“I have faced the unknown with smiles and, hopefully, I have made a difference. Unlike Belgium and France, where you fought for nothing and died for nothing, nobody in my war has died. I believe that I’ve blown the whistle on some of the unacceptable standards of care; I have righted a wrong but sadly at a great cost.” His voice was soft and low expressing a poignant sadness.
What had he to live for? Work? Not really. A woman? Money? None had any attraction. He could think of nothing. He ran his hand over the page. He would now wait, wait to blow the final whistle.
The sound of the helicopter clattering loudly overhead and then moving away, startled him.
“It has begun.” Picking up the whistle, he placed the cord around his neck before putting it to his lips. He blew it very gently. He left the Hammerton on the workbench, picked up a red marker and ringed the man he was so convinced was his relative before lighting the stove. He flipped up the lid of his lap top and tapped at the keys. He had spent hours preparing the written and photographic evidence of the abuse his mother had suffered, the changed ‘signing-in’ log and the comprehensive file, highlighting the nationwide care home cruelty that seemed endemic. He pressed send. The evidence was travelling to a number of local and national media centres, to the CQC, to his local MP and to the offices of the Court of Human Rights. He could only hope that it would finally reveal the truth, that CQC and the Government would manage effectively some measures of control within the growing industry effectively. He also had the misguided belief that he was doing it for people with relatives in care, that they, after reading or hearing about his case, would begin to ask more questions and be more aware. It might only be that their loved one was dressed in someone else’s clothes, that a bruise suddenly appeared here and there or something as simple as their hair being un-brushed. He knew it was the little things, that were often the start, he knew that because he had failed to see all of the small clues until it was too late. A tear blurred his vision.
Once inside his mother’s home, the two Police dogs were allowed to scent Lawrence’s shoes before they headed out, one first followed by the other five minutes later. Within twenty minutes it was clear why the workshop had not been found. It formed part of a collection of outhouses and garages, swallowed in the overgrown garden, positioned to one side of a narrow pathway. The heavy, steel door to one side was set away from the path.
The barking dog alerted Lawrence’s attention as he lifted the pan onto the stove.
“No return now, my future is uncertain but I face it with a smile.” His voice was unsteady and matched the slight shake of his hand.
Opening the safe, he removed the one remaining shell; it was one of the first shells he had collected, the one that seemed to be in the best condition, the most stable. The rest had been returned but this one he needed. This too was placed ceremonially into the pan. He removed his glasses, cleaning them for the last time. He breathed on each lens slowly and meticulously began polishing. His hands now seemed steadier, more in control.
Small bubbles blinked and rose from the bottom of the pan as the heat began to move the water. More noise could be heard outside and the sound of the returning helicopter confirmed that the enemy was at the gate. He was not a murderer, nobody had died and nobody but he should die. If they heard this last signal, they might move. He placed the whistle to his lips.
Breathing excessively, Cyril moved nearer and touched the steel door. He realised that it was locked from within. One of the officers shouted and pointed to the canary in the cage.
“Leave it! Touch nothing.”
Liz moved to his side.
“Is he in or out?”
“He’s in I fe...” It was then that he heard it, the shrill sound of a whistle, a long, constant blast as if a battalion were about to go over the top, to be slaughtered, blown to smithereens.
“Fuck. Everyone mask on and away in that direction. Run!” Cyril pointed towards the caged bird. The officers didn’t need telling twice, the sight of people running was enough. “Find some cover and put on your masks now!”
Lawrence could hear the water boiling and the phials bouncing within the metal netting of the sieve. He simply stared at the rusted cylinder protruding from the pan. At first, only one phial cracked and the viscous sulphur mixed with the remnants of the water. As soon as the water evaporated, a cloud of orangey-brown gas rose from the pan. Heat from the stove sent it towards the ceiling, where its sinister tendrils strangled the fluorescent tubes before unfurling and floating out to the cooler edges of the room. Slowly they began to sink, a sinister cloud of death searching for its next victim.
