by Joy Ellis
Travis blinked, as if seeing her properly for the first time. ‘Oh, uh, sorry, old bag. Do they hurt?’
‘Only when I laugh.’
‘Does anyone really say that?’
‘Only when they’re talking to a moron. Of course it bloody hurts! And I need to take my mind off it. So . . .’ Cat produced a sheet of paper. ‘I need your help. Can you upload these to my tablet? Then I can do some proper work, even if I am incarcerated in this stinky place.’
‘Most people would prefer to spend happy hours trying to get to a higher level on a gaming app. Speaking of which, knowing how much you liked Temple Run, have you tried Vector? Now that has you testing your parkour skills to the limits. I suggest—’
‘And I suggest you belt up and look at the files I need.’
Travis looked at the list and frowned. ‘Mm, very interesting, but sadly neither legal nor possible. Ever heard of data protection?’
‘Look, if I was behind my desk, I’d be accessing them myself. Help me out here, Travis. Please.’
‘I’d love to, but none of this can be accessed outside the nick.’ His look was disparaging. ‘You know that, venerable baggage.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Travis, what I’ve asked for isn’t sensitive and I’m sure I’m not asking for anything that will get you the sack. We have two big cases running. I just want to pull my weight, even if I am hospitalised.’
He nodded. ‘Understood. But any sleuthing you need to do will have to be done through the private sector. I’m not having either of us getting oiked out of our jobs for being total prats.’ He looked at her sternly, then smiled furtively and added, ‘However, I do happen to know a few interesting and informative sites that might allow you to dig a little deeper than simply Googling names and places.’ He turned her piece of paper over and wrote down the names of two internet sites. ‘I’ll send you another in an email, so look out for it. It needs password access, so use this.’ He scribbled a word and three numbers on the paper. ‘Use them only when all else fails. Stuart and I find them well tasty. They have no connection to the police or any other official computers. Let’s just say that they use pathways that are not well-trodden.’
Cat tried a relieved smile. It wasn’t what she had hoped for, but it was better than nothing.
‘And this is one of my spares.’ Travis handed her a leather laptop case. ‘It should give you more power than your tablet.’
Cat took the computer. ‘Thanks, my geeky little friend. I appreciate that. Now, tell me again about your amazing CCTV discovery.’
* * *
When Joseph stepped back into the police station he could feel a difference in the atmosphere. Nothing else of note had happened, but the usual noisy banter and general sense of organised chaos was somehow muted. Danny’s death hung over everyone and he decided that the whole building felt depressed.
He knew that Nikki felt it too, even though she tried to keep up the impression of determined confidence.
‘I need to see Rick. Put him in the picture regarding Operation Windmill.’ She pressed the button on the lift. ‘And get his opinion on how we should proceed.’ She looked at Joseph as they waited. ‘I think I’ll do it now and get it over with.’
‘Then I’ll chase up all the outstanding reports and see if anything else has come in from forensics.’
She nodded. ‘Good, and ring Rory Wilkinson and ask him to give us the low-down on the bouquet of flowers as soon as he can. Plus see if uniform have found anything yet on the crematorium security cameras. The bloody thing didn’t just drop from the sky. Someone put it there.’ She shivered. ‘And they had to do it very carefully, unless they wanted to get burned.’ She shook her head in disbelief at the killer’s cold-blooded action. Then she added, ‘By the way, I’ve said I’ll visit Cat later tonight. Will you come with me?’
‘Of course I will. I miss her. It doesn’t seem right in the CID room without her and her gobby streetwise wit.’ He stood back as the lift door opened. ‘Poor old Dave looks like a fish out of water. You don’t realise just how much you rely on your partner until they aren’t there.’
They stepped inside and the doors closed. Joseph felt the urge to thank Nikki for not balling him out over Hayley’s injury, but he stopped himself. He was still aching with guilt and self-reproach, but she seemed to have dealt with it differently, so maybe he should let sleeping dogs lie. And, as there was nothing he could do to physically help Hayley, maybe he should direct all his thoughts to catching the man responsible. The man who was also responsible for Danny Wilshire’s death, Cat’s injury and all the other outrages that were being heaped upon them.
