by Marian Phair
After a further twenty five minutes had passed, he had conducted several tests, the results of which, confirmed his suspicions.
Going over to the phone on the wall, he checked the numbers against the names on a list beside it, and finding the one he wanted, he put them into the dial.
A disembodied voice came over the wire.
“Forensics, Tim Crane.”
“Dr Dan Carter here, I’m the M.E. in Abbeville currently working on the John Doe case. I was wondering if you guys found anything under the body. Maybe something lying in the ditch.” He waited while Tim Crane checked. In a matter of minutes he was back, and gave Dan the news he’d been waiting for. They had found, crushed under the body, a single white rose!
“It’s a rose of unknown species,” Tim told him. “Dark stemmed, with lethal thorns. Lethal, not only for their length, but because toxicology have reported their tips had been dipped in poison.”
Before Tim Crane could tell him anything else, Dan said. “Let me guess.
The poison was Ricin…made from the seeds of the castor oil plant, also known as Palm Christi, or Palm of Christ.”
“That’s the one,” Tim told him, reading from the toxicology report.
“The Chinese have used this plant for centuries. Its oils have the ability to heal wounds, but it only takes just one milligram of its poison to kill an adult,” Dan told him.
“I guess it makes life far more difficult for you guy’s dealing with something like Ricin,” Tim said.
“It certainly does, since Ricin is rapidly metabolised by the body and vanishes without trace. That’s why we need toxicologists like you guys to help us get to the cause.”
Thanking him, Dan hung up the phone.
The autopsy had taken well over the normal four hours to complete before he was finally through with his examination and all the paperwork.
Going to the certificate, Dan picked up his pen and wrote.
‘Death was due to unnatural causes.’
John Doe had been poisoned. He signed the death certificate to that effect.
Detective Chief Inspector, Jake Fletcher, had another murder on his hands!
CHAPTER 9
The traveller walked slowly down the main street of the town. Wearing nothing other than knee high boots, and a dark hooded cape, all around him lay the dead and dying. He had been on a pilgrimage to Rome, seeking an audience with the Pope, but had been turned away at the entrance to Vatican City.
Turning a corner he saw two men, their mouths and noses hidden behind the handkerchiefs knotted over their faces, gathering up the bodies of the dead.
Cats, dogs, mice, and rats, were put onto a funeral pyre along with the bodies of the humans, who had once walked these very streets, and the stench of death was everywhere. Crossing the canal bridge, he saw even more bodies floating in its murky waters. A huge rat darted forward from behind a body lying just feet away from where he stood, sinking it’s teeth into his leg. He felt the sting of its bite through the leather of his boot, before he could shake it off. He crushed it under his heel before it could get away. He travelled on, anxious to reach his destination. In the distance he saw the church; he would seek sanction there within its cold stones walls.
From out of nowhere it seemed, an old hag covered with weeping sores, approached him. In her fingers she clutched six pure white roses.
“Buy some sweet smelling roses from a poor old gypsy, to ward off the demons evil smelling breath,” she begged, reaching out a gnarled hand toward him as she spoke.
The traveller brushed her aside, nauseated by the sight and the stench of her open weeping sores. As he hurried away, the hag broke into a cackle. The traveller could still hear her laughter as he reached the church.
Just inside the gate, he met a young girl. Her naked body was covered in small, circular rash-like areas. In her hands were heavily scented lily’s, and in her hair she wore a single white rose. She came up to him, and he stood in silence, watching, as she began to dance around him. He felt a fever come upon him, and it felt as if his whole body was on fire. Throwing off his cloak, he saw that his body was covered in the same red, rash-like circles as the girl… He started sneezing and found he could not stop. Then it seemed as if he was staring down at his own nakedness, but the face doing the looking, was not his own. This face was covered in scales, with huge green lizard-like eyes, and a long purple forked tongue flicked in and out of its mouth.
The young girl began to sing as she danced around the traveller.
