by DS Butler
“And what sort of noise was it?” PC Jones asked with her pencil poised above her notebook.
“Shouting, a man’s voice. He sounded very distressed, as if he was pleading for something.”
“A man’s voice?” PC Jones lowered her pencil. Her shoulders sagged.
PC Allan knew exactly what PC Jones was thinking. They had probably been dragged out here to investigate a man cheering an Olympic event on television. Still, it had to be checked out.
“It seems quiet enough now,” PC Jones said.
“Yes,” Barbara Stanley said. “I haven’t heard another peep out of him.”
PC Jones flipped shut her notebook, not even trying to hide her annoyance. But PC Allan wasn’t annoyed. He liked the old lady, and it wasn’t just because she’d given them tea and biscuits.
“We’ll look into it now,” he said, putting his cup and saucer back on the tray. “Do you know which flat the noise came from?”
“I’m pretty sure it was coming from the flat opposite me. A young man lives there. But I’m afraid I don’t know his name. It’s not like it used to be around here. When I moved here forty years ago, I knew every single one of my neighbours.”
PC Allan got a sudden whiff of an unpleasant odour. It smelled like the drains were bad. He tried not to wrinkle his nose. He didn’t like to mention it. The flat was spotless. The carpet had Hoover lines, and the polished surface of the coffee table gleamed. He presumed the smell was coming from outside.
As Mrs. Stanley took them to the front door, the smell seemed to get stronger. Mrs. Stanley gave a little cough.
“My goodness. I don’t know what that smell is. It’s not normally like that,” she said, looking embarrassed.
She opened her front door and then pointed across the hall to a blue door. “It’s that one. I’m sure the noise came from there.”
She reached for the glasses that were hanging on a chain around her neck and perched them on the bridge of her nose. “Oh, that’s very odd.” She squinted across the hallway.
PC Allan followed her line of sight. There was a white notice stuck to the door. He frowned. That hadn’t been there when they arrived. At least, he didn’t think so. He looked back at PC Jones, who looked as concerned as he did.
His heart was thumping as he made his way across the corridor. He wasn’t close enough to read the scrawled writing, but he already knew it was bad.
Even from Mrs. Stanley’s doorway, he could see the skull and crossbones clearly.
PC Allan suppressed a shiver as he read the note.
He turned quickly. “We need to evacuate the building.”
“Oh, my.” Mrs. Stanley raised a hand to her mouth. “But what about Mr. Cecil?”
“Mr. Cecil?” PC Jones frowned. “Who is that?”
“My cat,” Mrs. Stanley said as if it should be obvious. “I can’t leave him.”
“Bring your cat. Be as quick as you can and get outside. I’m going to tell the other residents.” PC Allan began to walk towards the stairwell. “I’ll meet you outside and explain further.”
PC Jones nodded. “I’ll call it in.”
When he was sure all the flats were empty and all the residents were standing outside, PC Allan decided to take a look around the side of the building.
As the flat was on the ground floor, theoretically he should be able to peer in through the windows.
Leaving PC Jones to look after the residents and field their questions, he headed for the dark alleyway that ran along the side of the building. Soon the emergency services would be here along with someone more senior to take charge. He needed to get a better idea of what was happening. Perhaps they would need to evacuate the other blocks of flats in the area, too. It was hard to make a decision when he didn’t really know what he was dealing with.
He walked across the flowerbed, zigzagging his way through the shrubs. He squeezed past a prickly bush and snagged his shirt. After he’d freed himself from the thorny branch he walked slowly to the back of the building.
By his calculations, if the flat was the same as Mrs. Stanley’s, the window at the back should look into the sitting room.
His stomach flipped over as he saw another note propped up on the inside of the window, identical to the one on the front door. The same skull and crossbones. The same “DANGER. KEEP OUT” printed in capital letters.
The windows were double glazed, but despite that, he thought he could still smell that awful rotten stench. He knew what it was now. He’d been told about it during training a couple of years ago. Hydrogen sulphide gave off a characteristic smell of rotten eggs.
It was probably a suicide.
He took a step back from the window, and then a horrible thought crept inside his mind. What if the owner of the flat was still alive?
What if he could save him?
PC Allan moved closer to the window, leaning his forehead against the cold glass. The lights were on inside the flat, but he couldn’t see anything. The light from the television flickered, giving the domestic scene an eerie feel.
His breath was steaming up the glass.
He wiped away the fog with the sleeve of his jumper and looked again. His eyes searched the room. There was a half-eaten takeaway burger on the coffee table. A brown, tatty sofa sat back against one wall.
Then he saw the body.
It was mostly hidden by the sofa. PC Allan swallowed. All his training had taught him not to enter the scene unprotected. The specialist team would be here soon.
In the distance, sirens sounded. PC Allan ran back around the side of the building, ready to tell the team the location of the victim. But he had a horrible feeling they were too late.
17
EVIE CHARLESWORTH SAT AT her desk at seven a.m. the following morning, cradling a cup of coffee, steaming hot, black with one sugar, just the way she liked it.
She squinted at the Excel spreadsheet on her screen. She was happy to work with whichever system the senior investigating officer was comfortable with, and DCI Brookbank liked Excel.
Personally, she preferred i2 charts. But in her job she needed to be flexible.
She scanned the columns on the spreadsheet. Each column had its own heading – date, time, location, victim age, victim occupation, known associates and so on.
