Divine Poison

by AB Morgan

  I reminded everyone again that it was DS Charlie Adams who had approached us for help, putting his career on the line, and that he had told us about Father Joseph’s death by chilli con carne. ‘Charlie was furious when DI Lynch pulled the charges against Ben for threats to kill. He has to be a goodie and DI Lynch has to be corrupt. He kept calling me Mrs Davis today and yet everyone at the station knows me as Monica Morris.’

  ‘That’s because he knows you as my wife, from the bike club. Don’t you remember him at the barbecue and big band charity event? You must do …’

  ‘Oh, was he the really obnoxious oaf who kept invading my personal space and breathing beer in my face?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him.’

  ‘Most definitely a baddie then. He’s already on my “needs a good slap” list. I can’t stand the bloke.’

  Looking at the evening’s work, I saw there were scribbled notes on the flip charts, lines and arrows crisscrossing the long paper timeline, as well as swirling marks denoting the dates of deaths, disappearances and known whereabouts of suspects and victims. Green for goodies, blue for baddies and question marks for not sure. No one but the four of us would have been able to make sense of it.

  We had homework to do. I had to research Jan’s medication history and investigate any information on abuse in a Catholic boys’ home in the 1970’s and find out a bit more about the Catholic Church. Why was there a reference in the remaining journal to ‘the one true Jesuit’? Why had Jan written that? Who or what was this Jesuit?

  Emma was to continue in her efforts to glean clues from the information that we had gathered. She planned to send an email to Mike Rezendes in Boston. The boys were going to check out the business dealings of Aitken, Brown and Partners in an attempt to determine the goodies from the baddies.

  Jake and Max carefully gathered up our HQ incident room into boxes and an old tea chest, and they secured it in the barn with Jake’s vintage tractor. Some of the geese were housed in there at night from that moment on.

  I was about to take Deefer back to my car when my telephone rang. It was Sam from the Corbet Unit, France. He asked for my email address and promised to attach scanned details about Jan’s medication. The staff nurse in charge of the ward at the French unit had given Sam permission to hand over any information I needed. He had remembered my hilarious attempts at speaking French back in August. Great. I was famous for the wrong reason.

  ‘The only one we were not sure about was the HRT. She had at least six patches on her body when she was admitted, but there was no information from her GP about them. Her records said she was on a coil for that, so the nurses removed the patches. The poor woman had enough to handle. Dr Reynaud asked Mrs Collins about the patches and she seemed mystified. We assumed it had to do with her unstable mental state at the time.’

  ‘HRT patches?’

  ‘Yes, unless she was giving up smoking and the patches were for that instead. But she said she didn’t smoke.’

  ‘No, she didn’t.’ I thanked Sam for his excellent work and added HRT patches to my homework list.

  Max beat me home by several minutes and was already in the shower when Deefer and I strolled through the front door. My head had been buzzing with chaotic thoughts during the short drive home from Folly Farm.

  ‘If I hadn’t gone to that bloody auction, none of this would be happening.’

  ‘Yes, it would, Mon, we just wouldn’t know about it,’ said Max, rubbing himself dry with a towel as he emerged from the bathroom.

  That night I was desperate for sleep, but my mind refused to rest, so instead, I rescued my copy of the BNF – the British National Formulary – from the boot of my car and looked up what I could about hormone replacement patches, but the information wasn’t helpful. Changing tactics, I fired up the computer. With a handful of research databases at my disposal, courtesy of my recent studies, I searched for information on ACS – anticholinergic syndrome. Most of the research papers repeated the same information about the symptoms, the helpful mnemonic and the importance of enquiring about over-the-counter products. ‘Dr Reynaud knows her stuff,’ I mumbled quietly to myself.

  One article in particular caught my attention. It was an investigation into the bioavailability of various anticholinergic preparations and their impact on toxicity.

  I shuddered as I slowly became aware of someone else in the room, behind me. Holding my breath, I wrapped my hand around a large mug, which I had left next to the keyboard, only dregs of tea remaining. No other suitable weapon was within reach. As the floorboards creaked immediately behind me, I leapt up from my seat, turning to face the intruder, mug in my raised hand.

