Only the Dead

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  “Cyril Bennett, but you call me, Sir. No Gov or Boss, just Sir.” He smiled. “You’ll be fine. I’ve seen your references.” He looked at the boards she was preparing. “Remember less can be more. Meeting in here in thirty minutes and I’ll introduce the team. We have two separate cases running at present; one is a bit of a trawler but it’s piecing together. The chemical poisoning is a bit of a worry with two in three days but I doubt we’ll be dealing with murder if all the expert information we have proves correct. By the way, I don’t always have this facial demeanour; it’s Bell’s palsy, facial paralysis, but according to the Doctor it’s only temporary.”

  Fortunately, or somewhat sensibly, she didn’t know anyone who had died from it so at least he was spared the usual comments.

  “See you in...” He looked at his watch, then at the clock on the wall and smiled. They were the same! “Twenty-five minutes.” He turned and left.

  Owen’s desk was littered with notes, papers, two empty crisp packets, the crumbs of which were now dandruff on the carpet, and two heavily stained beakers. Visible in one was the solidifying liquid remnants of what might be described as coffee. White rings could clearly be seen suspended in the forgotten brew. He looked up as his Boss entered.

  “Get rid of those before we all contract the plague,” he pointed to the offending cups. “News, Owen, on the patients?”

  “They’ve been interviewed and the reports are on your desk, there are photographs too and a résumé of the medical prognoses. Three patients have dreadful blistering, a real mess. There’s damage to the DNA, bone marrow, eyes and lungs but there is no fear that any will snuff it. Lucky really after seeing the photographs. There are some references too from forensics of possible sources. They seem rather farfetched but I’ve learned in this game that anything’s possible.”

  “Maybe you should send them your mugs; they might surprise you there too!”

  Owen looked into the coffee mugs and then at Cyril not knowing whether to apologise or laugh. He ended up pulling a face that almost mimicked Cyril’s but changed it rapidly when he saw his Boss’s demeanour change.

  “Ripon?”

  “Still working on it; It’s with Europol and we now have a designated liaison officer, can be rather slow. Oh, nearly forgot. There’s nothing on Twitter or Facebook for either Mary or Phillip.”

  ***

  The atmosphere in the room was informal but as Cyril entered the chattering stopped and all eyes followed him. Some were purely curious to see how the palsy was going.

  “As you are aware, as I’m sure that you’ve taken time to look at the white-boards...” He pointed to the recently dressed white-boards running to one side of the room and then glanced round, knowing full well that not all had read them. “We have two cases to play with. Let me introduce DS Graydon. Liz is new to the team and is taking control of the investigation into the two chemical attacks. Initially, Jones, Proctor and Nixon will assist but others may be drawn in so keep abreast of the developments in both cases. The others will stay firmly on the Ripon investigation. Owen!”

  Owen moved to the front and outlined the latest developments from forensics and what was expected from Europol. Liz Graydon then came to the front. From her demeanour it was clear that she had done this many times before.

  “It seems the chemical agent sulphur mustard used in both incidents could have come from France or Belgium. It was one of the main poison gases used between 1915 to the war’s conclusion. It’s been used again in the middle-east and there may have been cases within the 39-45 War but forensics strongly point to the first; you know it as mustard gas. A number of shells is still ploughed up and our source might be from some of these. It’s certainly stuff that’s not readily available; many countries do not produce it so we are probably talking historical stock. Jones?” she looked at him and he raised a hand holding a pencil.

  “Ma’am.”

  “Check border records for cars making the crossing on a frequent basis over the last year. Check hotels, I know this is difficult as passports are no longer checked and names might not be thrown up. Check particularly for people who may be from North Yorkshire but don’t let that necessarily restrict your investigation. Expect a lot and start to whittle.”

  Jones noted everything and then nodded.

  “As soon as possible for that information, please.”