The door whispered open and he got out. Nikki went up another floor to the superintendent’s office. At least the IT boys had given her some good news to give him.
Back at his desk Joseph was suddenly reminded of the thoughts that had led him to the debacle at the crematorium. And the main focus of these thoughts was Archie Leonard.
What had happened there? Nikki should have been high-tailing it around to Archie long before she even considered speaking to Cynthia Changtai at Cyn City. But she hadn’t mentioned him once, not even when Stephen Cox was seen on the Carborough Estate. Archie had very good reason to hate Cox, and as the one-time King of the Carborough, it was ten to one that nothing went on, even now, that the Leonard family didn’t know about.
Joseph leaned back in his chair and chewed on the end of his pen. He saw again the look she had thrown him when he suggested a visit. It had been one big, fat, “don’t go there!” He had wanted to press her, but it was clear that the subject was off limits. She’d tell him in her own time, he knew, but when?
He sauntered over to where the office manager sat behind a desk piled high with files. Sheila Robbins was a civilian who did a brilliant job in driving the office. She was PA, secretary, filing clerk, Agony Aunt and Mother Superior all rolled into one.
‘Anything from forensics yet?’ asked Joseph hopefully.
Sheila flashed him a reproving smile, and pushed a swathe of greying hair behind her ear. ‘Now wouldn’t you be the first person I’d tell if they had come in, Sergeant Easter?’
He made small apologetic noises and returned to his desk. Then he’d have to ring Professor Wilkinson direct.
The pathologist answered. ‘Joseph, dear boy! Why ring when you could have called in person? My mortuary gets so very few visits from anyone who’s capable of holding a decent conversation.’ He paused. ‘Actually, most of them are incapable of any conversation at all.’
‘I promise to drop in next time I’m passing, Rory, but right now DI Galena has asked me to contact you about the flowers.’
‘Ah, the deadly bouquet! But having studied it, I suspect you will trace where it came from quite easily.’
‘Really?’
‘The floral trade is much belittled by the uninitiated, my friend. Considerable skill and expertise went into making that bouquet. It certainly didn’t come from a garage forecourt or a supermarket. It was carefully made by a very good floral designer using highly perfumed top-quality flowers and specialist florist sundries.’
‘So we need to check florist shops to see who placed that particular order?’
‘And look for a left-handed florist. You can tell by the direction of the binding. And I would think said florist is no youngster. The balance of the bunch was perfect and the positioning of the individual blooms shows an artistic talent that has been honed over years of practice.’
Rory stopped speaking and waited. Joseph knew that it was his cue to make a suitably impressed comment. ‘Excellent, Rory. That certainly gives us something to follow up on.’
‘Oh, but I have more.’
Joseph smiled into the receiver. No matter how dark and sombre his mood, Rory Wilkinson had the ability to lift his spirits. ‘Why am I not surprised?’
‘Because I always leave the best to last, don’t I? When you go hunting for your fabulous florist, make sure her name is Gillian, that the
bouquet cost forty-five pounds, was paid for in cash, and came from a flower shop located next to a local hostelry.’
Joseph let out a small exclamation of surprise. ‘How the hell . . . ?’
‘I wish I could tell you, but my lips are sealed.’
‘Rory, for heaven’s sake! Time is of the essence here.’
‘Spoilsport. Oh well, actually a dear friend of mine, sweet Piers — a lovely boy — he works in the most divine florist in Greenborough. I rang him, described it, and he told me that his boss, a southpaw called Gillian Bayliss, had made up something similar yesterday. I emailed him a photo of it, and hey presto!’ He gave a sigh. ‘The shop is called the Flower Garland, and it’s in Roper’s Gate next to the Roper’s Arms.’
‘Thanks, Rory. I’ll go round there immediately.’
‘I’m not sure you’ll get much more than you already know, but say hello to sweet Piers for me, won’t you?’