  ‘Why didn’t you speak, you plonker? One of these days I’ll die of fright or shit myself!’ For the second time in less than twelve hours my own husband had scared the pants off me.

  ‘Sorry, I was being quiet.’

  Max had given up sleeping, too. Bleary-eyed, he had wandered downstairs to find me, without a thought for the impact his nocturnal creeping might have had. It seemed we were both destined to be sleep deprived for the foreseeable future.

  Nodding towards the computer screen, Max said, ‘Go on then, tell me what you’ve got. In layman’s terms if you can, please.’

  ‘Right. Here goes. There are certain types of medication, such as travel sickness pills, anti-diarrhoea tablets, and drugs we use to counteract side effects from antipsychotics. If these types of drugs reach high levels, they can have nasty side effects of their own, and when this happens, to a serious degree, the patient will need treatment. The side effects of toxic levels can be wide-ranging but include feeling hot, urinary retention, confusion, hallucinations, and in severe cases, coma and death.’

  ‘Thanks, simple enough.’

  ‘Good. Here’s the interesting thing. You would have to take a whacking great dose to kill yourself by using over-the-counter products or even prescribed formulations. However, what I’m reading here may shed light on why Jan was covered in HRT patches when she was found by the police in France.’

  ‘Was she? I must have missed that bit.’

  ‘Oh yes, sorry, love, you did miss that bit. I had a call back from young Sam at the French Corbet mental health unit after you had left this evening. Anyway, I was thinking, what if they weren’t HRT?’

  ‘Go on.’

  I explained to Max that Jan was on a coil and not patches to help with menopausal symptoms. The research article in front of me was indicating that transdermal patches or gels containing anticholinergics had been shown to be more effective in providing greater amounts of the active drug than that of liquids or tablets. These types of patches were useful for seasickness.

  ‘I’m with you so far.’

  ‘Good. Here’s my best guess. Imagine, in Nick’s flat in Perpignan, a would-be murderer had devised a way to kill Jan without arousing too much suspicion that anyone, other than herself or Nick, were to blame. Jan was covered in patches by this person, the man with half a little finger, scopolamine patches for argument’s sake. She was also made to drink hyoscine liquid, as if she were taking it as a prescribed medicine. However, before the patches could be removed she managed to escape, either because she went psychotic or in desperation, we’ll never know. We do know that she managed to smash the flash drive, and possibly the laptop, before she ran into the street. Nick’s killer may have done the same to him, we can’t know that either, but he is dead. He probably never got out of the flat. The killer then delivered Jan’s belongings to her including her medication, not expecting her to have lived. He provided enough clues to her death in the shape of the liquid hyoscine. Because of her mental illness everyone has assumed that her actions and behaviour were as a direct result of a manic episode. Do you see? If it wasn’t for Dr Reynaud and the nurses at the French unit, Jan should have been dead.’ I looked at Max, waiting for him to tell me that I was exaggerating, and that this was a set of assumptions too far. Max stared down at me, glanced back at the computer screen and shook his
head.

  ‘I’ll update Jake tomorrow.’

  21

  ‘Morning, Kelly, morning, Barbs, morning, Steph; how are you doing?’

  ‘Morning, Monica. More to the point, how are you doing? You look exhausted. Are you sure you should be at work today? It’s Friday, why on earth didn’t you take the day off?’ Kelly had genuine concern for my wellbeing, for once.

  ‘I wouldn’t know what to do with myself,’ I answered honestly. ‘Is Sue in yet? I need to run a quick question past her.’

  ‘No, she’s down at the hospital and won’t be back before lunch. Can I help?’ offered Barbara, a senior social worker of great experience and wisdom. Unfortunately, her skills were redundant. I needed to ask Sue what she knew about ACS. Sue was our consultant psychiatrist and she was shit-hot on side effects. ‘Patients have enough to cope with in life,’ she always reminded us. ‘No one wants to look as if they’re taking medication.’