  She turned her attention to a second officer. “Proctor, both the immediate targets are in the medical profession or were at some time. Look into their past. Find out their work, their colleagues and family connections. Check who they might have abused or cheated and then check those and their families. It’s a shot in the dark but it’s a shot. Nixon, that only leaves you so I’ve saved the best until last.” She smiled at him. “I want you to contact the Dienst voor Opruiming en Vernietiging van Ontploffingstuigen the DOVO.” She looked at Nixon not taking her eyes off his. “Repeat.”

  Cyril looked at them both and then round the room and smiled knowing she now had their full and undivided attention. She then looked at Proctor who just mouthed the acronym. Nixon looked at Cyril and blushed.

  “Sorry Ma’am but...”

  “I’m kidding,” she interrupted and smiled at him. “Read the boards next time before the briefing. That is the Belgian Explosive Ordinance Disposal Company. Their job is to continue to collect and dispose of these munitions that are still found almost daily. They are often just left at the side of the roads and can be collected by treasure hunters or people with a more sinister objective. See if it’s possible to retrieve chemicals from these things and how stable they are, after all this time underground, to both collect and transport. Find out how much they hold of whatever chemical, if they are easily identifiable. If someone is storing these munitions locally we might have a bigger hazard just waiting to explode.” She looked across at Cyril who stood, went to the front and concluded the meeting.

  “Keep me aware of everything and I mean everything. Keep it all updated no matter how insignificant. Thank you!”

  Immediately, as he turned to leave, the chattering started and a number of eyes fell on DS Graydon before her new team got ready to either study the boards or leave. She’d certainly set out her stall and everyone knew that she wasn’t to be messed with.

  On his return to his office there was a message flashing on his computer. He’d been waiting for this, Dr. Flint’s inheritance details and tax returns for the last five years. He removed his jacket, went to get a coffee, checking his cup and saucer carefully and then settled down in front of the screen.

  ***

  Peter broke off the kiss and released his hands from Phillip’s eyes. Phillip smiled and stood up before returning the kiss. As he broke away he caught the waiter’s eye and signalled for champagne.

  “I knew it was you,” Phillip gushed. “I knew you were due. I have my spies.” He winked at Peter. “You’ve met Charles I feel sure.”

  Peter remembered meeting the young, well built man at one of his garden parties but would not have been able to name him. They smiled and jealously cast more than a welcome eye over each other. Peter noticed that he wore a gold bracelet connected by chains down the back of his waxed hand to rings on each finger, the nails of which were decorated with different coloured varnish. The nails on his other hand seemed perfectly normal. Peter seemed to remember that this specific design of jewellery was called a slave bracelet and he couldn’t help but wonder whose slave he might be.

  “Stay for lunch, Charles, Peter would love it, wouldn’t you mon petit choux?”

  Peter could never quite understand how referring to someone as a small cabbage was deemed a term of endearment in France.

  “You’re most welcome, if it pleases you, it pleases me.”

  The champagne arrived along with three flutes. “One drink and I must fly, millions of things to do darlings. Don’t forget my picnic lunch on Friday. You must come, Peter, it’s at home. You can’t miss my house, just along the road there.” He waved a lim
p, slave-braceleted wrist in the direction of the chateau. “You can’t miss it, darling. Two huge, fucking, pink lions on the gate posts.”

  He giggled and feigned embarrassment. Picking up his champagne, he downed it in one.

  “Must fly!” He bent and kissed Phillip on the head and for such an incongruously muscular man, he literally skipped away.

  Peter, not one to swear, heard expletives bounce inside his head but managed to say nothing out loud. Once he felt his emotions were back under control he sarcastically remarked, “Seems a nice enough chap. What does he do?”

  Peter sipped his champagne, looking directly at his lover, awaiting a simple answer whilst all the while waiting for a lie.

  “On the face of it he’s a Yacht Broker, but what else I hear you say? You really don’t want to know, sweetie, believe me. One must never judge a book...I’m starving darling. Kiss and then you can buy me the most expensive lunch. I hope you have some wicked games planned for this afternoon. You’ve been absent for far too long. And by the way, I received a call from the English police, they’re investigating Mary. Did you know?”

