‘You know, Nigel, for someone in as deep as you, you’re being awfully cocky.’
Turnbull stared him out, arms crossed over his huge, flabby chest.
‘All right then. Let’s not start from the beginning. Let’s start with the findings of my forensics team. Within the past few days, two rather unusual plants have been removed from the greenhouse next to the lab at Queen Mary.’
‘That happens all the time.’
‘Yes, but these were removed rather amateurishly. Not, I imagine, the way trained scientists like yourself would handle their valuable specimens.’
Turnbull shrugged.
‘Okay, Nigel. Let me help you a little more. The two plants are rare in this country. But, most importantly to my investigation, they each produce an essential ingredient in a very complex poison which has been used to kill two people. Furthermore, those victims were each associated with the building company who were the employers of “the dead dude” who landed so indecorously on your dance-floor only a week ago.’
Turnbull looked genuinely shocked. ‘I had no idea.’
‘What do you mean, you had no idea, Nigel? You’re involved in these murders up to your walrus neck.’
‘Now, hang on.’
‘What do you mean, hang on? You are either the murderer we are looking for or their accomplice – the expert poison-maker. It’s obvious.’
Turnbull turned very pale. ‘Look … I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘In that case, why did you run?’
‘I don’t know. I panicked, I guess.’
‘Oh, come on. You can do better than that. I’ll tell you what I think, shall I?’ Pendragon didn’t wait for a response. ‘You’re hard up, but you have a useful skill to sell. Someone made you an offer you simply couldn’t refuse. A nice fat cheque in exchange for a small vial of poison. You needed some plant materials from your lab, but they’re nursed like babies because they are extremely rare and valuable. So, you yanked them up to make it look like a theft.’
‘If I did that, why wasn’t it reported?’ Turnbull responded.
‘Well, that’s a good question, isn’t it, Nigel? Perhaps you could tell me. Or maybe we should bring Dr Frampton in? He would have been responsible for contacting the police.’
‘Do what you want.’
‘I tell you what I will do, Nigel. I’ll give you a chance to help yourself. It’s not you we’re really after. You’re just a stooge, a hard-up kid with some knowledge of biochemistry. Having said that, Accessory to Murder, Theft, Resisting Arrest. Well …’ And Pendragon pretended to count on his fingers. ‘I can’t see you getting less than ten years, even without previous.’
Turnbull threw his head into his hands and started to sob. It was an awful sound, like a hippo with diarrhoea. His shoulders shook, which made his whole body vibrate in sympathy.
‘Now, if you were able to impart some names, I might, just might, be able to pull some strings.’
Turnbull raised his head from his palms. His eyes were red, cheeks streaked with tears. ‘I swear, Chief Inspector, on my mother’s grave, I don’t know anything about this.’
Pendragon fixed the young man with a truly spine-chilling look. ‘Nigel, your mother is still alive. I’ve read your file. And I don’t believe you. Not for one minute. Now, you can either carry on the innocent act and serve a decade in Pentonville, or you can do the sensible …’
There was a knock at the door. Turner came in holding a sheet of paper. He leaned close to Pendragon’s ear and said quietly, ‘Sir, the second report from forensics. I think you should read it straight away.’ He sat down next to the DCI.
Pendragon scanned through the report, then focused on the summary and conclusion at the end.
Traces of 3-4 Methylenedioxy-Methamphetamine, or MDMA (ecstasy), found in laboratory equipment at the benches of Nigel Turnbull and Dr Adrian Frampton. Further traces found at the home of Mr Turnbull, 24, Northam Road. Weighing apparatus and a hand press to produce tablets from MDMA powder were also found on the premises. Study of the toilet bowl in Mr Turnbull’s rooms revealed trace amounts of MDMA.
Pendragon lowered the sheet of paper, glanced at Turner and let out a heavy sigh. ‘It seems you and Dr Frampton have been very industrious,’ he said in a sorrowful tone.
Turnbull looked at his chubby fingers, clasped together in front of him. ‘I don’t really understand, Chief Inspector.’
Pendragon slid over the last page of the report. Turnbull’s eyes darted over it.