  ‘Monica, I’m sorry to have to pressure you today, but as you’re here … have you finished that report for the coroner yet? You’re being chased by the risk department,’ Kelly asked.

  ‘Bloody hell, I thought I had a total of two weeks …’

  She took one look at my expression and swiftly added, ‘Forget that I asked. I’ll fob them off.’

  I was grateful for her offer to be spared the pressure, and for the timely reminder, but I knew full well that a few hours had to be found to finish that report. Getting it completed early would provide some respite from the relentless pressure. I also realised that it would help to focus my mind on the details of Jan’s death. The rough timeline that I’d pulled together two days previously looked innocent enough and when I wrote out the final report, any hint at foul play could not be found. I wrote the facts as I knew them to be, and gave a potted history of Jan’s contact and support from mental health services. Finally, I listed her current medication. I made reference to her ‘male friend, Liam Brookes’ and carefully ensured that he was not painted as a predatory abuser in any way. I mentioned the reported break-in at Jan’s home the week before her death, but ensured that doubt was thrown on its legitimacy.

  The report for the Coroner’s Office was a knotty one to write because I knew there were so many other facets to Jan’s death, but could not submit them to paper. If I had written details of a man with half a finger, a suspect priest, an investigation into abuse, and an earlier poisoning in France, Eddie would have had me suspended on medical grounds, as he would assume I had finally reached burnout. In truth, I wasn’t far off.

  Having produced what was asked for, I reminded Kelly to ensure that Eddie scrutinised the report before sending it to the risk department, who would then forward it to the coroner. ‘Not my best work, Kelly. I hope it passes muster.’ She gave me an encouraging nod and assurances that the report was ‘absolutely fine.’ I didn’t believe her for one moment.

  My emails at work were few and far between as the majority of the organisation thankfully hadn’t yet embraced their use for irrelevant comment, or for replacing the written referral methods of letter and fax. There was one from Sam at the French mental health unit, with an attached list of Jan’s medication as documented by the admitting nurse. There were no unexpected additions to what I had known beforehand, and I was disappointed with the lack of progress. Clever Mr Half Finger, I thought. He had achieved the result intended. No suspicions, no evidence.

  I composed an email to Sam to thank him, but debating what he had said over the phone, I decided to take advantage of his willingness to help by asking another favour.

  ‘Hello Sam,

  Many thanks once again for being so prompt in sending the information I asked for. I wonder if I could ask for your help? We have a mystery at this end. Jan’s boyfriend, Liam Brookes is still missing. He hasn’t returned to the UK and he missed Jan’s funeral, which is most unlike him. Could you check with the local hospital whether he was admitted just after you saw him at the unit? We would hate to think that he is seriously unwell or injured and that no one has identified him. His friends have tried his mobile phone to no avail, and they don’t have money to fly to France to see if they can find him. We believe he may have had a friend called Nick (Nicolas Shafer) that he stayed with in Perpignan.

  Your French is so good that we are sure you can help us.

  Kind regards

  Monica Morris

  Deliberately using my work email for correspondence with Sam was the best way I could think of to maintain privacy and to keep up the appearance that contact was on a purely professional matter. A line was being crossed. This was way beyond my usual remit, and I knew it would probably be the following week before I heard back from Sam, if at all, but it had to be worth asking.

  Once I had dealt with my smattering of emails, I picked up the phone and noticed the fine tremor in my fingers as I dialled a familiar number, ready to leave a message. ‘Hello, Sean, this is Monica Morris.’ I wasn’t expecting any answer. ‘Goodness, I thought you’d still be in hospital. I hope you don’t mind me phoning, but I want to offer my support to you both. Would it be helpful for me to visit you?’ There was a long pause, during which I wondered if I had caused offence, until I heard the low sobs of a man with a broken heart. ‘Can you come now?’ he eventually asked.

