by L M Krier
A younger woman was sitting nearby, next to an old man who appeared to be asleep in his armchair.
'You could try pushing the call button on the wall just there,' she said helpfully, pointing. 'With any luck, someone might appear in the next half hour or so, but I wouldn't count on it. Are you a relative?'
Ted took a discreet step back from the clutching hand and said, 'No, I'm, er,' he hesitated. 'I'm here to talk to the manager.'
The woman gave a short laugh. 'Good luck with that,' she said. 'Most of us never get to see her.' She pointed again. 'You might get lucky if you take a walk down that corridor. There may be one of the carers there. I've seen a few of them going that way. I think something must be going on.'
Ted thanked her and headed down the corridor, which had bedrooms opening off on either side of it, most with their doors open. The smell was considerably worse as he progressed and was not confined to urine.
With his martial arts training and small stature, Ted could move extremely quietly. His team called it his stealth mode. He would have made no sound even without the carpet, with its old- fashioned, dirt-disguising, swirling pattern, which reminded Ted of a budget hotel's décor.
As he neared the end of the corridor, a short, rather plump woman was backing out of one of the rooms. She was talking quite loudly to whoever was inside it, her tone disagreeable.
'And for God's sake, get the Jones woman's room cleaned up quickly. We need more bums in beds as soon as possible, if you lot expect to get paid this month.'
Turning, she saw Ted standing, quietly motionless, near to her. Instantly, she stretched her face into something resembling a smile and asked, 'Can I help you?'
'I'm looking for the manager,' Ted replied.
'I'm the manager,' she said briskly. 'What can I do for you? As you can see, I am rather busy at the moment.'
Ted noticed that she did not give her name. She hadn't offered it over the phone when he had called her earlier in the day.
'We spoke on the phone this morning. I'm Detective Inspector Darling. I'm here to talk to you about Mrs Gwen Jones.'
She looked flustered. 'Has there been a development? I know you said there would be a post- mortem but ...'
Ted interrupted her. 'Could we perhaps go somewhere more private to talk, rather than standing in a corridor, Mrs …?'
'You better come to my office,' she said, still not giving her name. She swept along the corridor in front of him, not affording him a backward glance. They went through the vestibule and into another corridor on the other side. She led the way through the first door on the left, pointing ungraciously towards a spare chair, which Ted sat in, taking out his notebook.
'Can you start by giving me your name?' he asked, at the same time retrieving his warrant card from his pocket and showing it to her to confirm his identity.
'Rawlings,' she told him brusquely. 'What did you want to know?'
'First of all, have any of your other residents been affected by similar symptoms to those of Mrs Jones?'
She shook her head. 'Not so far, but these things flare up all the time. Mrs Jones was elderly. It's unfortunate, but it seems the sickness was too big a strain for her heart.'
'I understand a member of your staff told her daughter that Mrs Jones had spent some time yesterday afternoon with her granddaughter?'
'Yes, I think so. Her granddaughter came quite often, I believe. They seemed to get on well. She always called Mrs Jones something that sounded like Nine. She said it was Welsh for grandma.'
'Mamgu,' Ted said, to his own surprise. 'Mrs Jones was from South Wales, where the word for grandma is mamgu. Nain is what they say in North Wales. No family member would ever have called her that.'
In his head he saw a smiling, rosy-cheeked face, plump arms outstretched, as a voice said, 'Come here, Teddy, bach. Come and give your mamgu a kiss.' He recalled vividly the smell of wonderful baking on her apron as she folded him into her embrace.
'Would you be surprised to hear that Mrs Jones didn't, in fact, have a granddaughter?' he continued. 'What can you tell me about the person who claimed to be hers?'
The woman looked bewildered. 'But Angie has been visiting her regularly. I'd often see them sitting together in the vestibule, chatting away and laughing.'
'Do you not keep some sort of record of relatives? Would no one have thought it strange that Mrs Jones was being visited by someone claiming to be a granddaughter she didn't have?'