‘So that’s why you ran … and why you didn’t report the theft of the plants.’
Turnbull took a deep breath. ‘I swear I know nothing about the poisonings.’
Pendragon closed his eyes for a moment, leaned his elbows on the table and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he stood up and strode towards the door. ‘Charge him, Sergeant,’ he said, without breaking stride. ‘Then bring in Frampton and charge him too.’
Pendragon was pacing along the corridor, in one of the worst moods he could remember. Questioning suspects was one of the aspects of the job he really disliked. He hated putting on the tough guy act because he had to adopt a persona that was very different from the way he saw himself, and he was always concerned that once he had taken on the role, he would not be able to shake it off. He didn’t want to become the person he pretended to be in the interview room. Other cops seemed to be able to slip in and out of character as easily as changing a shirt, but he found it unnatural. Perhaps, he mused, that was one of the reasons he had never progressed beyond DCI. What made today’s performance particularly bad was the fact he had been so far off-target with his hunch. Lost in thought, he didn’t hear the uniformed sergeant the first time he spoke.
‘Sir?’ Sergeant Scratton repeated.
Pendragon snapped out of his reverie. ‘Sergeant?’
‘Sir, just had a call from Constable Smith. He’s found the body of a dog down by the canal on South Street, about a mile from here.’
‘A dog?’ Pendragon looked completely confused.
‘Remember on Tuesday I told you we had three reports of missing dogs? That old lady was just leaving …’
‘Yes, yes,’ Pendragon recalled. ‘I remember. Her spaniel, wasn’t it?’
‘It was, sir. Smith says this one’s a mongrel, not the old lady’s dog. He told me he thinks the poor thing’s been dead for less than a day. But get this – he reckons it was poisoned. There’re no visible wounds, and its gums are coated in some greenish stuff. He didn’t elaborate. Oh, and there was a hypodermic needle next to the body.’
Pendragon was about to say something glib, like, a hypodermic by the canal in that part of Stepney being almost de rigueur, when he stopped. Along the corridor, a door slammed, and they saw Turner emerging from Interview Room 2. Pendragon stepped towards him. ‘You done with Turnbull?’
Turner nodded.
‘Good.’ Then, turning back to Scratton, Pendragon added, ‘Sergeant, lock up the suspect, please. Turner, you come with me.’
‘What’s up?’ Jez asked as they took the stairs to the car park three at a time.
‘A poisoned dog.’
‘A what?’
Pendragon filled him in as they got into a patrol car. The sergeant went very quiet and gazed out of the passenger window.
‘What have you found out about Murano Glass UK and the charming Mr Gregson?’ Pendragon asked, pulling out on to Brick Lane.
‘Oh,’ Turner said, facing his boss, ‘nothing very helpful, guv. No real previous on anyone working there. The storeman, Daniel Beatty, did a bit of joyriding when he was a teenager, but then … who didn’t? Both Alec Darlinghurst and his mother are clean. Not so much as a parking ticket between them. Sidney Gregson and his wife flew to Nice on May the twenty-third, the day before the break-in. There’s not a speck of evidence to implicate any of them.’
‘No big surprise, really,’ Pendragon replied. ‘Still, I’m going to get Mackleby to ask everyone involved in th
is investigation to submit to a voluntary DNA swab test. Nothing’s giving.’
They fell silent again, and Turner watched the buildings flash by as the main road gave way to a small side street. Pendragon pulled to a stop at the end where a line of white metal pillars separated the road from a patch of worn grass. Beyond that, a narrow path of baked mud joined a concrete towpath running alongside the canal. A short walk brought them to a rusted wire fence. They could just make out the solid form of Constable Smith in his bright yellow jacket. He was standing with three other people in the middle of a patch of land covered with great chunks of concrete, piles of rusted petrol cans and the occasional tuft of long, scrubby grass.
The dog lay in a sad heap on a patch of gravel. Its eyes were open and milky-white, but there were few outward signs of decay. Its matted, brown fur was greasy, and exuded the pungent smell of urine.
