by Cathy Ace
Stanley chuckled, but Glover didn’t, instead, he stared grimly at the road ahead of them as he asked, ‘Who stands to gain by this death, Stanley? That’s what I don’t understand. When people kill it’s usually to get something they want, or to stop something happening that threatens their lifestyle or their standing in the community, or maybe threatens someone they love. What could Emily Kitts have done to someone, or what could she have threatened to do to someone, to make them do this to her? Or what does her not being around any longer give someone the chance to have, or do? Kitts will be “free” if we disbelieve his “lovebirds” idea, or Roberts can get her hands on him now he’s a widower – those are the simplistic choices.’
‘Or what if the shopkeeper has some plot to get rid of Emily, then her own husband, and run off to Spain with Kitts?’ offered Stanley.
They both chuckled, then Glover crunched another peppermint as they crawled toward HQ. By the time Glover was behind his desk again it was almost 7.00 p.m., but he put in a call to Dr Souza on the off-chance he might catch her before she left for the night.
Souza answered the call herself. She sounded elated, yet concerned, as she told Glover what the path lab had told her. ‘The nicotine definitely got into Emily Kitts’ system via her mouth – that’s where the greatest concentration was found, but she didn’t drink it, or eat it. The best we can come up with is that she licked it, or sucked it.’
Glover shared Stanley’s idea about boiled sweets, which Souza agreed might be a possibility. Then he asked, ‘What do you mean she could have licked it, if she didn’t suck it? Do you mean like it was on postage stamps, or a whole load of envelopes, or something?’
Glover could hear the smile in Souza’s voice as she replied, ‘You could be right, but she’d have had to have licked a lot of postage stamps or envelopes over about three or four hours to arrive at this pattern of saturation.’
Glover hadn’t seen anything in the Kitts’ house to indicate that Emily Kitts had spent her day licking hundreds of stamps, but she might have been sending out some sort of mailshot for some reason. He’d check that. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ replied Souza, twittering with excitement, ‘I can tell you the poison was made from cigarettes, rather than being a formulation manufactured for use with a vaping device. We found chemicals in her tissues that come from cigarettes – not when they are smoked, but when the cigarette tobacco is in its un-burned state. I think someone took quite a bit of time to literally cook up a potion from maybe hundreds of cigarettes, probably warming the tobacco in as little water as possible to extract the nicotine, then reducing the liquid to make it more potent. They’d have ended up with a dark brown, extremely bitter liquid. We can’t tell how strong the solution was, only that a good deal of nicotine entered the woman’s system via her tongue and the walls of her cheeks. As for the amount we found on her hands, well, it was high, but as I told you earlier today, it wasn’t enough to kill her.’
Souza let Glover absorb the information. She waited for the detective to ask the inevitable question. It came within about three seconds. ‘How would someone know how to do that? I mean – how does a person find out about boiling cigarettes to make nicotine poison?’
Dr Souza was ready with her answer. ‘You know, Evan, years ago I’d have said you’d be looking for someone with a good working knowledge of chemistry, but nowadays it’s the sort of thing you can find out about on the Internet.’
Glover himself used the Internet as a valuable research tool, but he always wished it could be policed better; like blunt instruments or knives, it wasn’t the tool that was to blame, but the way people used it. In this instance it meant anyone could have worked out how to make a particularly nasty poison.
‘Doc, is there anything about this woman’s body that might give you a hint as to how or why she might have licked the poison – anything that might give me a lead as to what she might have licked it off?’ Glover was fishing, hoping that Souza had something more up her sleeve, but he was disappointed.
‘I’d like nothing better than to be able to help, Evan – but there’s nothing there. There’s nothing to suggest that any other substance entered her body carrying the poison, so I can’t give you a clue, I’m afraid.’
Glover knew he’d have to work with what he had. He thanked Souza and popped his head around Stanley’s door as he pulled on his jacket and made his way toward the exit. ‘I’m off, Stanley – anything for me before I go?’ Hope against hope.
‘Nothing much, sir. Wilks has been checking the system for records connected with our cast of characters; nothing on anyone. Well, not living anyway; Mary Roberts’ husband, Harold, was once had up on indecent exposure charges, but it seems it was a Rag Week thing when he was up at Cardiff Uni back in the Seventies. Otherwise they’re all clean, not even a parking ticket outstanding on any of them. I spoke to Kitts’ boss in the City Archives; he wasn’t happy that we reached him at home, but he was quite forthcoming. Kitts is well-respected at work and they all say he’s quiet, diligent, and highly professional. Apparently a clever man, they say. The victim never worked, so no pool of disgruntled ex-colleagues to look into. They own the house outright – paid off the mortgage about five years ago, and all the bank accounts seem to be in order. And that’s about it, sir. Any more news on the poison?’
Glover passed on the information he’d gleaned from Dr Souza, and Stanley agreed it didn’t help much. Preparing to phone Betty to warn her he was on the way home, Glover’s parting words to Stanley were spoken as he marched along the hallway, ‘See you bright and early at eight – get some sleep!’
‘Hello?’ Betty Glover sounded out of breath when she answered the phone.
