by Malcolm Rose
“Is the door unlocked all the time?”
The site manager grasped the chance to accuse someone else. “Yes. Except overnight, of course.”
“Have they ever gone missing?”
Neil broke eye contact. He seemed to want to tell a lie but realized that his hesitation would give him away. “I can’t say I’ve noticed, to be honest.”
“Have they ever been moved or got an extra layer of mud?”
“I’m a busy man. I don’t exactly keep them under surveillance but, yes, they might well have been moved. Now you mention it, I thought there was something a bit different about them on Friday.”
Luke ignored the comment. It was coming from a man desperate to show that he wasn’t guilty. Luke pulled two large evidence bags out of his pocket and turned the work shoes over again. “I’m going to take them with me but, for now, do a fine scan on as much of the insides as you can, Malc. I’m looking for fibres from socks. Flakes of skin would be even better.”
Luke felt relieved. At last, he was doing the job that he loved. Instead of talking to one suspect after another, he was using forensic methods to narrow the options. With real evidence came real progress. Talking to Neil again, he said, “I’m going to your home to take a few fibres from every pair of socks you’ve got. That way, I can see if there are any inside the boots that don’t belong to you. While I’m here, I’ll get some from the socks you’re wearing. Put your feet up, please.” Luke took a piece of sticky tape and pressed it briefly against Neil’s socks. When he tore it away, the tape had a lot of coloured threads adhering to it. “By the way,” Luke said as he put the captured fibres into a bag and sealed it, “you won’t get the boots back. I’ll destroy them to get every last trace out of the inside.”
Neil shrugged. “Anything to prove someone else has put them on.”
“And I need your DNA to check against any skin. Do you want to yank a hair out – with its root – or shall I get Malc to sample a bit of saliva from the rim of your mug? He’ll record your fingerprints while he’s at it.”
****
It was likely that the building manager’s shoes had trampled all over the soil by the conifer and that was enough for Luke to move Neil Gladwin ahead of Venetia Murray, Libby Byrne and Frank Russell on the list of suspects in his head. The site manager’s motive might be obscure but maybe he was still sore that he was only a substitute. Besides, Malc had not discovered a match between Libby’s or Frank’s shoes and the impressions outside Hounslow Residential. Luke wanted to interview Trevor Twigg again, and he was keen to talk to Owen and Jed, but the prospect of coaxing physical clues from Gladwin’s hefty shoes was too enticing to delay.
The thirty-centimetre shoes – almost boots – were medium size for a man or large for a woman. Luke placed them on a clean polythene sheet and Malc subjected them to the most thorough tests that were still available to him. Once the mobile had explored the accessible outer parts, he split them open from tongue to toe with his laser. Luke peeled apart the tough synthetic material and bent back the layer of steel, allowing Malc to scan the whole of the insides.
“The only fingerprints on the outer surface belong to Neil Gladwin,” Malc reported. “The combination of microscopic quartz grains in the soil adhering to the undersole is identical to that outside Hounslow Residential. This result increases the probability that these shoes were responsible for the impressions near the conifer. I cannot calculate the current degree of confidence without testing more footwear and soil samples from different locations around the building site, but it is over ninety per cent. There is no other valid information from the exterior of the shoes.”
“What about the insides?” Luke asked eagerly.
“There are fine particles of the same soil, along with common leaf fragments. There are no traces of human skin. There is a total of fourteen different fibres. The site manager’s socks sampled today can account for thirteen. The remaining type of thread occurs in both boots. It is a regular sky-blue wool.”
“Interesting.”
“Near both toe caps, I detect an unknown white powder. Analysis in progress.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“All right. See if you can get me a visual connection to Trevor Twigg while you work on that white powder.”
****
The historian’s lined face decorated the wall opposite Luke. He didn’t seem surprised or concerned at all by the wounds on Luke’s head and shoulders appearing on his own telescreen. “What can I do for you?” he said coldly.