‘Of course. But Rory, how and when did the acid get into it?’
‘Added by the killer just prior to placing it in the Garden of Remembrance, I should think. It wasn’t a bona fide florist’s greeting card. It was purpose made, soaked in that insidious stuff and placed in a strong, clear, plastic envelope. The top was left open and as soon as it was touched, it oozed the gel base and the acid upwards and out of the sachet. Very, very nasty. It could easily have squirted up in her face, especially if she was bending down to try to read it.’ He paused, the joking manner gone, ‘She could have been blinded or terribly disfigured. I don’t know what you’ve been told about hydrofluoric acid, Joseph, but the burns are a unique clinical phenomenon. The tissue destruction and necrosis is horrific, often involving the underlying bone. Severe burns can result in systemic fluoride ion poisoning and sudden death. In brief, it’s treacherous stuff and I’m relieved that it’s in another lab right now being disposed of.’
‘I’m sure.’ Joseph scratched his head. ‘But if this lethal acid can etch metal and glass, and human tissue, why didn’t it eat through the sachet?’
Rory gave a tight laugh. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? It can eat through a steel plate or a glass bottle, but can be safely stored in a plastic container.’
Joseph thanked the pathologist and replaced the receiver. He looked at his watch and realised that he could just make it to the flower shop before they closed. ‘I’m going to this address, Sheila.’ He scribbled down the florist’s name and handed it to her. ‘Tell the DI where I am, or if you need to get away before she comes back from her meeting, if you’d be so kind as to leave a message on her desk?’
‘You got it, Sergeant, and my favourite flowers are freesias, by the way.’
* * *
Half an hour later Joseph left the florist shop. Sweet Piers had turned out to be a likeable and inoffensive young man who had introduced Joseph to the owner of the shop and between them they had told him all they knew, which as Rory had predicted, was precious little.
It had been a phoned order, collected by a young woman who Piers had seen hanging around with a small gaggle of youths and girls outside the pub at lunchtime. She had said that she was picking them up for her employer who was too busy to come himself. And whatever, she had paid the £45 cash and carefully carried her tied bouquet away with her. Joseph had known immediately that they would get no further than that. A crisp note for a few minutes’ work could bring on terminal amnesia in most of Greenborough’s out-of-work youths.
He retraced his footsteps back across the town bridge over the Wayland River and headed for the police station. Just as he was about to enter, he saw the familiar figure of Sheila Robbins hurrying through the front door.
‘Sheila! Hang on a minute.’ He loped across to where she stood.
‘Ah, Sergeant Easter, I’m glad I’ve seen you.’ Sheila moved a little closer and spoke in a soft voice so as not to be overheard. ‘Uniform wants you to know that the CCTV footage from the crem was corrupted. They will try to get it cleaned up, but they don’t hold out much hope. And DI Galena said that she is going to be tied up for at least another hour. The superintendent has set up a Skype call with our counterparts in Holland. Apparently they have some exciting new developments on Operation Windmill too, so considering what your team came up with earlier, they need to confer. She asked if you would wait for her so that you can visit DC Cullen together.’
‘Of course. No problem.’
‘Give our Cat my best wishes, won’t you?’
‘I will.’ Joseph smiled at the older woman, then produced the bunch of flowers that he had been hiding behind his back. ‘You did say freesias, didn’t you?’
Sheila’s mouth fell open into a small round ‘O’ as she stared at the pretty bouquet of yellow and white flowers. ‘Sergeant Easter! Oh, now I feel dreadful! I was only . . . well, I never meant . . .’
‘It’s my pleasure, Sheila. I don’t tell you often enough just how much all your hard work is appreciated. We get all involved in things and we forget to say thank you. I’m not sure how the CID office would run without you, but I suspect very badly indeed.’ He flashed his very best smile. ‘So, thank you.’
He watched as she walked down the road and noticed a spring in her step. That was what flowers were supposed to do, make you happy, not burn and scar you for life.