  Peter noted a slight, sinister look in his eyes and the small upturn to the corner of his mouth as if he were about to smile but then it was gone. He leaned over and kissed Peter again. “You taste wonderful!”

  Nobody in the restaurant seemed to take any notice!

  ***

  The train was unusually busy to the point where there was only standing room for some, particularly when it collected commuters at Horsforth and Headingley, Lawrence couldn’t remember the last time he had been on a train at peak time but he knew he had missed nothing. There was something unhygienic about a packed railway carriage on a particularly grey, wet day. Fortunately, Lawrence would change trains at Leeds, necessitating a fifty-five minute wait. He had all day and the time would allow him to collect his thoughts. The Trans-Pennine service rattled its way into Manchester Piccadilly Station, in just over the hour, leaving him five hours before his planned return train.

  As he left the train, he checked again that he had everything with him; the last thing he needed was to leave something to be found by the general public. On glancing upward, he noticed the intricate, skeletal roof structure that now protected passengers from the rain. Within five minutes he was out of the station and standing on the pedestrian area to the left of the station entrance; it stood higher than London Road that passed beneath. He had deliberately gone to this spot because he wanted to stare at one particular building before moving off.

  Lawrence’s heart leapt as he felt himself physically jump as a loud, foreign voice screamed just behind him.

  “Big Issue?”

  Lawrence instinctively moved forward before turning, not fully grasping what had been said. Seeing the extended hand clutching a copy of the magazine made it clear. Lawrence thrust his hand into his pocket and found £2 before placing it to the outstretched palm of the small, bedraggled seller, receiving in return his unwanted magazine along with a toothless smile.

  “Tanks, Sir.”

  The relatively newly constructed NHS offices for the North West, were situated opposite the station near the pedestrian bridge. From these rooms, the powers within the NHS, planned, instigated and monitored care within the community; here was the heart of the caring profession, full of pen pushers and paper shufflers who no doubt created and built the mountains of paperwork and red tape that filled the time of the ‘coal face’ grafter, too often distracting them from the real job, that of hands on caring. The rain drove across the road in waves as people, huddled under umbrellas, dashed for cover as they hurried along the pedestrian bridge that linked one side of the road to the other. The sky heaved as a jet thundered somewhere above him in the gloom, trying to claw its way out of the dreariness. He consulted the map as rain speckled his lenses. After a few minutes he found the taxi rank and jumped into the first cab.

  “Media City, Salford Quays, please.”

  The destination was a short walk to his target’s meeting place, close enough if questions were to be asked in the future. Once inside the cab, he removed his spectacles and cleaned them with a fresh tissue. He breathed on each lens and polished them before holding them next to the window to check they were clean. From his bag he removed a grainy photograph which he had discovered and printed from the Nursing Home’s web-site. With the use of the internet’s Social Website pages he had gleaned a good deal about his next victim. Carla Price had managed the home for just over twelve months until the Government’s Care Quality Commission (CQC) had paid them a visit. The report had been damning; it had been published both in the local and national press. Lawrence read the report as the taxi stood in a repetitive procession of queues. To add total misery to the day, the rain continued to beat discordantly on the roof of the cab and gradually the windows began to grow opaque and to cocoon him from the seemingly hostile world outside.

  Patients left unattended for long period, some in pain without medication. Badly organised laundry procedures; men in women’s underwear and women in men’s. The management justified this anomaly by pointing out that Dementia patients would not know what they were wearing! Dirty bathrooms and chairs were also highlighted.

