♦
PCs Colin Bimsley and Meera Mangeshkar were sent to Gail Strong’s Notting Hill apartment together to bring her in for further questioning. They were sent as a pair because there was a likelihood that Strong would have reporters and photographers hanging around on her doorstep, and someone would have to distract them.
“Have you noticed we get all the crappy jobs?” Meera complained. “Go through the bins, sit on a roof all night, update the reports. Bryant tried to get me to make him a cup of tea the other day, but I told him to bugger off.”
“I don’t mind making him tea. I always feel guilty when he does those big wet puppy eyes and looks helpless.”
“You’re a pushover.” Mangeshkar swiped herself out through the tube barrier at Notting Hill.
“I don’t know why we couldn’t have taken your Kawasaki,” said Bimsley.
“Because I didn’t want you pushing yourself up against me every time I braked, thank you. What number is it?”
Bimsley pointed. A pair of overweight men were loitering outside one of the terraced houses with coffee cups and telephoto lenses.
“OK, let’s avoid these creeps. See if there’s another way we can get her out of the building.” Meera punched out Gail’s number on her mobile. “No answer. She was there half an hour ago.” She approached one of the photo-journalists. “Oi, you waiting to get pictures of Gail Strong?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I’m a police officer, that’s what it is to me. Sling your hook before I run you in.”
“You got no right to order us around.”
“Terrorism Act. This is a High Alert area. I can bang you up without even bothering to invent a reason.”
The men grumbled, but gathered their equipment together promptly.
“Have you seen her?” Meera called. “Did she go out?”
“What, you want our help now?” The photographer spat at her feet and waddled off.
“Come on.” They crossed the road to the front porch of the house. Meera checked the bells and rang the top one. They heard it buzz somewhere above their heads. Colin stepped back to examine the top floor windows. “No sign of movement. How are we going to get in?”
“Cover me.” Meera put her elbow through a square of glass and felt for the lock.
“Blimey, Meera, that’s B and E.”
“She could be hurt. What would the old man do?”
“Break in, you’re right.” Bimsley followed her up the darkened stairway.
On the fourth floor, they found the door to flat 160D ajar.
“Someone’s forced the lock.” Meera pointed to the damaged hasp. The pair advanced cautiously into the dimly lit flat, searching each room. The kitchen and lounge were undisturbed, but someone had recently been here. A Lily Allen CD was still playing, with four tracks left to go. “Colin, in here.”
It was hard to tell if the bedroom showed signs of a struggle or whether Strong was just untidy. Shoes had been kicked off and clothes were scattered over the floor.
“Fire escape, over there,” said Meera, leading the way to the back of the house. The rear door on to the black iron escape was shut but unlocked.
Colin studied the back gardens. “There’s a gap in the fence. It goes straight out into the road behind. The photographers wouldn’t have seen a thing.”
“You’re forgetting something. She’s trouble. If she’d been abducted she would have made a hell of a noise.”
“She’s small. He could have knocked her out and carried her.”
“Let’s call it in. I’ll get to the neighbours, see if anyone saw anything. Although around here the only people who are ever home are the Filipino nannies.”
Meera dashed off as Bimsley double-checked the bedroom. “Three deaths and a kidnapping,” grumbled Bimsley. “The old man’s going to go nuts.”
∨ The Memory of Blood ∧
36
Knowledge
Janice Longbright stood and stretched. She had taken on the Anna Marquand case as a favour to Arthur but had reached a dead end. If Ashley Hagan hadn’t stolen the girl’s mobile, who had, and why? She stared at the shopping bag on her desk and tried to imagine what had happened. In desperation, she emptied it out on the desk again. A half-litre bottle of Gordon’s gin, a volume of poetry, a packet of Handi Wipes, some tomatoes, a tin of beans.
Anna had come up to town and given Arthur his book, then caught the Northern Line south to Tooting Bee, then back up to London Bridge, where she changed for Bermondsey. Leaving the station, she had walked home with her shopping bag, where she was attacked. All pretty straightforward.
No, not straightforward.
Her attacker had been after something more. Longbright had a habit of keeping passwords on her mobile. She knew she shouldn’t, but who could remember every user name and code phrase? What if Anna had done the same? What if he had already searched their house? How did he do it, and when? No, that didn’t work because Rose Marquand never went out, and nobody had broken in. Besides, he had taken Anna’s keys and found out that there was another lock-up, which was why he had gone to the pool. But had he actually found anything?
Longbright called Anna’s mother.
“I can’t talk to you right now,” said Mrs Marquand. “I’ve got all this washing up to sort out, and then the laundry. I have trouble getting around with my back and there’s so much clearing up to do.”
“I thought you had Sheena helping you.”
“So did I, but she buggered off.”
“What happened?”
“Bloody little thief. I went upstairs and found her going through Anna’s bedroom. All the drawers open, all her papers out. You can’t trust nobody no more.”
“What about her safe?”
“Wide open. I was going to call the police but she ran out of the house. This was yesterday morning. I haven’t seen her since and her mobile number isn’t working.”