‘A couple of kids found the poor little bugger,’ Constable Smith said as Pendragon and Turner reached the animal. ‘I’ve bagged the hypodermic and kept anyone from contaminating the scene as much as I could, sir.’
‘Good work, Smith,’ Pendragon said. He crouched down and looked closely at the green stains around the dog’s gums. ‘Okay, I’ll get someone down here to take this away. Smith, can you send these people home? God knows why they have to stand around here. Sergeant …’ he looked at Turner. ‘Sergeant?’
Jez looked up and Pendragon could see he was very pale and tears were brimming in his eyes. ‘How could anyone do this?’ he said.
‘Come on,’ the DCI replied. ‘Let’s get back to the station.’
They picked their way through the detritus. Pendragon opened his mobile and speed-dialled the station.
‘Get me Inspector Grant, please.’
‘Guv?’
‘Turner and I are heading back from the canal near South Street. I take it you’ve been told about the dog?’
‘Yeah, Scratton just showed me the report. Smith found it, right?’
‘Correct. It’s pretty clear it was poisoned.’
‘You sure?’
‘Well, no, Inspector,’ Pendragon retorted. ‘But something weird is going on and it seems a bit too much of a coincidence that the first dog was reported missing before Middleton’s murder.’
‘What? You think the killer practised on dogs first?’
‘I’m not sure what I think, Grant. There are so many unanswerable questions. This dog died only last night at the latest, so who knows?’
There was silence on the line.
‘Inspector?’
‘Yes, sorry, sir. Just thinking.’
‘All right, listen. I want every piece of waste ground, park, canal footpath and back alley in the borough searched. Pull everyone off what they’re doing. I want those other missing dogs found by the end of the day.’
‘Will do. By the way, sir, something else has come up.’
‘What?’
‘Got a call just before you rang in. From Max Rainer.’
‘Rainer?’
‘Claims he was attacked leaving work last night. Smacked over the head. He spent half the night in A and E, apparently, and he’s mad as hell. Wants the culprit in chains.’
‘Was it a mugging? Was he robbed?’
‘Apparently not. His wallet was untouched.’
They had reached the squad car. Pendragon got behind the wheel. ‘Okay,’ he said to Grant. ‘I want to be told the minute you find anything.’ He shut the phone and turned the ignition key.
Max Rainer was a great deal more welcoming than he had been on their first visit to his flat. He opened the door to them wearing a long silk dressing gown over expensive-looking pyjamas. He had a large plaster on his forehead and was holding a cold pack to his right temple with one hand and had a glass of whisky in the other. Aren’t we the drama queen? Pendragon thought to himself as Rainer invited them into his sitting-room.
‘I appreciate your coming over, Chief Inspector.’ He gave Pendragon a weak smile and glanced at Sergeant Turner who was looking the other way at a painting on the wall. ‘Please sit down. May I offer you both a drink?’ And he held up his tumbler.
‘Not on duty, regrettably,’ Pendragon said.
‘That’s a shame. This is a particularly fine single malt, a thirty-year-old Macallan.’
‘I’ll have a glass of water, please,’ Turner said merrily. Pendragon gave his sergeant a fleeting grin as Rainer strode through to the kitchen.
‘So, talk us through what happened,’ Pendragon said as Rainer handed Turner a small glass of tap water.
‘I was leaving the office. It must have been just after nine. I had stayed on to do some work. The others had left hours before. I was locking the main door to the office – the one leading from the lobby on the first floor. I heard a sound behind me, but before I could turn, I felt this incredible pain in the back of my head and I collapsed, smacking my forehead on the door as I went.’
‘So you saw no one?’
‘No.’
‘And you came to, when?’
‘It was three minutes past twelve. I found a cab and got myself to the London Hospital. They kept me in until this morning. Concussion, of course, and I had four stitches … here.’ He pointed to his forehead. ‘And seven here, at the back.’
‘Do you have any idea who could have done this?’
‘I was rather hoping you could tell me that,’ Rainer retorted, the old brittleness returning.
‘I understand nothing was stolen? Your wallet was untouched.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Then it’s possible you were attacked by someone with a grievance.’