'We have a lot of residents,' she said defensively. 'We can't possibly check up on everyone who comes to visit. Sometimes the residents tell us a visitor is their daughter or granddaughter when they aren't really. A lot of them are very confused.'
'Tell me about when Mrs Jones was taken ill. How soon after the visit of this Angie did that happen?'
'I don't yet know all the details, I'm just catching up with everything myself.' Again, the defensive tone. 'There may be more detail on her file, or in the day book.' She started pushing paperwork around her desk, clearly looking for something to help her answer Ted's questions. 'Yes, here it is. Mrs Jones went to her room to lie down just after Angie left and said she didn't want any tea as she'd had cake. Later that evening she started being violently sick and had diarrhoea.'
'What time was a doctor called?' Ted interrupted.
'Later on,' came the evasive reply. 'The night carers would have seen to her on their rounds then, when she wasn't showing any signs of improvement, they called out Dr Patel. It seems Mrs Jones deteriorated rapidly and her heart failed, from what the doctor said.'
'What can you tell me about this Angie? Do you have any information on her? Can you give me a description of her?'
'Ordinary,' came the unhelpful reply. 'Mid- to late-thirties, perhaps. Maybe a little older. Brown hair. Not very tall. Nothing striking that sticks in my mind. I know she told one of the carers she didn't get on with her own mother so didn't visit at the same time as her. She said she didn't want to bump into her.'
'Do you know her surname?'
'I assume it was Jones, like her grandmother and her mother.'
Ted noted that his mother had obviously gone back to her maiden name after she had left his father.
'One more thing, Mrs Rawlings. Do all visitors have to sign the book in the hallway? If so, can you come with me and show me where this Angie signed herself in, as that should surely tell us her surname.'
With barely concealed impatience, she went with Ted to the entrance hall and looked at the book, skimming through the signatures for the previous day. Each visitor was meant to note not only their name, but that of the person they had come to visit. She clearly didn't find the name she was looking for, so she started to turn back the pages, scanning each in turn, her finger tracing down the list.
After she had gone back several weeks, she looked at Ted in confusion.
'I don't understand,' she said. 'I can't see anyone who could have been this Angie signed in to visit Mrs Jones. Her only visitor recorded seems to have been her daughter, Annie Jones, who came most mornings.' She took one more defensive shot as she said, 'but then you don't seem to have signed yourself in either, Inspector.'
Chapter Three
Ted's partner Trevor was in the kitchen cooking when he got home. The smells wafting from the saucepan were delicious and Ted realised he was ravenously hungry. He hadn't felt in the mood to eat at lunch time, with the worry of how the case was going, and hadn't had time for anything since.
Trev returned Ted's kiss then put a spoon of sauce in front of him and said, 'Taste that, it's a new recipe.'
Ted did as he was told and rolled his eyes in delight. 'That is fantastic,' he said. 'Is that what we're having for supper?'
Trev laughed. 'Well, I didn't make it for the cats,' he said, as six purring felines wound their way round both men's legs, totally ignoring their newly-filled feed bowls. 'So tell me, how was your day?'
Ted leaned against the sink so he could watch his partner at work. Trev loved to cook and was br
illiant at it. Ted's repertoire didn't rise much above a chilli con carne or the occasional Thai green curry. The two were just back from a rare fortnight's holiday in the Italian Apennines and Trev was darkly tanned and finely toned from the many miles they had walked.
'Strange,' Ted replied, frowning slightly as he recalled the morning visit. 'My mother turned up, out of the blue, to tell me my gran had died and that she thinks she may have been poisoned.'
Trev put down his spoon and folded his arms round Ted, hugging him protectively close. 'Oh, that's awful! I'm so sorry. How did it make you feel, seeing your mum again after all this time?'
Ted hesitated. He had always found it hard to talk about his feelings, even with Trev, unless they were out walking in the Peaks or mountains, where he felt more relaxed. He had recently agreed to start counselling to deal with demons from his past, but was only just learning how to express emotions in the close confines of a room.