Glover was immediately in a better mood just hearing his wife’s voice. ‘How are you? You sound puffed!’
‘Oh I’m fine – just running up- and downstairs with the clothes I’ve been ironing. How about you, cariad? Coming home tonight, are you?’
‘That’s why I’m calling, I’m just leaving now; home in about twenty minutes. Do you want me to pick up anything on the way?’
Betty promised him a beef stew, so Glover was able to concentrate on the drive home, knowing he’d get his favorite food when he got there – how could you beat meat and veg in a bowl full of gravy?
Half an hour later Glover was dunking chunks of a batch loaf slathered in salt butter into a steaming bowl of deliciousness. For a few moments he couldn’t have been happier, but the sensual pleasure was short-lived, and his mind turned to the day that lay behind him. He knew he should really pay attention to whatever it was that Betty was talking about, but he didn’t seem to be able to tune in properly.
‘. . . and all I can say is I’m glad it’s nearly all done now, and I won’t have to do it again for another six months or so . . .’ was all he caught.
He realized he should have known what Betty was referring to, so tore his mind away from the case and asked her outright, ‘What was that, love?’ Experience had taught him it was best to not pretend he’d been listening.
Betty Glover raised an eyebrow and patted her husband lovingly on the arm. ‘I’m sorry, here I am rabbiting on about the blinkin’ ironing, and I’m sure you’ve got a lot more on your plate than that. I’ll be glad when I’ve managed to finish it all – that’s all I was saying. But it’s not important. What about you? Rough case?’
Evan Glover was not one of those detectives who liked to bounce ideas off others; he preferred to gather the facts, think about them, consider the people involved, work through all the information methodically, then try to let it all flow freely through his mind, attempting to make sense of it as he did so. But, since the Melrose case, he’d realized it could be useful to have another opinion – and that, sometimes, an outsider’s was the best type of opinion to get. But in order to get an outsider’s opinion he’d have to divulge facts that were not for public consumption, so the only outsider he could discuss his cases with was Betty,
who absolutely understood the situation, and would never break his confidence. Also, Glover knew his wife to be an intensely intelligent woman, as well as being a trained counsellor with a background in psychology and sociology. These days she put her skills to good use at the local community center where she worked part time as a member of the Citizens’ Advice Bureau, thanks to a windfall inheritance from her late Great-Aunt Barbara.
He weighed where to start, and what to tell her; he decided to begin with the most difficult problem. ‘A suspicious death came in today . . .’
Betty nodded as she slurped joyfully at the rich stew.
‘. . . it seems the woman died by licking nicotine poison.’ Glover noticed his wife’s eyebrows rise in both surprise and query. ‘Yes, she licked the poison – she didn’t drink it, or eat it, and nothing else went into her body with the poison; she must have licked it off a hard, non-transferring substance – and over a period of time – hours Rakel said. It would have tasted incredibly bitter, so something must have masked the taste. I know if I can work out how that was done, then I’ll stand a much better chance of solving the case.’
Betty wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and asked, ‘The husband?’ in a muffled voice.
‘Could be; he could have had had the opportunity, could have had the means – the doc tells me anyone could find out how to make the poison by looking it up on the Internet. But I can’t see a motive. He’d have us believe they were soulmates, and that she doted on him. To be honest, he seems gutted. I don’t think he was putting it on. But I have been wrong before.’ He knew Betty could point to at least two cases in his background where Glover had come unstuck and the culprit had turned out to be the very person he’d believed had been the least likely suspect. Even he had to admit that sometimes he got it wrong . . . to begin with.
‘Anyone else?’ came Betty’s next obvious question.
‘She had no enemies we know of; she was a housewife, so no workmates wanting to do her in.’ They chuckled, both thinking of the people Betty had frequently mentioned she’d like to throttle at her office. ‘She had no real friends it seems, except the woman across the road – who reminded me of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood; grasping, I’d say.’
They sat and ate a little more, then Betty asked, ‘Would I have liked her? The woman who died, that is.’
Evan reflected as he chewed. ‘Hard to say, but I think not. She was one of those women who had lace and flounces throughout the house; everything was frighteningly clean and ponged of chemical sprays. Fabulous laundry room, mind you – though I reckon you’d think it was a bit over the top.’
Betty was intrigued. ‘What do you mean by over the top?’
‘Lots of cubby holes with plastic bins with labels on them; a humungous ironing board all set up and ready to go; rails and rails of pressed shirts and stuff; a whole bedroom set aside just for ironing and starching, and so on. For a woman who apparently didn’t go anywhere except the shops she certainly had a heck of a lot of clothes. It was like a shop itself – all sorts of stuff there.’
‘If you’d been here this afternoon you’d have probably thought the same thing. There’s a lot to do in May,’ replied Betty, sounding tired.
‘Okay, you’ve got me there. What do you mean there’s a lot to do in May? What’s May got to do with it?’ Glover was genuinely puzzled.
