“Let me see. There’s a white one, a blue one and a yellow, no maybe an orange one!”
She then smiled at Cyril proudly as if she had answered the difficult question with the requisite accuracy. Cyril didn’t have a clue now as to whether he’d asked the question correctly or whether she was joking but he assumed that she might be naively ignorant of the finer points of her employer’s car collection.
“Right, white, blue and one other... As I said before,” he turned to look at her, “he’s done alright for himself your Doctor.”
Cyril had returned her safely and on time and received another kiss on the cheek for his gallantry. Janet had promised him that she would take him for lunch on her return from France That was not all, he had also acquired a conundrum, a conundrum that troubled him. The Doctor seemed to have more brass than was possible, but then who knew how financially comfortable his parents had left him. He also kicked himself for not having asked about the Doctor’s close friends; surely there’d been relationships after Mary. He could remember neither the Doctor nor Janet mentioning any but maybe he was expecting too much information too soon. He should learn to close the hangar door and leave work out of his social calendar! He knew one thing for certain, that by Monday evening, he would have a good idea about Dr Flint’s financial status.
On his arrival back in Harrogate he was surprised to be diverted from his usual route home.
“Sorry Sir, Raglan Street’s closed by the park,” a young, community policeman announced leaning in the car window.
Cyril produced his I.D. and looked at the now-flustered bobby. “What’s up?”
“Some chemical incident happened in the park earlier today, Sir. The surrounds are completely closed down with forensics dressed like spacemen going in and out. We’ve had all the services here, just need the National Crime Agency boys and girls and we’d have a full house!” He smiled at his own joke. “Nobody’s to go near, sorry. It’s been traffic chaos today, absolute chaos. That eye looks sore, Sir!”
“Thanks, I’ll get home another way, you’re lucky it’s Sunday.” Cyril smiled a little sarcastically, checked in the mirror and reversed.
Monday morning was going to be busy.
Chapter Seventeen
The Audi turned left along Chemin du San Peyre before stopping in front of a stone, arched gate. Peter Flint pressed the remote and the two large, black, iron gates began to move reluctantly, separating with only a small protest from the hinges. He swung the car into the drive and parked beneath a large car-port that was covered in bougainvillaea. The garden lights allowed some splendour to be seen, lights that announced that they were expecting him. He breathed, sighed deeply and relaxed.
“That’s a long way!” he whispered to himself and then he breathed deeply again.
The driver’s door opened, allowing the warm, scented evening air to invade the cool, interior. Jean’s ebullient French welcome lifted Peter’s spirit, he thrust out a hand and Jean helped him from the car.
Jean Blanchard had worked at the house since Peter had purchased it, tending the garden and maintaining the property and pool. They hired additional help seasonally. He and his wife, Madhul, a Guajarati whom he had married whilst travelling in India, had a small cottage within the grounds. It was essential to maintain a degree of security along the Cote d’Azur as it attracted both the good and the bad; these days there seemed to be a fair share of the latter.
“The wine is breathing and Madam Blanchard has prepared Khichdi for you, she knows how much you like it. It is wonderful to have you home, Doctor Flint. I’ll unpack the car and then mix a gin and tonic for you. Please go and relax by the pool. The view does not change.” His smile was genuine.
“I’m going to swim and relax in the pool; I’ve done with sitting for a while, Jean. Thank you.”
Peter climbed the four steps and entered the cool hallway. He always felt immediately at home. He quickly changed and went onto the terrace; the tiles under his bare feet still retained the afternoon heat. Jean was correct, the view had not changed. He had specifically bought this house because it would be impossible to build in front of it. The adage, ‘You can’t buy a view’ had always rung in his ears. The lights around the coast shimmered in the twilight. To the west the horizontal sky was orangey-red, topped by a beautiful shade of rich turquoise. The estuary far below broke the curvature of the silver coast and further along he could see Cannes. The evening air was warm and so too was the pool.