'Confused,' he said eventually. 'I wanted to hate her. I've hated her since she walked out. But she looked older than she should and a bit vulnerable, as if life has treated her badly. And she denied going off with another man, which is what my dad always told me she did.'
'Why does she think it was a poisoning?' Trev asked over his shoulder, going back to stirring the sauce.
Ted outlined everything his mother had told him, what he had found out so far and how Bizzie Nelson had helped him arrange a post-mortem.
'You started the enquiry yourself? On a relative?' Trev asked, surprised. 'What is the Ice Queen going to say about that?'
'I haven't told her anything about it yet,' Ted admitted. 'I thought I'd wait for the PM report before I mentioned it.'
After years of working with the easy-going DCI Jim Baker, his replacement had proved difficult for Ted to get used to. After a shaky start, they had settled down to a level of mutual respect, though not yet the trust and ease he had known with Jim.
Ted was of short stature. The towering Ice Queen, with her dazzlingly white, impeccable uniform shirt and implacable demeanour, usually made him feel awkward and rather stupid. She was always assuring him that she was not his enemy and had proved it on a recent difficult case, but he still felt the need to tread carefully around her.
She had proved surprisingly supportive over the collapsed case that day, though, stressing repeatedly that the unfortunate outcome was no reflection on him or his team. Even so, he knew he would have to be careful how far he took this current enquiry before briefing her on it, and particularly mentioning his personal involvement.
'Dinner is nearly ready,' Trev told him, 'if you want to get changed before we eat.'
He was already freshly showered, dressed in a pink polo shirt, crops and leather sandals, obviously still in a holiday mood.
'I will do, but first tell me how your day was.' Ted loved to ask, just to watch Trev's eyes light up with real passion when he talked about the motorbikes he spent his days fixing and playing with.
'Brilliant!' Trev replied, with his customary enthusiasm. 'Geoff has a list of some shows and exhibitions he wants to go to in Europe. He wants me to go with him, to translate. Would you be okay with that?'
'Of course! Ted said immediately. 'You'd love it, go for it. Don't worry about me and the cats. We'll be fine. I'll just be here alone, crying into my pillow, hugging one of your shirts for comfort …'
He broke off as Trev threw a damp tea-towel at him, which he deftly dodged. He then sprinted upstairs to change out of the hated suit and tie, which the Ice Queen insisted he wore in preference to his preferred casual clothes.
He wondered, as he frequently did, with a passing glance in the mirror, why an attractive, vibrant, intelligent, younger man like Trev stayed with someone as dull and damaged as he considered himself to be. But their relationship had survived eleven years and, apart from a small wobble during a recent difficult case, they were still happily together.
Trev was just dishing up supper on the table outside the back door when Ted came lightly back down the stairs, also in crops and a polo. They were both keen to profit from the last of the late summer sunshine, and being outside was always Ted's preference. There was fresh pasta with the sauce Trev had made, with the last of the ham and Parmigiano Reggiano which they had brought back from Italy.
'So, when do I get to meet the mother-in-law?' Trev asked smilingly, as they began to eat.
Ted immediately stopped eating, his face darkening, jawline tense. 'She gave up any right to be my mother when she walked out on me,' he said sharply. 'She's certainly not your mother-in-law.'
'Hey,' Trev reached across the table and put a gentle hand on Ted's arm. 'I was kidding. It was a light-hearted remark. I'm sorry if it upset you.'
Ted shook his head. 'No, I'm sorry,' he said more softly. 'It just touched a raw nerve. I shouldn't have snapped. But you know that she walked out on me when I was eight, Trev. Not long after my dad broke his back in the mine and was paralysed. What kind of a mother does that?'
'Perhaps you need to listen to her version of events?' Trev suggested diplomatically. 'If she says there was no other man, maybe you need her to tell you exactly why she went?'
Ted sighed. 'Can we just drop it for now, please? This meal's too good. I'd rather just enjoy it and forget about her for this evening.'
Trev had not yet finished, though, his concern for Ted driving him on.
'Will you promise me something, then I'll drop it?' he asked, looking directly into Ted's eyes. He knew the power his blue eyes had over his partner, who found it hard to resist their effect. Ted tried to look away, to concentrate on his food, but it was useless. Trev had him, and he knew it.