‘The change from winter to summer clothes, silly. Any day now you might decide you want all your lightweight stuff – you know, thinner shirts, lighter colors, even the odd short-sleeved shirt or two. So I pull everything out, sort through it, do the washing and ironing, then swap around the wardrobes – I bring some summer stuff into our bedroom, and some winter stuff goes back into the spare room. It’s a busy time for a laundress, don’t you know.’ She winked.
‘But, surely you didn’t put everything away dirty at the end of last summer, did you? Why’s it all got to be washed and ironed now?’ Glover was still puzzled.
‘Look, I might not be the type who moves all the furniture to vacuum under it every week – I’ll pull the sofa out every month or so, but that’s it. But when it comes to clothes that have hung around in the back bedroom all winter – well, they just aren’t fresh. I like to wash them out to freshen them up a bit, then of course they all have to be ironed, and moved around the house. That’s why I’ve been running up- and downstairs all day. My so-called “day off work” has been anything but.’
They both returned to their stew in silence. Evan wondered if he’d been told off. When the bowls in front of them were emptied, Betty picked them up and pushed them into the sink.
Evan got up and cuddled her as she stood at the counter. When Betty turned to face him he could tell by her expression she wasn’t cross anymore; she was smiling warmly, and happily announced, ‘There’s spotted dick for afters. With custard, if you want, or syrup if you prefer, which I expect you would.’
Evan Glover was beside himself – beef stew and spotted dick? It was almost too much for one human being to cope with. He poured Golden Syrup over his portion of the steamed pudding and tucked in gleefully. He’d almost spoiled his appetite with a huge bowl of stew, but he’d make room for this. He was halfway through his bowl when he realized Betty wasn’t eating.
‘None for you?’ he mumbled through a mouthful of syrupy sweetness.
Betty patted her tummy and shook her head sadly. ‘Got to watch this.’ She giggled, then added, ‘Another thing about it being May is that the possibility of flashing around a bit more bare flesh than usual in summer clothes is on the horizon. I’ll just finish ironing these last two shirts, and then I’m done.’ Evan nodded and continued to devour the pudding.
Betty poured hot water and washing up liquid into the dirty dinner bowls as the iron warmed, then chatted to Evan as he ate, and she ironed.
‘So, if there’s no one standing out as a suspect in this case, where do you go from here?’ She didn’t wait for her husband to answer, instead she added, ‘I suppose you could check if the husband has any enemies – maybe someone meant to kill him, not her? Or maybe there’s a deep, dark secret in the dead woman’s past, or even her present. You know, some of the most boring people aren’t boring at all – they’re actually leading a double life. Trust me, if I’ve learned anything during my time working at the CAB it’s that people can be hiding some incredible secrets.’
Evan respected her opinion, but reckoned Betty was clutching at straws.
‘I don’t know what more to say really, cariad,’ she continued. ‘I think you’re right, it seems the poison thing is the crux of the matter.’
Evan nodded in agreement and wiped his mouth as he pushed away the empty dessert bowl. Betty had finished ironing the first shirt and was buttoning down the collar. As she arranged the shoulders on the hanger and fiddled with the little buttons Glover watched, grimacing; she had the metal hook of the coat hanger clenched in her teeth, allowing her to use both hands for her task.
‘Careful, you could chip a tooth,’ he warned.
‘Uch a fi! I hate that metal taste,’ exclaimed Betty as she removed the coat hanger from her mouth and placed it on the hook on the back of the kitchen door.
Evan was transfixed. ‘Do you always do that?’ he barked.
‘Do what?’ Betty looked taken aback.
‘Put the coat hanger in your mouth like that?’ Evan was even more brusque.
‘Of course,’ was Betty’s cautious and curious reply. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’
Evan leaped out of his chair, pounced on his wife, and planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘Don’t wait up, I might be late,’ he shouted as he made for the front door. Betty knew if he’d been a dog his nose would have been down, and his tail up.
‘Good luck, cariad,’ she called toward his back as he made a dash for the hallway and the jacket he’d left hanging on the banister. As Glover pulled on his coat and opened the car door with his beeper, he speed-dialed Stanley on his phone.
‘Yes, sir?’ responded Stanley after two rings.
‘Stanley I need you and a Forensic Investigation Team over at the Kitts house immediately. Use your charms to get him to let you all in, I know you have them when you need them, though they’re usually well-hidden under that sensible gray suit you always wear. I need the FIT to be able to carry out tests on the spot for nicotine. While they do that, I need you to find out if Mary Roberts got any sort of payout when her late husband kicked the bucket. In fact, I need to know what his post-mortem said – if they did one, that is. I need everyone to arrive without lights, and keep the whole thing as low-key as possible – tell the FIT lot no bunny suits out in the street before they enter – and I need them to do some very specific tests for me. Right?’
Stanley listened, puzzled, as Glover continued with details of the tests he wanted performed; she took notes, made a few phone calls, and sped toward Plasmarl Park Terrace. There she met up with the FIT sent from HQ and they all strolled as nonchalantly as possible toward John Kitts’ house. Glover arrived a little later to be met by a bemused Stanley who confirmed the tests for nicotine that Glover had asked for had all turned out to be positive. Stanley could hardly contain her admiration, and couldn’t work out how Glover had guessed what to look for.