Luke decided to try shock tactics. “It’s a bit of a coincidence that I bothered you on Saturday and, a few hours later, someone tried to put me out of action.”
“Did they? How do you mean?”
Luke’s fingers lingered near the stitched wound on his cheek.
“Oh. I see,” Trevor said.
Most people would have asked how he’d been hurt, whether he was getting better, or even if they were under suspicion. The historian wasn’t concerned. Luke had learned from their previous meeting that Trevor did not seem to care about anyone or anything apart from history, himself and fishing. But right now, that didn’t make him guilty of anything except self-interest. “Where were you on Saturday night?”
“I was at home with my partner, enjoying fresh mackerel.”
“You caught cod.”
“Yes. But, after you left, I had a run on mackerel. A shoal came through and they’re stupid. They snap at anything shiny. I didn’t have a spinner so I caught them on a bait of aluminium foil, believe it or not. You can yank them out, two or three at a time.”
“Your partner will confirm this?”
“Of course.”
Luke nodded. He had no intention of talking to Trevor’s partner because her testament would be unreliable and inadmissible. She would back up Trevor Twigg’s story either because it was true or because she was protecting him. The alibi would be worthless. “What’s your shoe size?” he asked.
“Twenty-nine centimetres.”
Again reserving his talkativeness for fishing and his curiosity for history, Twigg didn’t ask why Luke wanted to know. But Luke noted that he could have worn Neil Gladwin’s shoes comfortably because they were one size larger than his own. “Do you know where the site manager’s office is?”
Trevor laughed with contempt. “I went often enough to complain.”
“Right, well, I’m stuck here in the London area for the moment so I’m sending an agent out to see you.”
Trevor shrugged.
“I need a few samples – nothing serious – to help my inquiries.” Luke was not going to let on that he was interested in sky-blue socks. If he had, Trevor would surely have disposed of them before the agent arrived.
“Fine,” Trevor replied tersely. “You’re an FI. I can’t stop you.”
Luke’s job would have been a lot easier if there were a rule that the innocent were friendly and the guilty unpleasant. In his short career, he’d already met friendly criminals and unpleasant people who were perfectly innocent, yet unhelpful. Luke was still making up his mind about Trevor Twigg.
Chapter Eighteen
Once again, Luke was on a river launch, heading for the dome in Greenwich. And again, a cold wind was channelling down the Thames. The speed of the boat made it seem stronger than it really was. Luke had to brush hair away from his eyes every few minutes.
Indifferent to the wind, Malc perched on the deck and said, “I have completed the analysis of the white dust in both work shoes belonging to the new site manager. It is zinc oxide and chlorphenesin.”
“What’s that?”
“It is a powder used as an anti-fungal agent for treating ringworm, commonly called athlete’s foot. The dust is applied liberally to the toes and the insides of socks to treat the infection. It is inevitable that some of the fine powder penetrates the weave of the material and settles in the shoes of a person undergoing treatment.”
“So,” Luke said loud
ly over the wailing wind, “I’m looking for someone with a shoe size of thirty centimetres or less, sky-blue woollen socks and athlete’s foot.” He paused before adding, “There’s plenty of athletes round Hounslow so there’ll be plenty of athlete’s foot.”
Not recognizing the humour in Luke’s words, Malc replied, “The name of the condition is misleading. It is not restricted to athletes. The fungus is highly infectious and it can spread in areas where people often go barefoot, including sports changing rooms and the edges of swimming pools. That is the only known association with athletes and the reason for its name.” Luke’s mobile added, “You should check on the clinical status of Neil Gladwin’s feet.”
“I wish I’d thought of that,” Luke replied sarcastically. With a smile, he said, “You should check his medical records. And all the suspects’ files.”
Malc’s reaction was factual and efficient as ever. “Task logged. However, the condition is not normally serious enough to warrant medical intervention.”
“So, people treat themselves with this anti-fungal powder.”
“Correct.”