  I arrived outside the Tierneys’ home at the same time as a solemn-looking Father Raymond. As soon as I caught sight of him, an internal deliberation began. Should I go in anyway? Or should I sit in the car and wait for him to come out? Is he a poisoner or is he a good man? My head and my heart had differing opinions and these were causing a great deal of indecision.

  Stepping as confidently as I could up the path to the front door, I took the plunge. ‘Hello, Father. I was on my way in too, Sean Tierney asked me to visit. It looks as if he forgot that you were coming to see them both. Shall we go together?’ The risk was considerable. My suggestion could be viewed as insulting in the circumstances, but it did allow for the priest to back down and rearrange his visit, should he decide to. I had my fingers crossed that he would come in with me, as I was desperate to see and hear the exchanges between the Tierneys and Father Raymond. The situation felt safe enough; even so, I couldn’t help but glance at Father Raymond’s left hand. Fingers all present and correct.

  Feeling like the agnostic outsider that I am, I sat on an unforgiving chair at the dining table watching the scene in front of me. I held the hand of Manuela Tierney who was unable to cry any more. Her expression was vacant. There, kneeling on the lounge carpet in supplication before Father Raymond, was Sean Tierney. He had been released from hospital and told to rest, but his reaction to Father Raymond demonstrated how overwhelmingly important his religion was to him in his most hopeless hours.

  Father Raymond prayed over Sean as he wept uncontrollably and from the depths of his soul. He was inconsolable. I learnt nothing until Father Raymond, having seated Sean back on the sofa, pleading with him to rest, walked towards Manuela, prayer book in one hand, his right hand raised in preparation for prayer.

  Manuela stood up, looked him in the eye with venom and spat in his face. ‘Get out of my house. You are not welcome here. You reside in the house of the devil. Get out! Get out!’ Her hatred spilled out into the room with such force that I was momentarily stunned. Father Raymond recoiled in surprise and Sean sank his head into his hands as he begged for forgiveness.

  ‘She doesn’t know what she’s saying, Father. It’s not true, none of it. Pray for her …’

  ‘Don’t you pray for me, ever. I shall pray for your godless soul, you filthy animal. You knew what he did and you did nothing. I wish I had killed him. God forgive me.’ Manuela’s disgust was showing on her face as she vomited the words from her lips.

  Finding my own voice at last, I politely invited Father Raymond to the front door. In the hallway, he stood head bowed and silent. When he looked up at me there was desolation in his eyes. He shook his head slowly and left. I had no idea what that gesture was supposed t
o convey to me. ‘I’ll phone you later, shall I?’ I asked.

  22

  As I drove back to the office on automatic pilot, tears gradually began to roll down my cheeks and the journey didn’t register. I stopped to park outside the office building, and only then did I lose self-control to weep unashamedly. Benito Tierney’s death had been so very tragic and yet, until that moment in my car, I had kept the pain at bay behind a psychological wall made subconsciously to protect myself.

  As large sobs wracked my entire body, I saw flashbacks to the CCTV footage of his death. Why was he undressing as he ran along the train tracks? It had been a chilly day, drizzling with fine rain.

  The truth of the matter was obvious to me. As hot as a hare, I thought.

  It was nearly an hour before I could steel myself to make the phone call to the Coroner’s Office. ‘Hello, this is Monica Morris, CPN. Is it possible to make an enquiry about a post mortem on the body of Benito Tierney? It’s really important.’ I wasn’t aware of any law that prevented me from making this request, yet despite this, I felt as if I were being underhand. ‘Is there a way I can ask for a particular substance to be tested for?’

  ‘A full range of toxicology tests will be carried out, Monica. I can take some details and will pass them on to the pathology lab, but perhaps the information should go through the police if it’s significant or indicative of any crime having been committed.’

  I blagged my way through by insisting that as Ben’s community nurse I was privy to his most recent treatment details and wanted to give direct, first-hand information, to help the post mortem process. It was the coroner’s officer who took the details, a lady by the name of Carol Langford. She was a pleasant enough woman and I managed to engage her in a conversation about my unfortunate experiences of having lost two patients recently, and needing to assure myself that I had equipped the authorities with the facts in each case.