Tara and Murray got out of the car and made their way towards the group of uniformed officers gathered by the police vehicles. There were tall trees all around, and the forest paths ran off on either side into the dense undergrowth.
Already, Tara felt sick. Her body trembled, and she felt cold despite wearing a padded anorak, jeans and boots. She feared she was about to encounter the inevitable, the loss of a friend, albeit someone she had known for only a short time. She stood back and allowed Murray to make contact with the detectives from Birkenhead. She didn’t feel capable of conversation. A plainclothes officer, however, approached her.
‘DI Grogan,’ he said, ‘I’m DS Tom Lydiate. DS Murray tells me that you may know the victim?’
He was a tall, very slim man, unable, it seemed, to fit into his jacket very well. It hung off his narrow shoulders. His hair was cut in a traditional short back and sides, his face was pinched, and his Adam’s apple protruded as he spoke. Tara did little more than to shrug in response.
‘The description seems to fit,’ she replied eventually. ‘A friend of mine has recently gone missing.’
‘There is no ID on the victim, but if you wouldn’t mind taking a look, ma’am.’
Never particularly strong at a crime scene, she felt her knees go weak. The thought of stepping inside that tent forced her to momentarily shut her eyes.
‘You OK, ma’am?’ Murray asked. She nodded.
‘Stay with me please, Alan.’
She allowed him to lead the way. As they approached, she saw that the tent was positioned off the rough parking area and sat several yards into the undergrowth. They stepped over a low wooden boundary and the ground fell away steeply. The shelter was perched at an angle ten feet down the slope. A uniformed officer, seeing them approach, lifted the flap of the tent. Tara remained behind Murray as they ventured inside. She gripped his arm tightly when she caught a glimpse of the body.
CHAPTER 33
The vision made her stomach heave, and she continued to hold on tight to Murray’s arm. He sensed her discomfort and put his arm around her shoulders and drew her body close to his. Tara’s hand went to her mouth as her mind adjusted to the reality before her. Jez had been such a recently acquired friend, and yet Tara felt that they could have become close. In a short space of time, merely within a few occasions, they had come to know each other quite well. But now there was such mystery. Why was Jez dead?
Murray attempted to guide her out of the tent and away from the scene, but Tara forced herself to look, to take in as much detail as her mind would allow. Jez lay on her back and a dried trickle of blood ran from the side of her mouth into the earth. Mud and a few dead leaves were stuck to her beautiful face. There were no obvious signs of what had transpired here. There were no bruises or cuts on the face, and as far as she could see there were no signs of strangulation. The flesh was darkened and already in decay. Tara noticed also that her friend was dressed similarly to the night they had gone to the Philharmonic. She wore a long black, tailored coat which lay open revealing a black silk blouse and black slim-fitting trousers. On her feet were a pair of black ankle boots with gold studs around the heels. Her face still showed traces of substantial make-up with dark eyeshadow and a dark-coloured lipstick. Her clothes, however, were muddied and stained with blood.
The medical examiner, despite looking a young age, was rather stooped in posture as he stood at the head of the body. He was passing on his initial findings to DS Lydiate.
‘I would say she has been here for several days,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘No obvious signs of sexual activity. The clothes are mostly intact. Both legs are broken and there is severe trauma to the upper torso. Crush injuries. My guess is that she has been run over by a vehicle of some description. Judging by how far she is away from the lane and the parking area I would say that either she was thrown this far by the impact or else someone dragged her here after the collision.’
Tara had seen and heard enough. She managed to make it close to their car before, out of sight of everyone but Murray, she threw up. Murray supplied the tissues for her to wipe her mouth. Now, she was cold and trembling. With Murray’s help, she climbed into the car and he drove them to the first pub he could find.
‘Drink this, ma’am, it’ll warm you up if nothing else.’
‘What is it?’
‘Brandy.’ Murray placed the glass with a double measure of Rémy Martin into her hands.
‘Ughh! I hate brandy.’
‘Drink, that’s an order… ma’am.’
