. We just need to ask a few more questions, then you can go and get your head down. You look done in.”

  A look of relief passed across the man’s face.

  “We’ve been speaking to some of your father-in-law’s acquaintances, building a bit of a picture.” Warren smiled slightly. “Forgive me, but he doesn’t strike me as the warmest of characters.”

  Mackay snorted. “You could say that.”

  “Kathy tells me he could be quite stubborn. For instance he didn’t want to pay for a carer when she lived so close by.”

  “Yeah. ‘Blood is thicker than water’ he kept on saying.” Mackay leant back slightly in his chair, the minute shift in body language telling the two officers that he was relaxing and warming to his subject. “The way he saw it, Kathy didn’t work so what else was she going to do all day when the kids were at nursery or in school? She even used to go around when she was pregnant.” He scowled. “It never occurred to the selfish old bastard that he was the reason Kathy didn’t work. She has secretarial skills. She used to work in a solicitor’s office before she gave it up to look after Charles. There was a vacancy at the kids’ school last year for a receptionist. Term time, school hours, it would have been perfect but she wouldn’t apply because Charles needed her during the day.”

  “That’s bad luck. I imagine the money would have been helpful.”

  Mackay shrugged his agreement.

  “What about her brother? Tommy?” asked Sutton.

  “He works full time in Stevenage. There’s no way he could come in during the day. Not that he doesn’t do his bit,” he added hastily.

  “I guess if Kathy had taken the job, she’d have had to take the kids around to Mr Michaelson’s after school.”

  “I guess so.”

  “But that wasn’t possible, was it? What with Callum refusing to visit his grandfather? Why was that?”

  The flash of surprise across Mackay’s features revealed that he hadn’t seen the change of topic coming. “I’ve no idea. You know how kids can be.
”

  Warren leant forward slightly. “Tell me, Ian, were you aware of the rumours that were circulating about your father-in-law before his stroke? About his behaviour around young people?”

  Mackay’s eyes narrowed. “Complete crap. They were just lies and rumours spread by the sort of scum who love to drag everyone else down to their level. If it happened today, they’d be like those faceless cowards on Twitter. What are they called? Trolls?”

  “So you don’t think there was any connection between those tales and why Callum suddenly decided he didn’t want to visit his grandfather again?”

  “No. Absolutely not.” Mackay’s tone was emphatic. He leant back with his arms folded.

  “OK, Ian. Thanks for coming by.”

  * * *

  “They’re all hiding something.”

  It was a statement that Warren couldn’t disagree with.

  “If they didn’t know that Charles Michaelson was interfering with his grandson, then they at least had enough of a suspicion to take him out of reach.” Sutton leant back in his chair and took a slurp of his coffee, warming to his subject. “I mean Callum’s only seven years old. What sort of parent would let a kid that age decide: ‘no thanks, I don’t think I’ll visit Granddad any more. You’ll have to make alternate childcare arrangements’. They must have thought that there was something in it.” He snorted. “I can imagine my parents’ reaction if I’d said the same thing when I was his age. I’d have earned myself a tanned backside and been dragged by the hair, kicking and screaming.”

  Again Warren couldn’t disagree. “I guess the question remains if this was a big enough motive to kill him?”

  “And if that wasn’t enough, did the promise of some easy money and the opportunity to get rid of a massive stone around everyone’s neck tip the balance?”

  “People have certainly killed for far less.”

  “Any word on whether it was actually murder yet?”

  Warren shook his head. “We’re still awaiting blood tests. But if it was a warfarin overdose, I’d like to know where they got it from. It’s a prescription drug, but it’s not as if you can go down Truman Street and hang around waiting for someone to sell it to you.”

  “How about one of those online pharmacies? If my junk email folder is anything to go by, there’s plenty of choice.”

  Warren shook his head again. “I’ve had financial crime look at everybody’s bank and credit card statements. No suspicious online purchases for any of them, not even PayPal. Speaking of which, Karen has been having another look at the Mackays’ bank statements. It looks as though Ian Mackay hasn’t withdrawn any cash and has only occasionally used his debit card since the day he was made redundant. Kathy Mackay’s spending habits remain unchanged, which figures since she apparently didn’t know her husband had been laid off.”

  “So where is he getting his money from? He clearly had enough cash on him to buy booze in the off-licence and surely his wife would have noticed if he suddenly stopped putting his hand in his pocket?”

  “Cash in hand? That would explain where he’s been going every night for the past month.”

  “Yeah and if he was doing something less than legal he’d hardly be able to use them as an alibi.”

  “Well unless we can pin him down for the early hours of Tuesday, he’s still my number one suspect.”

  “What about Kathy Mackay? She’s got just as strong a motive as her husband, especially if she actually knew—or at least suspected—that her husband had lost his job.”

  “Let’s keep them both on the whiteboard. They may even have worked together.”

  * * *

  “He was poisoned.”

  Ryan Jordan’s American accent became more noticeable when he was excited.

  “Warfarin?”

  “Uh-uh. Better than that—rat poison.”