“Is there anything missing?”
“Not that I can see. Anna had files for all her clients and they’re numbered, one to thirty. It looks like all the files are still there.”
Except one. Arthur told her he’d let Anna look after the disc, because he was likely to lose it. Anna knew what was on it. Her attacker had been through the shopping bag and the lido locker – maybe he hadn’t found it after all. Maybe she’d been too smart for him. So what the hell had she done with it? Longbright rang off and went next door to see Bryant.
“Arthur, are you free for a moment?”
“For you I have all the time in the world.” He aimed her at a ratty armchair she had not seen before. “It was in the attic,” he informed her. “I found a swastika flag down the back of the seat but apart from that it’s very comfortable. You should come up there with me – there’s all kinds of strange stuff stored away.”
“Was there anything in your memoirs that could have been considered dangerous?”
“Anna removed the most contentious passages. There were some bits about past prime ministers that weren’t very flattering. A few mentions of missile bases, Russian spies, the pensions scandal – ”
“But does any one thing stick out above all the rest? Anything worth killing for?”
“You think Anna Marquand was murdered? It was blood poisoning. You can get that from virtually anything.”
“I know, but it’s the timing that makes me suspicious. Look, I know it sounds crazy, but Anna’s mother was befriended by a girl who just turned up on her doorstep one day offering her services as a carer. Then, when Mrs Marquand caught her going through Anna’s belongings, she fled. If someone had been monitoring Anna’s electronic mail, they would have known what she was working on. I want Giles to talk to his opposite number at Bermondsey mortuary. I need to know if there was anything at all suspicious about Anna Marquand’s death. I think there was something in your memoirs that could be considered a danger to national security, and Anna knew what it was, even if she didn’t realize the importance of it.”
“Are you sure there’s absolutely no possibility of you remembering all the things you wrote about?” Longbright pressed.
“I suppose there might be one way,” said Bryant. “Hypnotism. If I was put under, I might be able to recall what it was. And I know the very person who could do it.”
∨ The Memory of Blood ∧
37
Bacteria
“You’re a bit out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?” said Dr Leo Hendrick, resident coroner at the Bermondsey mortuary. The young Jamaican’s borough was a tough beat that suffered a statistically disproportionate level of violent crime, but he was fast building a reputation as the most ambitious medical officer in town. “I suppose we should be flattered, a specialist coming south of the river to see us at work.”
“It may be nothing,” Giles Kershaw admitted, setting down his briefcase. Clearly, Bermondsey had more money than St Pancras; the building was new and fitted with state-of-the-art equipment. Hendrick received him in a carpeted visitors’ room that was as smart as a hotel suite.
“It was kind of you to see me. We just wanted to run something by you.”
“Yes, I read your email. Not being rude, but it sounds to me like you think I made a wrong call, and you’re fishing for a different verdict that’s a better fit with your investigation.”
“Not at all. I’m perfectly happy to let your diagnosis stand. But there’s been some additional information about the case that we thought you should know.” He explained about the coincidence of Anna Marquand’s property being searched and her role in handling sensitive information for government departments.
“Why was I not told of this?” Hendrick complained, checking Anna’s notes on his laptop.
“This kind of information doesn’t just drop into the case files,” Giles explained. “It’s part of the PCU’s brief to make such connections.”
“When Anna Marquand came in, there was nothing in the patient notes about her background. Her address told me she’s from a low-income housing estate. She suffered from a stomach ulcer but seemed healthy enough apart from that. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what these girls get up to. We have to make some assumptions.”
“She went to Nuffield College, Oxford. Surely that should have given you a clue to her background. She was an academic.”
“A university background is no signifier of class. She could have had a college education and become a junkie. She had tetanus. It’s a soil-based infection, Mr Kershaw. In other words, dirt. Clostridium tetani is very hardy. The spores get into a wound and spasm the muscles, locking the jaw and forcing air from the body. It’s found in the environment, not transmitted from person to person. More common in developing nations than over here. Soil, dust, animal waste – apparently there was a neighbourhood dog her mother sometimes let in. There’s a potential source, right there. The bacteria enters through puncture wounds. I’ve seen it caused by rusty nails, insect bites, a wooden splinter, a torn nail. IV drug use, obviously, but she wasn’t a user. The only wound on her body was a tiny nick from the bread knife.
“I checked the knife blade and found traces of the toxin Tetanospasmin on the serrations. There were further traces on the bread board. It seems fairly clear to me that the knife had fallen on the floor at some point earlier in the day and had been replaced without being washed. My assistant spoke to the mother and she remembers picking it up from the kitchen floor not long after the dog had been allowed in there. The Marquands have a small garden. If the dog sometimes did its business on the path and the mother rarely cleaned up the mess… well, poor hygiene. It’s unfortunate, but hardly uncommon.”
“It’s my understanding that tetanus takes a while to become established,” said Giles. “Anna Marquand died quickly.”