‘Ring a Ring O’ Roses;
A pocket full of posies,
Atishoo! Atishoo!
We all fall down.’
The traveller did. DEAD!
With a start, Father Patrick woke, and sat bolt upright in his bed. Sweat was pouring from his naked body. His heart was pounding, and it took him a few moments to realise where he was. The sheets were wet with his sweat, and he was aware of his own nakedness, but knew he had been wearing pyjamas when he got into bed. He’d had a nightmare, but a nightmare so real, he could still see its images in his mind, and the stench of decaying flesh seemed to be clinging to his body. Suddenly, over this stench of death and decay, he breathed in the sweet scent of roses, as if these flowers were an overtone of some sweet-smelling perfume. Gradually, the room seemed filled with their heady scent.
He threw back the bed covers and searched for his pyjamas, finding them in a discarded heap on the floor. Placing them over the foot of the bed he headed for the bathroom to wash the stench from his body. Standing under the shower, letting the water work its magic, he tried to find a meaning to the horror he had just witnessed in his nightmare.
Later, as he made his preparations for early morning mass, his mind was constantly going back and forth over the night before, still searching for a hidden meaning to the pictures so vivid in his mind. Later still, as he sat watching over Sally, whilst she did her lessons, the pads of her fingers tracing out the letters written in Braille, his mind wandered off yet again. He realised that in his nightmare he was the traveller, but why had he seen such a hideous face? A face of pure evil. A face fit only for the Devil.
Rising from his chair, he walked over to the mirror on the wall, above the fireplace, and studied his reflection. The image looking back at him had a pleasant face.
The hair was so light, it appeared almost white. The eyes looking back at him, were a piercing turquoise blue, the lips full and sensuous, the skin lightly tanned. It was the face of a man in his early forties, still showing signs of the handsomeness of youth. Poking out his tongue, he could see that it was pink and healthy, unlike the tongue in his nightmare.
“Is everything alright, Father?”
Startled, he saw Ruth’s reflection in the mirror next to his own. She asked again.
“Are you alright, Father? Are you feeling unwell?”
“Oh, Ruth, you surprised me. I didn’t hear you come in. Yes.” His voice came out in a whisper. Clearing his throat he tried again. “Yes, I’m fine. I bit my tongue and I was just checking it in the mirror,” he lied.
“I came in to see if there is anything you need. I’m just off to the butchers to get something for dinner.”
“No, I can’t think of anything, thanks all the same.”
“Well if there’s nothing I can get for you then, I’ll be off.”
Ruth called out to Sally, who was sitting in an armchair, an open book on her lap, the pads of her fingers tracing the words on its pages.
“You behave yourself while I’m gone, Sally. Do your lessons, and pay attention to what Father Patrick say’s, and I’ll bring you back some sweets.”
“Yes, mum, I will.” Sally, following the sound of her mother’s voice, looked up to where Ruth stood hesitant in the doorway. As Ruth turned to leave, she could feel Sally’s sightless eyes on her back. She felt as if Sally’s eyes were piecing through her, right to her very soul! With a shudder, Ruth turned away and quickly closed the door behind her.
Ruth st
ood in the queue, waiting her turn to be served by Lucas Bradley, wondering why she had been so unnerved by the thought of Sally’s eyes on her as she left the room. It wasn’t natural to feel uneasy in the presence of your own child.
Sally’s sightless eyes were only following the sound of her mother’s voice to where she stood at the door, she told herself. She was so lost in her thoughts, that she hadn’t realised she was being spoken to, until she felt a hand on her arm, and heard Martha Higgins’ voice asking if she was alright. Looking up, she found Martha staring at her, a look of concern on her face.
“Sorry, Martha, I was miles away. I didn’t even notice you when I came in.” Ruth smiled, apologetically.