She sipped at the warming liquid and attempted to smile at her colleague.
‘Thanks, Alan, I couldn’t have got through that without you. I feel as though someone has taken a knife and gouged out my insides. I feel so bloody useless.’
The pub near the town centre of Birkenhead was quiet. To anyone who cared to notice, Tara and Murray looked like a couple enjoying an early evening drink. Their surroundings, however, were far from salubrious, Formica tabletops, wooden bench seats and a TV blaring out a helping of Hollyoaks.
‘What’s happening to all of us, Alan? We’re old before our time and it’s all because of this damn job. I don’t think I can stand much more of it.’
‘Life is tough, Tara, it’s just that sometimes we’re right at the coalface.’
Murray saw that Tara was crying, sobbing like a child.
‘Hey, come on, Tara love, we’ll get through this one, we always do.’
‘And then what? Another case? Another murder, another killer for us to track down?’
CHAPTER 34
‘The post-mortem is at ten-thirty,’ said Murray. ‘I thought you might want to be there.’
Tara nodded before gulping some orange juice. She’d just let Murray into her flat, and now she stood in her kitchen trying to ease the effects of several double brandies from the night before. Her head throbbed and her eyes felt as though they’d been wide open in a sandstorm. She remembered Murray driving her home, opening her door and helping her inside. He may well have helped her to bed, but that’s where her mind was blank. Murray was still talking, but her head suddenly filled with the vision of her coming on to him, trying to kiss him and then asking him to her bed. God, what had she done?
‘Tweedy was trying to get a hold of you, he wants a word.’
She nodded acknowledgement.
‘Make yourself some coffee. I need a shower,’ she said. ‘Help yourself to anything you can find to eat.’ She traipsed past him then stopped and turned around. ‘Alan, I’m really sorry about last night. Whatever I did or said, I can’t remember.’
He smiled, trying to look sympathetic but it seemed to her that he was enjoying her unease.
‘God, this is so embarrassing,’ she said, retreating to the bathroom.
DS Lydiate appeared to have been waiting for them as they walked into the bare entrance hall outside the post-mortem suite of the Royal Liverpool Hospital. He looked tired and drawn, the events of the previous day had taken its toll. His face was heavily lined and he hadn’t shaved properly, leaving blotches of red on both cheeks and scattered areas of stubble. He was too old for late nights and early morning starts.
‘Ah, morning, ma’am,’ he said with his hand outstretched. ‘I’m glad you could make it. At the moment you’re the only person who can identify the deceased.’
‘I’ll arrange for one of Jez’s work colleagues to come along. It might be more appropriate.’
‘Right, well, maybe, if you don’t mind, you could at least confirm that the deceased is Miss Riordan?’
Lydiate led Tara and Murray through a set of double doors and into a post-mortem room. Tara was well used to this place, but this morning her experience was of no comfort. Her embarrassment and her hangover had not subsided, and now she was trembling already at the sight of her friend covered by a green theatre sheet and lying on a stainless-steel bench awaiting the pathologist’s knife. Tara glanced around the room in need of something else to focus upon, something othe
r than the shape of this once stunningly beautiful woman. A cold echoing room with its array of clinical aromas was no place for a woman with a hangover and, orange juice and coffee aside, an empty stomach. Come to think of it, she would not wish to be here with a full breakfast in her either.
The pathologist’s assistant wasted no time in pulling back the sheet to reveal the head and shoulders of the woman’s body. Tara drew back. She saw the woman with whom she’d had the briefest of friendships. What lay before her now was a lifeless frame, the beauty and the warmth had gone. Lydiate spoke softly but matter-of-factly, simply doing his job.
‘Can you confirm this woman’s identity as Miss Jez Riordan?’
Tara gave a single nod.
‘I can,’ she replied. Lydiate then indicated to Murray that he should lead his DI from the room. As he did so, the pathologist moved in to begin his work.
The pair of them were grateful for a bright crisp morning, such a transformation from yesterday, a smattering of frost covering those pavements sheltered from the sun. Tom Lydiate joined them outside.