“There are exceptions to every rule,” replied Hendrick impatiently.
Giles thanked the doctor and took his leave, but he was not convinced. On his way back to the station he rang Longbright. “Something feels wrong,” he told her. “Didn’t you say there was a packet of Handi Wipes in Anna’s shopping bag?”
“That’s right. There was a small plastic bottle of antibacterial stuff in her handbag, too.”
“Then I think Anna knew what her mother was like and was careful at home. I don’t think it’s very likely that she would have used the knife without washing it first. Wait. The shopping bag was taken away from her and returned.”
“That’s right. The mother says Anna came out of the house and found it on the back step.”
“Can we get everything in it tested?”
“I’ll do it right now.”
Longbright ran the bag up to Banbury, who was working in the makeshift laboratory he had been rigging on the floor above. She explained the problem as Dan debouched the shopping items. “Give me a couple of hours,” said Dan. “I’m sorry, I should have done this at the outset.”
“You had no reason to be suspicious then,” Longbright reminded him.
At six-thirty p.m. he came down to find her. “You were right. It’s in the bread,” he said.
“The bread wasn’t in the shopping bag I gave you.”
“No, it was in the shopping bag originally, but she took it out to make a sandwich. I just had the remains of the loaf brought over from the house. It was still in her mother’s cupboard, untouched. The cut on Anna’s finger was incidental. She ingested poison. Not tetanus but strychnine. It’s quite similar in chemical structure. Hendrick wouldn’t have expected to test for that. He went with the most likely cause of death.”
“We should call the supermarket and warn them.”
“No, I mean it’s in the bread. Injected into it. I found a pinprick in the plastic covering that corresponds to an indentation on the crust, both with traces of poison. It got to her internally. Anna Marquand had a bleeding ulcer. The poison killed her in a fairly short space of time. So I think you can call Giles and tell him the cause of death was strychnine poisoning. The mugger took the bag and returned it with a lethal addition.”
“This is much bigger than a mugging,” said Longbright. “The girl in the house, the man in the alley. There are others involved.”
∨ The Memory of Blood ∧
38
Hypnotized
Maggie Armitage, Grand Order Grade IV White Witch of the Coven of St James the Elder, Kentish Town, was having problems of her own. “We’ve got sprites,” she complained as she opened the door to Arthur Bryant. “Come in but be careful. They’re everywhere, getting into the cupboards and breaking things. They’re especially fond of custard.”
“Are you talking about mice?” said Bryant, checking to see if he’d brought his hearing aid. He rarely used it in the PCU building because it kept picking up old episodes of Hancock’s Half Hour, which was very distracting.
“No, these are white and made of discarded ectoplasm, but they have little legs and can really shift. They appeared after a seance and now we can’t get rid of them. I can’t see them but Daphne swears she can, ever since her accident. She says they moved into the back of the television, but something has repelled them. The poor quality of programmes, I imagine. It’s nice to see you, give me a kiss.”
Bryant proffered his cheek and received a lipstick brand.
“How are you getting on in your new building? Had any manifestations yet?”
“What of?”
“Oh, the usual things that get left behind after a seance. Spirit dregs. Every building keeps a ghost imprint of its past and for over a decade yours was full of people contacting the dead, so you must have all sorts of things floating about in there. Don’t you hear strange noises at night?”
“All the time, but I think it’s mostly Raymo
nd swearing.”
“The signs of manifestation include speaking in tongues, the gift of prophecy and damage to skirting boards,” said Maggie. “I’ll come over with my thermal scanner one evening. I suppose you’re here wanting information. There was a time when you’d pop by for my banana treacle trifle, but these days you just use me as a resource.”
“I’ll have some trifle if it’s going, but I do have a question for you. Do you know anything about stage magic, how the effects are achieved?”
“A fair bit. Shakespeare was a dab hand, Banquo’s ghost pointing an accusing finger at his killer, that sort of thing. Early melodramas often materialized pale, melancholy figures from behind folding doors. Sometimes they burst sachets of blood under their white gowns. But I think the Victorians did it best. They had phantasmagoria, magic lantern shows which projected images of the dead onto smoke, looming menacingly over the spectators. And in 1863 there was Pepper’s ghost, of course.”
“What was that?”
“Oh, that was a marvellous effect by all accounts. Professor John Pepper lit a sheet of glass so that it looked like people were walking through walls and gliding across the set. Thanks to the illusion, the London stage was soon awash with disappearing ladies, dancing skeletons and babbling severed heads. And they came up with something called the ‘ghost glide’. An actor would ascend through the floor of the stage, moving forward without taking a single step. Of course, most mediums were more like stage magicians than real psychics. Why do you want to know?”
“We’re dealing with a very peculiar case.”
“Well, that is your remit, isn’t it? The peculiar?”
“It was never meant to be,” Bryant admitted. “Anyway, it’s not why I’m here. I have another problem. I need you to hypnotize me. I have to recall something I’ve forgotten.”
Bryant & May 09; The Memory of Blood Page 23