Joseph halted at the front door and wondered how he could utilise the next hour constructively. Unless some more reports had come back, he was pretty well stymied. Unless . . . ? Joseph turned around and walked in the direction of the staff car park.
There was one thing he could do. It probably wouldn’t win him any brownie points with the boss, but it would certainly put his own mind at rest.
He pulled his car keys from his pocket and his identification card from his wallet so that he could exit the yard’s security gates.
The Carborough was only a few minutes away, and there was a man there he badly wanted to talk to. He just hoped that Archie Leonard would want to talk to him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Joseph stood on the doorstep to Archie’s house and looked around. It was a sign of the times that he hadn’t needed to interview someone from this part of the Carborough Estate for ages, and since his last visit the change was incredible.
Before, he would never have left his car unattended, not if he valued the wheels and its entire contents.
Before, he would have looked around warily before his feet even landed on the pavement.
Before, graffiti, broken glass and the remains of burnt out dustbins would have been the first thing he saw.
But now he saw freshly painted front doors and window frames, and . . . hell-fire! Window boxes! Okay, they would not make a feature at the Chelsea Flower Show, but even the few straggly petunias and valiant geraniums made a difference that was hard to believe.
A slender-faced woman with tightly drawn back hair answered the door and pulled Joseph from his reveries.
‘Joan, isn’t it?’ He flashed a bright smile, recognising her as the wife of one of Archie’s sons. ‘I’m Joseph Easter. Is Archie around?’
The woman looked at him suspiciously, then glanced past him up and down the street. Apparently regeneration had not stopped the embarrassment of finding the Old Bill on your doorstep.
‘I know who you are, Detective Sergeant. You better come in.’ She almost dragged him into the hall. ‘But I’m not sure if he’ll want to see you . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Wait here.’
Joseph watched her walk down the hall and into a room at the end of the corridor.
He’d been here before, many years ago. He felt a niggle of worry. Why wouldn’t Archie want to see him? Years ago they had supported each other through a bad time, and they’d become . . . Joseph wondered what exactly. He could find nothing that quite covered their odd copper/criminal relationship. He settled for friends. And he’d done nothing in the last year to change that.
He drew in a breath. But maybe Nikki had. And Archie might consider them an inseparable duo. What was good for
one, was good for the other.
‘Joseph?’ Joan Leonard was beckoning to him. ‘Come down. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stay too long.’ She stood back and opened the door, then padded back down the corridor.
The sight that met him in that small claustrophobic room had him taking hold of himself to suppress a gasp of surprise.
The once tall, straight-backed Archie Leonard sat hunched in an upright armchair. An oxygen cylinder secured in a metal trolley stood slightly to one side of him, and a plastic tube snaked its way to the clip that was fastened to his nostrils. His chest rose and fell as he breathed.
‘Hell! Archie? How long have you been like this?’ Joseph knew he could not hide the shock, so decided not to try. ‘I never knew.’
‘Few do,’ Archie rasped. ‘But it’s good to see you, Joseph.’ He indicated another chair. ‘I hope your unexpected, although very welcome, visit doesn’t mean that there is something wrong with Nikki?’
Joseph almost sighed with relief that there had been no acrimonious falling out. ‘No. Well, physically she’s fine, but—’
‘I know. Mentally exhausted and still grieving,’ finished off Archie. ‘And now worried sick over rumours of the return of a particularly disgusting piece of detritus. Am I right?’
‘You are.’ He looked at the old man and saw that, sick or not, the eyes were still the same. Intelligent, thoughtful, a piercing bright blue, and the message in them was, Sod the illness, I’m fighting back. ‘Seriously, Archie, how long have you been so poorly? And does Nikki know?’
‘I’ve been ill for years, Joseph. Always hidden it as best I could.’ He gave a heavy guttural cough that seemed to be dredged up from the depths of his body. ‘But a couple of months ago the bastard thing decided to up its game.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Joseph meant it. Criminal or not, he had always harboured a sneaky respect for Archie and his old-style morals.