‘Thanks for that, ma’am. Are you feeling all right?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she lied. ‘Not used to seeing a familiar face on the slab, that’s all.’
Lydiate seemed to understand her feelings.
Murray drove Tara to the station and once there she sat listlessly at her desk, with a strong coffee and two paracetamol. When she felt a slight improvement in her mood, she again pulled out all the information she held concerning Maggie Hull, Richard Andrews and now Jez Riordan. Maybe the link between their deaths would rise from the folders lying before her. She certainly hoped so.
Tara viewed the unfinished note found in Andrews’ car. What did he have to say to Toby Ewing and why had he not finished it? Fool was the word most obviously missing from that incomplete sentence. “I’ve been such a… fool?” Ewing had been a close friend to Andrews. She had learned that much from her inquiries over Maggie Hull. The two men had been like a pair of mischievous brothers. Was there perhaps a warning for Toby Ewing in this note? Or was it some kind of apology?
She flipped the folder closed and sifted through the notes compiled to date on Maggie Hull. A loan shark demanding payment, or a motiveless killing? Both scenarios were an understandable conclusion until the death of Jez Riordan. Now, everything pointed toward Harbinson Fine Foods. She was getting nowhere, and she didn’t need anyone to tell her so.
What had Jez been doing in Royden Park? She was hardly dressed for walking in the woods, more like for an evening out. Had she been waiting in the park to meet someone, and if so whom? The most bizarre question was: how were these deaths linked to the cases of poisoning that now so obviously centred around Harbinson Fine Foods? Someone within that company knew the answer. Tara was convinced of it.
CHAPTER 35
Kate called to see her in the evening. Her showing up with little Adele was a welcome relief for Tara. She desperately needed a friendly face and something to take her mind off the case. In seconds, she was down on the floor playing with her god-daughter.
‘I’m so sorry to hear about Jez,’ said Kate, who was enjoying a moment’s peace and a cup of coffee.
‘You would have liked her. I think we could have had a lot of fun together. Kate, I’ve been thinking that when this case is finished, we could take a holiday together.’
‘Sounds great, but it would have to be a time when Adam can look after Adele.’
‘Yes, sure. I was thinking also that I would pack my job in, do something else.’
‘Oh, Tara, love, that would be great. I can see what this job has done to you. I want the Tara back that I grew up with, the shy and fun girl instead of the dark-thinking woman you’ve become since joining the police.’
Tara wiped tears from her eyes.
‘I just can’t do it anymore, Kate – the murders, the horrors and the hateful people I have to deal with.’
She invited Kate to stay for the night. Adele went to sleep in Tara’s spare room, and the two friends shared a pizza, two bottles of chardonnay and watched a couple of rom-coms on Netflix.
* * *
For the second day in a row, Tara was suffering from her over-indulgence. She sat with Tweedy, Wilson and Murray in a briefing room while Superintendent Myers brought everyone up to date on the poisoning case. She’d had little sleep, chatting with Kate into the early hours and now, in the stuffy room, she fought to stay awake. Myers didn’t seem to have much to say that was new. Tara was the one making connections now, trying to figure out how the food company was linked to the poisonings and why three employees had lost their lives. She hardly noticed when a man, sitting at the front of the room, got to his feet and Myers introduced him.
‘I’d like to introduce Dr Sean McCush from the Agri-Food and Biosciences Institute in Belfast. Dr McCush is a food safety analyst, and he is here this morning to explain his findings on the tests carried out on the food samples linked to the cases of poisoning. For the time being, folks, please regard the information as highly confidential. We cannot have anything leaked to the press until we are sure of how to proceed.’
Myers stepped to the side and stood with arms folded as McCush lifted a remote control and brought up a PowerPoint slide on the screen behind him. He was a slight man in his early forties with sandy hair and a freckled face. Casually dressed in a plain blue open-neck shirt and chinos, he spoke, not in a Belfast accent but more akin to a rural area of County Armagh. He began by explaining his work background and why a laboratory in Belfast had come to be testing the samples collected on Merseyside.