His first cough was enough to signal that it had started and he deliberately breathed more deeply, drawing as much as he could into his lungs before coughing violently as he exhaled. His eyes began to burn and stream, tears flushed down his cheeks. He fell to the floor and curled up, contorted by the burning and blistering in his chest. Pain wracked him as the coughing fits replaced his breathing. It was far worse than he ever could have believed.
Had he been able to see, he would have noticed the base of the aluminium pan melting and sliding sideways, allowing the shell to rest directly on the flames. Within a minute his coughing would stop, the burning would cease within his chest and the sadness and guilt he had carried since the death of his mother would no longer be a burden. Maybe, just maybe, he would meet up with the man who had stared out of the page at him from behind a bus ticket, the man who he hoped would be a brave Lawrence Young, a man whose face had haunted him since he had first seen the picture.
The helicopter hovered upwind as the officers on the ground waited. They didn’t wait long. The shell might have been 100 years old, but its propensity for attracting one’s attention was still the same. It had remained in the fire long enough. The whole group of small buildings erupted spewing brick, steel, tiles and slates high into the air. The heavenly detritus seemed to hover for an age before debris rained onto the ground. A plume of orange smoke rose even higher. Caught by the morning light, it had a strange beauty as it drifted gently out across the Stray. It was closely followed by a fine spray of water from the burst main. Myriad rainbows immediately formed, adding beauty to the devastation. Windows in the nearby properties were either cracked or broken. Officers had cleared the area as much as time had allowed. The helicopter crew warned people to stay indoors and to close all windows until further notification, which was fine providing they still had windows..
Cyril didn’t move, he just looked at Liz and shook his head before mouthing the word, Why?.
It was now a job for Bomb Disposal and Forensics, they had done all they could.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Mediterranean Sea sparkled in the morning sun. Peter thought it was one of the prettiest blues he had ever seen. He stared at it as he looked out between the pine trees. A light breeze whispered within the branches and suddenly he felt exposed and alone.
He parked the Renault Alpine in the small clearing well off the main road, where he normally parked the Fiat. He knew that the car might be discovered in an hour or in a week, but either would be fine. In the boot was Mary’s severed hand, photographs and a long suicide note which revealed his Ripon past, ensuring that Janet, or any of his staff, were not implicated in his machinations. He removed some bags before locking the door and throwing the keys into the undergrowth. He tapped the car; it had been one of his favourites.
Taking the path, he trudged to the spot where the boar had ripped at the forest floor. Removing shredded, blood-soaked pieces of his clothing and clumps of hair, he scattered them over a distance. He then buried his amputated little finger before covering the site with branches. More blood was poured into the soil which slowly darkened. He knew that the wild pigs would return, but he had to take the gamble that they would not destroy his evidence. He listened but heard nothing.
Walking away from the site, he stumbled, deliberately leaving a small piece of material on one of the bushes. His job wa
s complete. It was now in the lap of the Gods. Forensic Science was so advanced these days that this deception might not work The hardest part for him now would be the walk home without being seen, but he had planned for that too.
***
The incident room was slowly being taken apart, leaving only the evidence for the Ripon deaths. Although the damage to the building had been catastrophic, only Lawrence had died. The remains of the mysterious Scenic had been found alongside pieces of the shell and the even smaller pieces of Lawrence. The canary had been adopted by a neighbour and probably couldn’t understand the regularity of day and night. Cyril suspected it had been left as a sign, as a need to seek sanctuary.
Owen came into the interview room where Phillip sat with Jo Pimblett, across the desk from Cyril.
“Sorry, Sir. A minute?”
Cyril apologised and excused himself before following Owen out of the room.
“French Police, Sir. They’ve found the car. Peter Flint’s up in the forest above Menton. Guess what’s inside?”
“A Daily Telegraph, a Beano and a Lucky Bag? Stop playing fucking games and tell me facts!”