“That’s okay. I know what it’s like, as I used to stand here myself sometimes trying to decide what to make for Father Patrick’s dinner. The only day I knew for sure what to cook, was on a Friday, it was always fish. Then I would have to decide what type of fish to buy, and how to cook it, so he didn’t get fed up with the same dish.” Martha laughed, as if she had made a joke. Ruth humoured her by smiling.
They both stepped aside as Lucas finished serving the customer in front of Ruth, wishing her good day as she left. Martha lowered her voice, speaking in a whisper so as not to be overheard, keeping her back to Lucas.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with Lucas, something’s bothering him. He hasn’t got a smile or a joke in him at all today. In all the years I’ve been coming here, I’ve never seen him like this before.” Then in a voice loud enough for Lucas to hear,
“Well, I’d better be going, my old man complains like hell if his dinner’s not put under his nose by six p.m. You take care, and give my regards to Father Patrick.” As she was closing the door behind her, Martha heard Lucas say,
“Ah, Mrs Ferguson, I have some nice fresh liver and kidneys just in this morning. I saved them for you.” Martha let the door bang to behind her, with an audible ‘humph’ of indignation. Lucas Bradley had never put aside anything special for her!
CHAPTER 10
DCI Fletcher sat in his office going over case files with the ex-profiler Scott Holden.
“Buxton police have sent over some of their missing person files, to see if you wouldn’t mind having a look at them. I told them you were helping us with our murder cases, and trying to build up a profile of our killers. They only have three cases that are unsolved, and any light you can throw on them would help. They have gone through all the usual channels, public appeals, etcetera, no joy, I’m afraid.”
Scott laid the files out before him, quickly scanning the pages, hoping he might find something that would be of use, maybe a connection. Attached to the inside of each file, was a photograph of the missing person held in place with a paper clip. He read:-
CASE 013 Louis Tranter. Reported missing by his landlady, Edna Francis. Last seen on the seventh of January 1998.
CASE 114 Albert Brooks. Reported missing. April the fourteenth 2011. His wife Christine said her husband had left their house to visit a friend, Bob Hill, but witnesses saw him heading down to the canal. No trace of him has been found.
CASE 150 Lorraine Cooke. Did not return from a dancing class on May sixteenth 2012 Reported missing by her mother, Sibyl Cooke.
Closing the file on Louis Tranter, Scott handed it over to the DCI.
“This case is fourteen years old, and there’s so little information to go on in his report.
I doubt very much if I can help with this. The case of Lorraine Cooke is the most recent, I may be able to throw some light on it, but I’ll go into that in more depth later.” Setting this to one side, he turned his attention on the other.
“Now, in the case of Albert Brooks, he’s been missing a little over a year.”
Scott paused for a moment, deep in thought.
“Do you happen to have a road map?”
“Yes, it’s in the second drawer down on the left, in the desk beside you, help yourself.” Jake told him.
Withdrawing the map, Scott checked the index, and then turned the pages to the one he was looking for. He scanned the map more closely.
Jake leant over his desk, watching as Scott took a marker and drew a circle around Abbeville, then followed the route to Buxton, circling it also.
“What are you looking for exactly?” he asked the American.
“All in good time, detective, all in good time,” Scott repeated, his voice barely audible. “Do you know of a place called Broad Meath? I can’t seem to find it.”
“I don’t know of any place around here called Broad Meath, but there is an asylum called Broadmeath. It’s about seven miles north of Lexham. Why?”
“Ah! That narrows it down even more. Where exactly is Lexham?”
Jake took a look at the map. Although it was upside down to him, from where he lent on the desk, he had no trouble finding it. Tapping the map with his forefinger,
“It’s here, in C 4. Broadmeath asylum stands in its own grounds near that wooded area there.” Jake indicated the spot on the map and Scott quickly drew a circle around it. Then taking the red marker, and using Jake’s notepad as a straight edge, Scott drew a rough triangle, joining Abbeville to Buxton and to Lexham, encircling Broadmeath, and finally back to Abbeville.