  “Of course.” Warren felt like a fool. It was hardly a secret that warfarin was the key ingredient in rodenticides. In fact his grandmother had joked that as much as she disliked taking the little pills each day, at least she knew that any four-legged visitors would have to nibble on Granddad Jack, since she was toxic to them. “Clever bastard. I guess they figured that if we tested his blood we’d just find warfarin and write it off as an unexpected reaction to his medication.”

  Jordan had clearly caught the self-recrimination in Warren’s voice. “Well they weren’t that clever. Warfarin hasn’t been used in rat poison for years, ever since the rats started becoming resistant to it. These days they use new, improved compounds nicknamed ‘superwarfarins’. They have the same effect as warfarin in stopping the blood from clotting, but are much more potent.”

  “And we can distinguish these compounds from real warfarin in the blood?”

  “Yep. I’ll spare you the chemistry, but suffice to say that brodifacoum is easily differentiated from classic warfarin by mass spectrometry.”

  “Thanks, Professor. This may be just what we need.”

  “I’ve had another thought as well, but it doesn’t really fit with what we’ve just discovered.”

  “Well run it by me.”

  “You remember I said that Mr Michaelson had a couple of shaving nicks?”

  “Sure. Not entirely surprising, I suppose. His kids used to wet shave him occasionally. I guess it’s a bit fiddly.”

  “Well here’s the thing. The first nick was a couple of weeks old. Pretty much healed. The second was much newer, just a couple of days. Well what if they weren’t accidents?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if the person shaving him was testing him to see how much he bled?”

  “To see if he was at risk of serious bleeding?”

  “Maybe. If he bled for a long time after such a minor cut, it might indicate that he was in danger of significant haemorrhaging from a relatively minor knock or bump. It could all have been part of the plan.”

  Warren mulled it over. “It certainly seems plausible. Why aren’t you convinced?”

  Jordan sounded slightly frustrated. “The thing is, brodifacoum is really toxic. It will have taken effect within a few days of it being administered, which makes sense with the second cut but doesn’t explain the first, unless that was just a coincidence.”

  Regardless of Jordan’s doubts, Warren was starting to feel excited again. Finishing the call he immediately called CSM Andy Harrison.

  * * *

  It had been a bit much to hope that there would be an empty box of rat poison in Charles Michaelson’s dustbin, and unfortunately the refuse collectors had been before anyone had thought to secure the rubbish from either of his children’s homes. Nevertheless, Warren had a feeling that the clues to what had taken place in the early hours of Tuesday morning were just waiting to be found.

  The white plastic bin liner sat on a paper-covered table in the work area next to the main forensics storeroom, its contents carefully laid out.

  “Nothing particularly interesting, as far as we can tell. It’s mostly wrappings for ready meals, a few food scraps and a bit of junk mail. The deceased wasn’t a great one for recycling it seems.”

  Warren tried to hide his disappointment as he poked through the letters, a motley collection of fast-food flyers and missives from the local council, including a letter on recycling he noted with some irony.

  A booklet of Tesco Clubcard vouchers with most of the coupons missing was covered in what looked like tomato sauce. Warren remembered that Mr Michaelson had insisted that his children used his Clubcard when shopping to accrue points and special offers. He flicked through the remaining vouchers, before stopping dead. “Andy, do you get Clubcard vouchers?”

  Harrison shrugged. “Yeah, of course. Mind you I never remember to spend them.”

  “What sort of things do you get offers for?”

  “Stuff we buy regularly. If I was more organised we could probably save a few quid on the next grocery shop.”

  “What about things you don’t buy?”

  “Not usual
ly. I occasionally get suggestions for new product lines, but mostly its things we buy week in, week out.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Warren had his phone out scrolling rapidly through his emails until he found the list of diet recommendations for warfarin users from Addenbrooke’s anticoagulation service—the one that Karen Hardwick had forwarded to him.

  “So if Clubcard vouchers reflect the buying habits of the user, why would the person doing Mr Michaelson’s shopping be buying cranberry juice, the thing at the top of the list of items that warfarin users should never consume?”

  * * *

  The head of the anticoagulation service was as helpful as before. “The advice is a bit contradictory. There have been some unverified reports of patients having dangerously increased rates of bleeding after drinking large amounts of cranberry juice, whilst there are some studies that suggest the risk is hugely overstated. We take a precautionary approach and advise patients to avoid regularly consuming cranberry products, but the occasional small glass or a bit of cranberry jelly with the Christmas turkey is probably harmless.”

  “What sort of effect would drinking significant amounts of it have on a patient’s INR and risk of bleeding?”

  The consultant let out a puff of air. “Hard to say, Chief Inspector. I don’t know if those studies have been done. I would imagine one might see a small increase in INR with a similarly small risk of increased bleeding.”

  “Would it be enough to increase the INR of a previously stable patient from, say, two point five to fifteen or more?”

  The slight change in pitch of the woman’s voice suggested she was shaking her head at the end of the line. “Almost certainly not. I can’t imagine how cranberry juice could have such an effect.”

  Warren thanked the woman and hung up, satisfied. The picture was coming together and the story of what happened that night was starting to emerge. Now they just needed the final pieces of the puzzle and the full tale of what happened to Charles Michaelson would become clear.