“A hand, photographs and a suicide note. Forensics is testing finger prints and DNA etc but if the photographs and the description of her death are anything to go by, I would suggest it’s Mary’s. It’s not actually a note, more an essay. Like the diary really, implicates himself and nobody else. I thin...” Cyril’s look said everything including Shut up! Owen put his hands by his side like a chastised schoolboy, at least for now he had learned to stop apologising.
“Who said dead men can’t give evidence?”
“Don’t know, Sir.”
“Owen, it was a rhetorical question for goodness sake and that means it didn’t require an answer, unlike us, we require a what? Well?”
Owen screwed up his face in thought and definitely had a look of an over-sized Baldric. “A body, I think,”
“Correct, well deduced, always said you were as keen as mustard. Have they found one?”
“Not yet. Forensics suggests that the car from Flint’s place, the Jag, shows evidence of CO poisoning, high ratio too. There was no sign of a struggle and they say that the windows were broken from the outside, suggesting someone was trying to get them out and not the other way round. DNA matches on all seats too. That seems to support Phillip’s evidence and that of the potentially deceased Peter Flint.” His voice was almost apologetic.
Cyril just lifted his eyebrows and for the first time, Owen noticed they both matched.
“Let me know when they find Flint. We need to share this with Miss Pimblett.”
“One more thing, I had a message on my mobile from Penny, the woman from Cannes. She was desperate to speak to either you or me. I’ve tried her number but there was no answer. Maybe she’s run out of battery. Did sound scared though.”
“Contact French police, give them the number and ask them to check for a position of the last known call, shouldn’t prove too taxing. They already have a description of the woman. You do have her number?”
“Sir.”
Cyril spent a good hour with Phillip’s lawyer and they both agreed that once Peter’s body had been located and all of the evidence from the Jaguar had been analysed and collated, their case could progress. It seemed to be all over bar the shouting, just the need remaining to cross a few T’s and dot some I’s. With luck he might get away with 10 years, out in 5 but you never knew. The cynical side of Cyril’s brain hinted that he might just get slapped hands. Nothing would surprise him these days.
***
Penny insisted that Charles stop to give the girls a minute; they needed to pee and so did she. Reluctantly, he pulled up alongside a small, wooden barn.
“Hurry, one at a time!”Charles grumbled.
Penny took each girl behind the barn in turn, desperate to find an opportunity to slip away.
“I need to pee too.”
She disappeared behind the barn and immediately began surging through the heavily-overgrown hillside. Her fingers dug into the soil as she frantically tried to put distance between herself and Charles. The darkness soon enveloped her as she crouched, concealed in the bushes. She removed her phone and rang Bennett but there was no signal, her phone seemed dead.
Charles drummed on the steering wheel whilst glancing at the barn. He climbed from the car and made his way to find Penny. There was no one there.
“Fuck, the bitch! You bitch!” he screamed. “I’ll find you!”
He returned to the car.
Penny heard the car leave but she waited, worried that Charles might return. After an hour she decided it was safe to move.
It had been years since Penny had hitched a lift and even in her bedraggled state, after climbing and walking through the bushes and woodland, she had been successful. Her attempts to contact either of the two English Police Officers had failed, along with the mobile battery. It had given her time to think. She was unsure as to whether she wanted any further involvement. All she really wanted was a quiet life. She would like to return to Turkey but most of all she needed time to relax, take stock and think in what direction she wanted her life to go.
It was early morning when she arrived in Nice; it had taken six different drivers and not all had been gentlemen! She enjoyed the warmth of the new day’s new sun on her face. She sat on a white bench on the Promenade Des Anglais and watched the joggers and skaters. The blue water foamed over the pebbles, a rhythmic soothing cacophony. Maybe here, maybe in Nice, I could live. I could start afresh, forget the last chapter of my life. The morning traffic was busy and the sound of the occasional horn disturbed the setting. She stood turned away from the sea, crossed the prom and passed through the white, wooden seating shelter by the Lido Plage. She didn’t see the bike travelling at speed on the cycle way between the promenade and the road, she was too intent on catching the crossing that showed green. The cyclist failed to see her too, hidden within the skeletal structure.