Scott ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, greying at the temples, and stood playing with the marker, rolling it through his fingers, completely lost in his own little world. Jake, losing patience, snapped at him.
“Are you going to share this with anyone, or am I going to stand around all day while you contemplate your bloody navel? According to you, I’ve two killers out there on the loose, and bloody ZILCH when it comes to catching them!” Then regretting his outburst, he apologised. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. You are giving up your vacation time to help us with our investigations, and your expertise will be of invaluable help to us. It’s just me venting my frustration.”
Scott studied the DCI for a moment or two, taking in his muscular, five foot eleven inch frame, the short cropped ginger hair and the sprinkling of freckles across the broad handsome face. Jake Fletcher had a soulful look in his big brown eyes. “That’s okay, detective, it’s well known that short tempers are a common trait in people with ginger hair. Apology accepted.”
“Call me Fletch. Everyone else around here does, at least most of the time that is.”
“Okay then, if you don’t find it derogatory I’ll call you Fletch or Jake from now on, when we are away from the public, and on a one-to-one basis. You may call me Scott.”
The two men shook hands; Jake was surprised at the strength in the older man’s grip. Scott pointed to the map which still lay open on the desk.
“Right, let’s get started. I think I may have a clue to your John Doe’s identity, and hopefully solve one of Buxton’s missing person’s at the same time. Bear with me for a moment while I run this by you.”
Jake sat down, while Scott paced back and forth, as he explained to him, his theory. “In the case of Albert Brooks, his wife, Christine, told the police he had gone out to visit a friend, and she reported him missing when he failed to return home. He was seen heading towards the canal, in the opposite direction from where his friend Bob Hill lived.” He stopped his pacing at the desk, and studied the map for a few moments.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, the canal runs through Abbeville and Buxton, by- passes Lexham, before continuing on its way northward.”
Jake interrupted him. “What has the canal got to do with a missing person, and our John Doe? I fail to see any connection?”
“The way I’m thinking is this,” Scott continued. “Just before I left to come here, Molly told me that a patient had escaped from an asylum three months ago and was still at large. What if Albert Brooks is that patient. His dishevelled appearance would tie in with someone who had been living rough for awhile. I’m thinking something happened on the day Albert Brooks went missing all those months ago, something that caused him to disappear. I would look in the file the asylum h
olds on their patient to see if there’s a connection. If I’m right, and there is a connection, it might help by leading us to his killer.”
Jake held up a hand to prevent Scott saying anything further, and shook his head.
“Sorry to blow a hole in your theory, but Albert Brooks couldn’t be on the run from the asylum. I was told of the case when it happened, by one of the constables involved. The man that was taken to Broadmeath asylum wasn’t certified as being mentally ill. He was found wandering around just outside of Lexham. Initially, he was picked up by the local police, and brought into the police station. He was soaking wet through, reeking of alcohol, and suffering from amnesia. When the doctor tried to check him for injuries, he became extremely violent and had to be sedated. He had no money, no wallet, nothing to identify him by when he was found, only a label in his jacket, bearing the name Joe Blogg.”
They sat quietly for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts.
Jake reached for his cigarettes, offering the packet to Scott before lighting one up.
Scott refused his offer. “No thanks, I don’t use them, never have. Tried one once when I was seventeen. I just about coughed up my lungs, threw up, and decided they weren’t for me.”
“Ok, fine.” Jake lit his cigarette. “Anyway, when officer’s returned to talk to Christine Brooks, they were told she had suffered a massive heart attack. She died in the Intensive Care Unit an hour after her arrival. The case was never pursued after that. Albert Brooks, although similar in height and build to John Doe, has blonde hair, which we were told, he always wore short. The John Doe, as you can see for yourself, on his file, has long, light brown, nit-ridden hair. According to the report made by Christine Brooks, Albert is a very fastidious person, and a fussy dresser. Even his everyday wear had to be casual chic. He wouldn’t even go to the local shops unless he was immaculate. You couldn’t say that of our John Doe.”