Rainer was silent.
‘Mr Rainer, is there no one you suspect? Do you have any enemies?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
Pendragon glanced at Turner, who was concentrating on his notebook. ‘It’s just that your partner, Tim Middleton …’
‘Yes. All right. I know what you’re going to say. Tim’s not even in the ground yet and I’m attacked with no apparent motive – odd. Okay …’ He paused for a moment, stood up and walked over to a drinks cabinet where he poured himself a generous new measure of the particularly fine Macallan. Returning, he admitted: ‘I’m being blackmailed.’
Pendragon and Turner both stared at him. ‘When did this start?’ Pendragon asked.
‘About three months ago. I have no idea who it is, or why. But they seem to know an awful lot about my past and are completely unscrupulous about how they employ that knowledge.’
‘Can you elaborate, please?’
‘No, I can’t, Chief Inspector. It’s irrelevant.’
‘You think so? I would say it’s entirely relevant. You see, Tim Middleton was also being blackmailed. Before he was murdered.’
Rainer blanched and took a large gulp of whisky. ‘Before I qualified as an architect,’ he said quickly, ‘I did a bit of teaching on the side. Sixteen-and seventeen-year-olds doing their GCSEs. I … I had a brief relationship with one of the girls. She was seventeen, all perfectly legal.’
‘What went wrong, Mr Rainer?’
He sighed and looked at the ceiling. ‘She fell pregnant and I pushed her into having a backstreet abortion. She died of septicaemia. I never owned up to her family.’ Rainer glared at the two policemen. ‘It was thirty years ago, for God’s sake! I can’t imagine how anyone could know about it.’
‘Someone obviously does,’ Turner said, returning Rainer’s glare.
He drained his glass. ‘So, what are you going to do now?’
‘Would you be willing to give a full statement and provide access to all your accounts?’
‘No!’ Rainer’s voice was slightly slurred.
‘Do you have any letters, e-mails, anything from the blackmailer?’
‘No, they contacted me by phone. They’ve called three times. The last time was over a month ago to say they were doubling the payments.’
Pendragon stood up. ‘Well, in that case, there’s not
a lot we can do.’
‘What do you mean, there’s not a lot you can do?’ Rainer demanded. ‘This is outrageous! Surely you have forensics, DNA people, fingerprint experts?’
‘Mr Rainer, what evidence do you think we’ll find at the scene of the crime? You were hit over the head from behind. You saw no one. You had the wound cleaned and stitched – quite understandably. The person who attacked you was almost certainly wearing gloves, and they would not have left DNA at the scene. We could check surveillance cameras close to your offices, but I would say the chances of seeing anything useful would be … well … zero. The only real chance we have of getting anywhere with our inquiries would be to try to trace the blackmailer. To do that, we need to follow a paper trail beginning with your bank details and a full and thorough statement from you, giving names, dates, every detail you can about your … indiscretions thirty years ago.’
‘I’m not willing to do that.’
‘Very well,’ Pendragon retorted. ‘If you change your mind, you know where to reach us. We’ll see ourselves out.’
Stepney, Saturday 11 June, 4.05 p.m.
Pendragon looked at the photographs spread out on his desk and felt a growing sense of hatred for all humanity well up inside him. He had seen so many mangled bodies over the years, there was little shock value left for him in that sight. The only things that upset him, apart from seeing bodies in the morgue being prodded and poked by pathologists, were pictures of murdered children or abused animals. What adults did to each other was one thing, but the killing of innocents made him realise that, for all the cleverness of the human race, all the great things civilisation had created, at its core humankind was maggot-ridden.
The team had found all three of the dogs reported missing and one that had not been, which, along with the dog found near the canal, made a total of five. Here were the pictures. Five dead dogs in different stages of decay, all of them twisted, pathetic things, a rich endorsement to human depravity. Pendragon looked away and picked up two sheets of A4 stapled together – a preliminary report written by a young and enthusiastic forensic assistant named Janie Martindale, who had been sent by Collette Newman to assist the search team. He glanced at the neatly typed report, absorbing the essential facts.
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