She was instantly bowled over, her temple striking the metal handle of a bench with frightening force. Her neck whiplashed and cracked, causing the spinal cord to snap, whilst at the same time the cyclist was rising in a balletic somersault over the handlebars before landing directly onto Penny’s prostrate and twisted body. There was no movement, she had felt nothing.
People dashed to her and helped the cyclist to his feet. Blood oozed from his mouth and he caught the remnants of a number of teeth in his gloved hand. They moved him away and sat him down facing away from the dead casualty.
Within minutes the Police were on the scene, followed quickly by the red fire vehicle, the first usually at the scene of an accident, its blue lights marking the spot. Within minutes more sirens announced the arrival of the ambulance.
It would take two days for the French Police to inform Owen of Penny’s death. He sat at his desk trying to see why she had been so scared... and then to be killed by a bike. It didn’t make any sense. Mary and Mary’s stand-in both dead, surely it couldn’t be a coincidence. He closed the file and left it on Flash’s desk. Owen noticed the headline from the day’s local paper, stating that Willow Gate Nursing Home had become the focus of a CQC investigation after information had been received from a number of pertinent sources. Owen realised that the proverbial was beginning to hit a number of fans.
Chapter Thirty
The Doctor manipulated Cyril’s eye and mouth and looked at his notes.
“You’re fine. Taking my advice and taking it easy has obviously done the trick!” Cyril looked at his shoes as he knew guilt would have taken the place of the palsy. “Handsome as ever. Cyril, handsome as ever!”
Cyril leaned across the desk, shook the Doctor’s hand and thanked him. He was happy to leave; he had certainly had his fill of doctors.
“Down to stress Cyril, you know that. Now you’ve learned to take your foot off the gas, keep it off!” He smiled and was totally sincere, if a little misguided.
On leaving the surgery Cy
ril crossed the road and headed home but first he had a little more stress relief to take care of. He had an appointment with two pints of Black Sheep.
The pub was quiet and the first pint never touched the sides. He collected his second pint and moved to a table away from the bar. As he was about to pick up a paper, his phone rang. A sinking feeling erupted in the pit of his stomach. He looked at the screen, it was Janet. He let it ring twice more and then switched it off before picking up the pint glass.
“Cheers,” he whispered to himself. “May these be the worst of my days!”
Five Weeks Later
The notification of the finding of remains came as little surprise. The French Police had disclosed that they had discovered traces of Fentanyl Sodium Pentobarbitol in Peter’s house. This barbiturate, administered in overdose, would cause rapid unconsciousness and suppress cardiac activity. The sparse remains had been discovered in the forest above Menton. DNA of blood and clothing samples proved beyond reasonable doubt that Doctor Peter Flint’s body had been at the spot. The conclusion had been reached after a tooth had been discovered, in what remained of a deposit of wild pig faeces. It was clear that the decaying carcase had been consumed.
Phillip had commenced a prison sentence of nine years, but he would be out in five. He had seemed resigned to the judgement and pleaded guilty on all counts. Jo Pimblett had been correct, and she joked that she could have climbed the metaphorical mountain in bare feet, such was the evidence that had suddenly appeared.
Although Janet continued to ring Cyril on a number of occasions, something in his waters suggested that he stay clear; there was far too much baggage and some of it might be contraband.
Lawrence Young’s actions certainly effected a response. The media had a field day and the Care Quality Commission found enough evidence to close Willow Gate Nursing Home down, until either a new management structure was put in place or it was sold. Questions were asked in Parliament and the local MP helped to set up a sub committee to review care home provision and monitoring.
Only The Dead: an explosive new detective series Page 23