He had wanted a black tiled pool as it would always be mirror-like and create an indeterminate depth. As he looked, the water reflected the richness of the evening sky and the surrounding garden lights. He entered the water and suddenly he began to relax. He gently swam to the far edge, the water instantly healing his aching limbs. Life just seemed to get better and better.
“And tomorrow?” he whispered and smiled in anticipation. “That’s another day,” he thought. “Tonight will be wine, food and bed, Doctor’s orders.”
As he turned to swim back, Jean arrived with a smile and a gin and tonic. Jean had adapted more to his wife’s way of life; the flame-red turban, elegant, golden sherwani jacket and dhoti suited his slender frame. Jean put his hands together in front of his chest and bowed respectfully. “Your meal can be served within minutes, when you’re ready.” He then left.
***
The bright, Mediterranean morning light penetrated the blinds like needles dissecting the darkness in clear parallel. Peter turned in bed and enjoyed the silence before it was broken by the sound of a train horn down along the coast. He picked up the remote control and opened the blinds allowing the white sunlight to wash the room. Blue sky and blue sea filled his field of vision. He checked the clock, ten. He found his towelling robe and walked onto the patio, the light reflecting off the dark pool dazzled. The climbing sun still had a wonderful, gentle, late summer heat. He slipped into the pool swimming to the far side to look over the infinity edge at the distant shore line. A few boats were already out. He let his eyes follow the coast until they stopped at the castle perched on the rocky promontory. It was surrounded by spectacular gardens dotted with sculpture of all shapes and sizes. It was one of his favourite places. He would have breakfast and then take a short drive to the coast.
***
Cyril listened impatiently whilst his doctor checked his eye and his face. There had been some improvement but he still had to take things easy and to continue with the medication. He collected another prescription before eagerly heading off to the Police HQ and his office.
Owen came in with the latest news which was far worse than Cyril could have imagined, second person targeted using sulphur mustard, young woman, severe blistering to face, temporary blindness and respiratory damage.
“They believe it probably came from a First World War bomb according to the people who perform the dark art of forensics, something to do with the viscosity and colour they say. If it were in an exploding bomb, the sulphur mustard would turn to gas with the heat of the explosion and drift into enemy lines. Before it explodes it is a viscous liquid. It’s being tested again. The victim, a girl, is a care worker, correction, a suspended care worker who’s allegedly been stealing from her dementia clients. She was running yesterday morning and was attacked in the park. Something just hit her on the head and it contained a note.”
Owen pushed a piece of paper in front of Cyril.
“It’s a copy so it’s safe.”
He popped on his glasses and read it. The girl runner he nearly killed yesterday morning came to mind. Lines creased his forehead and he looked up at Owen and then back at the paper.
“We have a crank with a conscience it seems, unusual, very unusual. How many died of mustard gas poisoning in the First World War? Who’s heading up the investigation? Where are the casualties? The first casualty, Chow or Chew, wasn’t he a nurse of some kind?”
“It’s with the Chief at the moment, he’s heading it, but this info has filtered through and is still hush, hush
. Anyway, Sir, not many, about 5% of those affected. However, it can leave dreadful long-term disabilities; there is little research as to those statistics. Chew, his name was Keith Chew and he worked at the hospital here but was dismissed for alleged cruelty to the elderly. I believe he’s fighting the disciplinary judgement or his union is. Did you know it was the Germans who started the gas bomb thing and we borrowed their captured bombs and chucked them back, initially until we made our own that is? It’s quite fascinating once you get into the history and that...”
Owen stopped as he saw the look appear in Cyril’s eye. “And...Casualties, Owen, where are the casualties.”
“Sorry, Sir, get carried away at times.”
“ You were saying, Owen?”
“They’re in Harrogate but they might move them, when and where to I’m unsure.”