  Carla Price was no longer employed by the nursing home but she had managed to complain to her Facebook friends that it had been a witch-hunt and that more serious errors which she had inherited, had never been found. She blamed equally the patients and showed little compassion or remorse. It never ceased to amaze Lawrence just what damning information people allowed to be published for all to see under their name. She failed to comprehend that this diatribe was an open conversation with the world and that it would be set in stone. The foolish girl even named individual carers, blaming them for her own ineptitude. Not only were her professional management skills a disgrace, her competency at managing her personal on-line security was exceptionally misguided; this was either unimportant to her or was obviously not one of her strengths. Carelessly, she had also broadcast her social timetable and because of her naive transparency she was now going to be given a firsthand education on how quality care within the NHS could make all the difference to a needy patient. She would learn, sadly, through painful experience. The taxi pulled up and Lawrence paid the fare, £13:50. He took £5:00 change leaving a tip that was acceptable but certainly not memorable. On departing he pulled on a thin pair of gloves; from now on every care had to be taken.

  ***

  Cyril surprised himself when the low whistle emitted from his crooked lips. He sat back and inhaled the menthol vapour. He took his medication and began to add drops to his eye. It felt sore after an hour of computer-screen searching. Doctor Flint had been looked after very well by his parents; being an only child, they had generously left it in his lap, predominantly property and land but still a reasonable amount of cash. His tax returns were all in order too, the well paid accountants making sure of that. For the moment, however, he was a little more comfortable with the Doctor’s discreet show of wealth.

  The tap on the door made him sit forward. He saw Owen blocking the light, hovering like a small pachyderm.

  “Sir, message from SIENA, (Europol Secure Information Network). We have a name and full details of Jarvis’s father. I can bring it up on your system. May I?”

  Cyril nodded. Owen came round the desk and looked at the content of the screen. “Has this been saved?”

  Cyril explained what it was and gave him the all clear to close the file down. Owen’s fingers danced across the keys, closed one page and opened another. “Voilá, Sir.”

  “No French, Owen?”

  Owen laughed. “No, not really. Don’t know what it means just picked it up when mum used to watch that French detective, ‘Parrot’.”

  “Poirot, Owen. Poirot was Agatha Christie’s finest. Parrot indeed! Exactly what did they teach you at school?”

  Cyril began to read aloud. “André Malraux was the father, born 1921 in Menton became a leading light in the
Maquis working with the CARTE organisation which operated in the zone non-occupé of Vichy France. Continued to live in Menton after its occupation by the Italian Fascists and, according to eye-witness reports, he was responsible for securing safe passage for the many Jews, communists and other threatened minorities who had fled south to escape the Nazi regime. Captured and tortured by Gestapo before being deported with others to Buchenwald Concentration Camp in late 1944. He was transported with a collection of captured, allied airmen, mainly American, who had crash landed in France. Owing to their wearing civilian clothes, they were deemed spies or Resistance workers and therefore they too were sent to Buchenwald. Although a couple died, the airmen, being discovered by a group of visiting Luftwaffe officers, were transferred to another, more fitting prison camp, away from Jews, freemasons, homosexuals, gypsies and Resistance workers. Malraux survived because of his language skills, Italian, French and English. He developed frostbite in his hands, feet and ears but with the 89th Infantry Division arriving on 11th April, he was hospitalised. He first met Nancy Penrose, an English nurse, during his stay. Eventually, returned home to Menton and brought Nancy with him, although he left some fingers and toes in Germany. Married in January, 1949 and Phillip was born July, 1949. Divorced and moved back to England in 1959. Divorce records suggest that the father was aggressive and mentally unstable.” Cyril stopped reading aloud and sat back.

  “Christ, Owen, what he went through would test the mental stability of us all.”

  Owen printed the text and read it again.

  “You like history? Buchenwald was a death camp. Above the main gate were the words, Jedem das Seine which figuratively means, everyone gets what they deserve. Nobody, Owen, believe me, deserved what those poor souls got, nobody. Look up more about this CARTE organisation and the rôle played by the Resistance regarding the period of Italian occupation. Find out how many Jews moved in the direction of Nice and Menton. We also don’t know what André did before the war. Probably not important but it will tie up that end. What news on his stepfather?”