“Pity,” Luke remarked. “Search medical files anyway. Just in case.” He paused and then asked, “Did you detect the same powder around the edge of the swimming pool in the Aquatic Centre?”
“No.”
****
As soon as Luke entered the vast sports dome, Owen called out, “Hey! Who’s been using you as an archery target?” He laughed loudly.
“Very funny,” Luke replied, also unable to suppress a grin. In a way, he quite liked having wounds, now that the pain had subsided. They were a visible testament to the danger of his job. He could wear them proudly, like an athlete’s team colours.
Once Jed had stopped shouting instructions at two of the runners on the indoor track, he jogged up to Luke and Owen.
“I came to ask you about body-building drugs,” said Luke. “Do athletes still inject them?”
It was Jed who answered. “Not these days. Not unless they’re real stupid. Anabolics are too easy to detect with LAPPED. It’s all a lot more subtle now.”
“How do you mean?”
“If someone’s going to cheat, they’ll take growth hormone.”
“Growth hormone?”
Jed nodded. “Nature puts it in the body anyway so finding it isn’t enough to prove someone’s not playing fair. LAPPED looks for athletes who’ve got five to ten times the normal level, then disqualifies them. What it does is make new muscle cells. Lots of them.”
“Who supplies it?”
“Ah. Now, that’s the interesting thing.” Jed’s expression was half grimace, half grin. “They find shady pathologists who’ll extract GH from dead bodies.”
“Yuck. Really?”
Owen’s expression was all smile. “Likely, some athletes are so keen to win, they get GH from vets and inject that.”
“Not dead vets,” Jed joked. “Mainly from slaughtered pigs. It’s a silly idea because it doesn’t do anything. I don’t know why. It’s something biological – animal and human cells work different.”
“Are there any side-effects?”
“It’s dangerous,” Owen answered.
Jed filled in the details. “The muscles bulk up all right, but so do organs. Your heart can pack up. A few have died. Before it gets to that stage, you can see overgrown jaws, hands and feet.”
“Is that what Ford Drayton’s been up to?”
Jed shook his head. “It’s not like he’s got supernatural strength or anything. He’s strong enough to run at a good pace for two hours and that’s it. Nothing out of the ordinary there. It’s down to his technique, I’m sure.”
“Good coaching, then.”
“I don’t remember Yvonne Chaplow being that good,” Jed replied.
“What do you know about her?”
“Not a lot. Average coach. Very good on muscle movement, but she handles too many disciplines. Never concentrated on one thing enough to develop really special athletes.”
“Until now,” Luke remarked.
“I guess it means she’s stumbled across something.”
“When I saw her,” Luke told them, “she was desperate to keep what she was doing under wraps.”
“Two possibilities, then,” Jed replied. “It’s legal but too good to share, or it’s cheating.”
Luke smiled and nodded. “Thanks. I’ll try my luck with her again.”
****
The Gymnastics Hall within the indoor arena was not yet ready for use but it was virtually complete. Yvonne Chaplow and her most promising young gymnast – Saskia Frame – were examining the facilities, checking out the positions of the asymmetric bars, the balance beam, the vault, and the area for floor exercises. This time, the coach showed no sign of annoyance when Luke interrupted them.
“I don’t suppose this,” he said, waving an arm towards the performance area, “matches up to places in the north.”
Yvonne hesitated, probably wondering why a forensic investigator should make such a comment, before answering. “Now you mention it...”
To goad her, Luke said, “I think this regeneration thing is really good.”
“It’s got its merit. Agreed. It’s great for Hounslow, I guess. But why rely on it for an important international tournament? I mean, is it going to be ready on time? Will it cope with the visitors? We’ve got fantastic venues in Newcastle, Manchester and plenty of others. The gymnastics facilities in Bradford are the best in the world.” She shrugged to show that she was astonished by the decision to stage the events in the south. “Regenerate Hounslow by all means, but consolidate the venue first.”