“Now, some news about Phillip Jarvis,” Owen opened his note-book. “He’s lived in France since 1994, firstly in Alsace until 1997 and then in Nice. Obviously, he’s a teacher, English as a foreign language. He confirmed that he was with the French contingent during their visit to Ripon and he knew Mary Nixon very well. Strangely, Sir, he was born in France and lived there until he was ten. Mother English, father French. Mother was a nurse and father was working within French Resistance during the latter stages of the war around Menton. That’s on the...”
“Owen, I know where Menton is.” He tossed his glasses onto the desk.
“Sorry, Sir. They met when he was being treated after he was released from a camp, not sure which one They divorced and she came back to England and then met and married Ron Jarvis, a local businessman in early 1964. Phillip mentioned he didn’t go to France with the college because they felt his French was near perfect.”
“Has he had any contact with Mary since?”
“Strangely they met up when he lived in Alsace. It was a chance meeting, he said. She apparently recognised him. They had coffee and chatted about old times. He was travelling in Switzerland on business, Basle, that’s near...”
Cyril lifted his head.
“Sorry! And he bumped into her on the station of all places, but nothing other than that.”
“Is he married or has he been?”
“No, Sir, she bumped into him. She recognised him. I’ll check the records.”
“Do that and check the usual social networking sites for all concerned. Check who’s still alive and,” Cyril paused. “find out the name on his birth certificate and check all details. When that’s done, check the paternal father’s history and then his stepfather’s. I’m beginning to get an unpleasant smell. And Owen, when you find Jarvis’s French surname, check that too on your Facebook and Twitter things and any other devious device the devil’s hands have forged that you seem to enjoy.”
He took out his electronic cigarette, inhaled and sat back, the concentration could be seen etched on his brow. Owen started to leave.
“And Owen,” Cyril looked up and smiled. “Well done! Good work!”
Cyril was just about to delve into Doctor Flint’s financial affairs when his phone rang. He said two words, “Yes,” followed ten seconds later by, “Sir.” He put the phone down and collected his jacket. He was going to see the boss and he had a sneaking suspicion that he knew why.
***
Even though he was still officially on leave, Lawrence returned to his office to collect a mountain of paper that demanded his attention. He always tried to work, even during leave so there was nothing strange in that. He spoke with colleagues who were surprised he’d left it so long to collect work. He was pleased, however, to hear they had been working on the patients brought in from the chemical spills. This whetted his appetite to go into the hospital to see the fruits of his labour. After careful thought, he donned his clinician’s coat and I.D. and walked to ICU. He waited outside the locked door for someone to come. He removed his glasses and breathed on each lens before polishing them. A nurse, carrying a number of files, ambled down the corridor and smiled at him. She scanned the lock and the door opened automatically. He returned the smile and entered.
“I do so hate wearing these,” he said to her before replacing them, his foot keeping the door ajar.
She smiled again. “They suit you Doctor.”
He failed totally to see the look in the nurse’s eye, the way she smiled and the possible conversation-opening gambit. It wasn’t his wish for stealth more his social inadequacy as far as the opposite sex was concerned. He didn’t want to use his pass, it would be recorded somewhere that he had entered the unit when on leave and that wouldn’t do, whereas people would forget or confuse days easily and probably forget he was even there. He donned an apron and gloves which was common practice. He didn’t need to see the specific patients, just read their notes that were positioned on large, sloping tables outside each room. His department had been investigating the patients’ blood cells to support treatment. He looked through the observation window and then talked with each designated nurse. The myriad bleeps and alarms constantly alerting the carers soon became an unheard, background noise, only the trained would respond to the different sounds. He thought of his whistle and Pavlov, strange he pondered, how ideas collided at the strangest of times.
All the cases showed the same symptoms with one victim more serious that the rest but they were all showing classic symptoms of sulphur mustard poisoning; extensive disfiguringly blistered skin to the face and hands, blindness and respiratory difficulties. Lawrence thanked the nurses and left. He was ready to move on to his next victim. It was working. He would return to his workshop and prepare. He had only just scratched the surface. The next candidate, however, was an away assignment, not all the people on the list lived locally.