'All right, what is it?' he said resignedly.
'Will you talk to your counsellor about all of this, whatever happens?' Trev asked him, still holding his gaze. 'Whether your gran's death was sad but natural causes, or something more sinister. Please? Because I'm worried how this is going to affect you.
'If someone killed your gran, your mother is going to need you, as a son, not just as a copper. Then, if you agree to let her tell you her version of events, it may make you see your father in a totally different light, perhaps not a very good one. And I know how much you idolised your dad.'
Chapter Four
Professor Nelson had been true to her word in doing an early post-mortem examination on Ted's grandmother, and getting the toxicology results back in record time.
Ted had attended the PM, never his favourite activity, made all the harder by the fact that the woman on the table was his grandmother. He could hardly get over the change in her appearance in the thirty or so years since he had last seen her.
In his memory she was plump and jolly, rosy-cheeked and always smiling. The body on the steel table seemed to have wasted away to skin and bone, although it appeared that she had still been straight-backed. He remembered his mother saying how much she had started to roam and wondered if her constant activity was a factor in her weight loss.
He could see no obvious signs of injury or illness, other than being much thinner than when he had known her, his observations confirmed by Bizzie Nelson as she began her examination.
Ted had shared his customary bag of Fisherman's Friend menthol lozenges with her before she started. They were his way of coping with the smells and sights that went with his job. He was never without a packet in one of his pockets, never knowing when the next body might confront him.
Ted bitterly regretted not having kept in touch with his grandmother. He had always liked her and she had been his only surviving grandparent. But when his mother walked out, he lost all contact and his father refused to have anything to do with her. He supposed it was only natural that she would take the side of her daughter when his parents split up.
The Professor kept up a running commentary for the tape as she worked. Ted had to look away for some of it. It felt obscene somehow, to be standing looking at the naked body of an elderly relative. He contented himself with listening to Bizzie's
voice and looking at various instruments within the autopsy suite. He preferred not to think about the purpose of some of them.
'Right, that's me done for now,' Professor Nelson said finally. 'There's not a lot left in the way of stomach contents but I will send what there is, plus bloods, of course, for toxicology testing. I'll let you have the results as soon as I possibly can. I'm sorry for your loss, Edwin, even if you hadn't seen her for some time.'
He was surprised and pleased by how soon she got back to him about the toxicology tests. The call came early one morning, as the Professor always seemed to start work at the crack of dawn. As usual, there was no preamble, no time wasted on salutations. She just launched in, almost mid-sentence.
'You certainly have got an interesting one on your hands here. I almost didn't believe the results, it's so unusual. This was definitely a poisoning and the toxins used are really a rare finding. There were traces of both aconitine and aconite, from the garden plant aconitum napellus, sometimes called monkshood or dog's bane.
'The effects are rapid and often lethal. The victim suffers violent vomiting and diarrhoea and it can quickly lead to heart failure, especially in someone elderly or frail. This lady would have been very ill indeed in the time before her death …' She stopped suddenly and there was an awkward pause.
'Edwin, I am so sorry, how dreadfully insensitive of me. In my enthusiasm for a rare toxin, I completely forgot this poor lady was your grandmother. I do apologise for my lack of sensitivity.'
'It's fine, really,' Ted said. Tact and diplomacy were not qualities he associated with the brusque and efficient, though decidedly eccentric, pathologist. 'So is it possible that this could have been accidental? My mother said my grandmother wandered a lot, because of her dementia. Security at the home seems a little haphazard. Could she have gone out into the garden and eaten some?'
'Extremely unlikely,' came the prompt response. 'It has a very bitter taste, so accidental poisoning is most uncommon, although not unheard of. I must also say, though, that sometimes people suffering from some types of dementia tend to lose their sense of taste and smell. But I would still say accidental ingestion would be unlikely. There have been cases of people being affected by handling it, but there are no lesions on her skin, which would have made that a more likely scenario.'