Saskia Frame was tiny and as light as a feather. Luke knew that she was fourteen years old but she looked about twelve or thirteen at most. Her body was still growing, still incredibly flexible. She had draped a fluffy light blue scarf around her neck and over one shoulder. It reminded Luke that Yvonne Chaplow’s team colour was sky blue. Looking down, he was surprised to note that the young gymnast’s feet were out of proportion. They were almost as large as her coach’s. Smiling at her, he said, “I bet athlete’s foot is an occupational hazard for you.”
“Sorry?” the girl replied, puzzled by his turn of phrase.
“Do you get athlete’s foot?”
Yvonne interrupted. “Is this an official line of inquiry?”
“I’m just curious.”
“It’s not a big issue. If any of my competitors get it, I stop it spreading around straightaway. There’s a very effective powder.”
“Has anyone got it at the moment?”
Yvonne eyed him suspiciously. With her hair tied tightly back, she looked severe. “I don’t think so.”
“I guess you all have light blue socks.”
“Why do you ask?”
Luke shrugged. “It’s your team colour.”
“Actually, our socks are traditional white.”
Sensing that he wasn’t going to get any more out of her by pursuing that line of inquiry, he changed his tactics. “What’s your attitude to performance-enhancing drugs?”
Yvonne gave herself a moment to think by adjusting her position against the vault. “Look, my kids don’t use them. Never. It’s against the rules. But it’s no secret I’d like to see the regulations changed.”
“Oh?” Luke prompted.
“They don’t make sense to me. Top athletes use the best running shoes, the best equipment, the best training regime, the best nutrition. Food’s loaded with chemicals that make the body grow. That’s why everyone eats. I can’t see why performers shouldn’t use the best drugs as well. It’s just a step on from body-building food. In fact, it’s incredibly hard to tell the difference between a food and a drug at times. Food supplements fall midway between the two. There wouldn’t be the same confusion if drugs were legalized.”
Luke frowned. “A lot of them can harm, though, can’t they? Sport’s supposed to be a celebration of what the body can do, not an excuse to damage it.”
“I’ll give you that,” the trainer said. “I meant, legalize the ones that don’t do any damage. Short-term or long-term.”
“Is that Ford Drayton’s secret?”
Offended, Yvonne stared at him. “I told you. My athletes don’t do drugs. I don’t agree with the rules, but I don’t break them.”
“Some people are saying...”
She interrupted. “They’re wrong. He’s clean. Always has been. LAPPED has shown that.”
“What’s his secret, then? You didn’t want me to see when I gate-crashed your training session on Friday – by accident.”
Yvonne’s mood darkened even more. “I’m asking again. Are you investigating us?”
“In a way. And it’s against the law not to answer my questions.”
Saskia wandered round the vault and then strolled over to check out the asymmetric bars. She sneezed twice and the noise seemed far too loud for the size of the girl.
Yvonne took a deep breath, apparently trying to stay calm. “Okay. It’s all fair and above-board. It’s all about his running shoes. They’re a new type.”
“Go on.”
“We got a machine to make an exact model of his feet by scanning them with a laser. It’s all digital. Then we got him to walk, run and exercise on a special insole called a pedar. It records all the forces acting on every part of the feet. With all that data, a computer can work out the perfect design of shoe to fit his running style and protect his feet from injury.” She shrugged. “That’s it. Not against the rules and not a drug in sight.”
“Mmm. Tailor-made running shoes. How are they made?”
“That’s hi-tech as well. A computer sort-of prints them out. I’m not the expert but a laser beam blasts away at nylon particles and fuses them together. That way, it builds up the precise shape layer-by-layer. It’s like printing, but in three-dimensions. You end up with a flawless lightweight shoe.”
Luke nodded. He was surprised at Yvonne Chaplow’s transformation from quarrelsome and cagey coach to talkative trainer. It was as if she’d decided to let on about one advance to hide something else. “Interesting,” he said. “Is that all?”