***
As Peter Flint walked towards the garage, he pressed the remote and one of the three doors seemed to levitate revealing a white, convertible Triumph TR3. Strange to think this classic car was younger than he, it made him smile. The paintwork and chrome shone as he drove the vehicle out and down the drive to the gates that swung open. It would take him ten minutes to drive to the coast. He would park away from the restaurant and walk a short distance in the hope of surprising someone whom he knew would be lunching; if it’s Monday, it’s Le Boucanter Restaurant.
He stood by the wall and looked at the beach, a small and safe haven for children that hugged the rock face until rock ran directly to the sea. It was above this point that nestled Chateau de Napoule, his favourite. It had been converted into a house by a wealthy, American billionaire after a chequered history that had commenced in the fourteen century. The restaurant was to his left. Sitting out in the sunshine amid the dotted palm plants he noticed two people and he smiled. As he approached, one saw him but noticed his finger to his lips, signalling to keep silent. The other sat with his back to him. Peter moved stealthily with a smile before covering the person’s eyes with his hands.
“Qui est lã?”
Peter leaned round and placed a solid yet passionate kiss on the diner’s lips.
Chapter Eighteen
Cyril knocked on the door and heard the word, “Enter.”
The Chief Superintendent was gazing out of the window. Cyril was always immediately drawn to his superior’s desk. It was amazing, literally piles of paper horizontally filed held in place by pebbles of all sizes and colours. If you were to sit at either side, you would not see the other person and so most interviews took place standing. He had seen the desk often and had watched in amazement as his superior could archaeologically unearth the correct piece of information from the different strata. It was rare for him to require two attempts. The Chief turned and looked at him.
“Still wearing the ugly mask, Cyril? See the palsy has taken a firm hold,” he smiled. “I guess you’ve heard and therefore you’ll know why you’re here. Two similar incidents but not identical that need sorting. I think it’s the same psychopath, just a different day. Maybe the type of note found with the second, dedicated victim was planted on the fi
rst but went unnoticed or blew away or was forgotten so there will be a pattern. How’s the investigation re Ripon going?”
“We’re getting there, links now to Europol so we’re liaising with our French cousins but I see no real issues. Owen is doing a great job, keen as mustard really, knows how to work the team.”
“Is that a joke? Right I’m giving you a new D.S. to go along with Owen, they’ll be like two Toby jugs! She’s bright, keen and eager. You’ll be a rose between two thorns, Cyril.”
“She, James?” Cyril walked over and stood next to the Chief.
“Liz, Elizabeth Graydon moved from Leeds with great references. She’s up to speed and setting up the bones of an incident room for you as we speak. Can you manage both cases? What have you, five in the main team?”
The advice of his doctor flashed through his mind: rest, easy, and particularly, no stress swam around in the grey matter, but they were soon drowned completely by the words, No problem if she’s as good as you say.
“No trouble, James. Yes, five with a call on many others if needed. I’ll go and meet the prettier Toby.” He smiled and left, glancing at the paper Eiger North Face that topped the Boss’s desk as he left.
He took the stairs stopping at the gents on the third floor. He made straight for the mirror, straightened his tie, added drops to his eye before checking his hair. He smiled but then gave up and shook his head remembering the words of Eeyore as the old grey donkey looked at his reflection in the stream, Pathetic. That’s what it is, pathetic. He turned sideways looking in profile, As I thought, no better from this side. At least it made him smile inside. Eeyore had always been his favourite Milne character.
On his arrival, he found the incident room to be organised and all the details were being readied. A wisp of a woman was removing papers from two boxes. She had not heard him enter.
“Elizabeth?” Cyril announced quizzically making her jump a little. She reddened and giggled.
Only The Dead: an explosive new detective series Page 8