‘Our work is centred upon the chemical analysis of food at the primary production level, that is, we test samples collected from abattoirs, on-farm, from the sea and food products imported to the UK from outside the EU.’
Tara listened intently as McCush went through the list of samples he had tested in connection with the poisoning cases in Liverpool.
‘We use several techniques for testing, based on liquid chromatography-mass spectrometry.’
McCush presented several slides showing pictures of the equipment used for analysis and he went on to explain the scientific principles behind the tests. Despite his attempts to dumb it down for the layperson, for Tara, with little scientific background, it was still quite a difficult concept to grasp. Tara just wanted to know what kind of substance was responsible for causing the deaths of four people.
‘Liquid chromatography allows us to separate those substances that may be of interest from those that are not significant, such as proteins, fats, sugars and other materials that would be present naturally in food. Mass spectrometry then identifies chemical compounds based on their molecular mass. We can further elucidate their identity by subjecting a specific compound of interest to further mass spectrometry where the molecule is split into several fragments, the nature of which is largely dependent upon the parent molecule’s structure. Overall, we have then produced something akin to a fingerprint for the substance being analysed. The presence of a specific compound in a sample of food may then be confirmed by analysing a standard material, if available, for this compound. The quantity of the substance present in the food can be calculated against the concentration of the standard material.’
Tara found herself staring at several diagrams of chemical structures and graphs, but she longed for McCush to get to the crux of the matter. What the hell was responsible for killing four innocent people and making several others seriously ill?
‘From two of the samples of chicken korma, one of beef lasagne and another of lamb hotpot we identified the same toxin to be present. Gastric content removed from each victim also gave high concentrations of this toxin. The substance is called palytoxin or PTX. PTX is a non-proteinaceous marine toxin which is mainly produced by marine soft corals of the genus Palythoa. Initially, they were found only in waters surrounding Hawaii and Japan but the occurrence of PTX and its analogues has now been reported worldwide. PTX is also produced by dinof
lagellates and found in other species, including fish.’
‘Hold on, please,’ Wilson said. ‘Are you saying that this poison comes from the sea?’
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ replied McCush.
‘Then how come the stuff was found in chicken curry and lasagne? None of the victims ate seafood?’
‘I’m sorry, but we can only speculate at the moment on how this toxin got into such foods.’
Superintendent Myers interjected.
‘Fish and other kinds of seafood are processed by Harbinson at their Birkenhead factory,’ he said. ‘They also have a separate fish processing facility near Dundee. Dr McCush’s team will be testing samples collected from both sites.’
‘Are you saying that this toxin occurs naturally?’ Tara asked.
‘Yes,’ said McCush. ‘It’s just one of many so-called marine bio-toxins. Many of them, in low concentrations, can cause food poisoning when someone eats seafood, particularly shellfish such as oysters, scallops and mussels. Palytoxin causes intoxication called clupeotoxism which is due to the consumption of clupeoid fish, such as sardines, herrings and anchovies.’
‘How much fish would you have to eat to become ill?’ Tweedy asked.
‘Very difficult to say exactly. We can’t even be sure how much toxin was present in the samples we have tested. Usually, we measure the amount present against a standard material of known concentration. In the case of palytoxin, there is no pure standard material available. We have to make estimates based on measurements taken of previous positive materials that have been analysed several times to set a mean value.’
‘The symptoms experienced by the victims,’ said Murray, ‘are they consistent with poisoning by this toxin?’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ said McCush. ‘Symptoms of the PTX-group of toxins include vasoconstriction, haemorrhage, myalgia, ataxia, muscle weakness, ventricular fibrillation, ischemia and death. Rhabdomyolysis syndrome is the most commonly reported complication after a poisoning incident with PTX. This consists of a loss of intracellular contents into the blood plasma, causing injury to the skeletal muscle. The toxin’s previous worst cases resulted in renal failure and disseminated cardiovascular coagulation.’
THE DARING NIGHT Page 13