They had set up a timeline of the event and a family tree for the victim. As most of Syed Hammad’s family lived in Pakistan that hadn’t been easy. Most of the information in the timeline had come from interviews of the people in the shops either side of Syed Hammad’s newsagent’s. This morning, Evie had to work on the victimology and try to tease out threads of associations. Although they didn’t have any suspects identified, and Syed Hammad’s death was still being treated as a suicide, it was still essential to identify who else had been there at the time.
Yesterday, she’d been working through Syed Hammad’s phone records, trying to cross reference the numbers and draw up an association chart, but so far she hadn’t found any link between Syed Hammad and the youngsters who had been found in the shop.
Perhaps when they’d managed to identify the rest of the gang of youths from the CCTV or old-fashioned questioning, she might have more luck. It would certainly make her analysis easier. Evie sighed and took a sip of her coffee. She could do with a bit of luck.
She checked her watch. She didn’t have long until the morning briefing.
Evie was required to attend the morning and evening briefings, and it was her job to keep the charts updated so the senior investigating officer always had the most up-to-date information to hand. Luckily so far, Brookbank was proving to be relatively forward thinking. Evie didn’t think she would have any trouble with him. On her last case, she had worked with an older SIO, and she’d left that job feeling demoralised. Unfortunately, some people still viewed analysts as paper pushers, and were reluctant to use them to their full potential.
An analyst’s role was so much more than typing and displaying pretty charts. When analysts were us
ed to their full capacity, they helped to steer and direct the inquiry.
Evie heard a low whistle from the desk directly behind her. She turned around.
The Holmes indexer, Emmie Foxall, gestured for her to come over. “Evie, take a look at this.”
Evie wheeled her chair towards Emmie’s desk, and Emmie shuffled along so that Evie could see the screen.
“Have a look at this, Evie. What do you make of it?” Emmie grinned and took a sip of coffee from her yellow Tweetie Pie mug.
Evie moved closer to the computer screen. Small details unearthed during the course of an investigation could change the whole direction of the case. It wasn’t all about getting a list of suspects. The details formed the fabric of the case and were essential for a successful prosecution.
Evie stared at the screen. “Another suicide. The same method. The same gas.”
Evie stood up, her coffee forgotten. “The DCI needs to hear this. Right now.”
18
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, MACKINNON arrived at Wood Street. He filed into the major incident room with the rest of the team, and immediately saw that DCI Brookbank would be heading this one.
The DCI shuffled through his notes at the front of the room. DI Tyler leaned on the desk beside him, looking like he was trying to attract the DCI’s attention.
Charlotte walked into the room, yawning. Followed by DC Webb, with his hair perfectly gelled, obviously trying out a new style. He had to be almost forty, but there was something about him that gave him the appearance of youth. Although that was probably more to do with his personality than his looks.
DC Collins was the last member of MIT to enter the room. He sat down in a chair beside Mackinnon. “I’ve not missed anything yet then?”
Mackinnon shook his head. “Not started yet.”
“There’s something big going down apparently,” Collins said. “Something they’ve picked up from Holmes.”
DCI Brookbank cleared his throat and looked up from his notes. “Right then,” he said and cracked his knuckles. “Let’s get started. First up, we have some new information. There has been another suicide involving hydrogen sulphide at a flat on the Towers Estate.”
DCI Brookbank paused, but the room was silent.
“There was only one casualty, the suicide victim, Craig Foster. All the other residents in Bexley House were evacuated.” Brookbank tapped a key on his laptop, and the screen behind him flickered as the suicide note was projected onto its white surface.
DC Webb whistled, but no one said anything for a few moments. They were all struggling to make sense of it.
The suicide note was exactly the same, word for word, as the one found on Syed Hammad’s body.
“It’s important to remember,” Tyler said. “This doesn’t necessarily mean… That is to say, we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.” He met Mackinnon’s gaze.
Tyler stood up and turned to face the rest of the team. “DC Webb has been looking into it, and he’s found suicide kits freely available on the Internet. Signs, instructions and notes that people can print off and use.”
Everyone’s attention focused on DC Webb, who looked slightly uncomfortable. “Ah, yes. There are. Ready-made suicide notes.”
“That’s a little ghoulish,” Charlotte said.
“As far as I can tell,” DC Webb said, “they seem to be doing a roaring trade. Exit hoods, step-by-step instructions. Anything a suicidal punter could want.”
“That’s sick.” Charlotte’s voice was sharp.
DC Webb shrugged. “It takes all sorts.”
“And if this isn’t a suicide?” Mackinnon asked.
DCI Brookbank didn’t reply. He exhaled heavily and stared back at his team, seemingly expecting one of them to come up with the answer.
“It doesn’t add up,” the DCI said finally.
Tyler spoke up, “Look, let’s not get carried away. We know you can get all types of copycats. These things can be almost contagious. They happen in clusters.”
“But that usually happens among people of the same age group, people who have something in common,” Mackinnon said. “What does Syed Hammad have in common with the victim from last night?”
Tyler threw up his hands. “That’s what we have to find out. We’ve still got to work out the victimology. There’s no link to Syed Hammad so far, but that doesn’t mean we won’t find one if we look closely enough.”
“Maybe they were both members of one of these Internet forums,” Collins said. “That’s got to be worth looking into.”
DCI Brookbank nodded. “Craig Foster had a laptop. We’ll find out what sites he visited and what, if any, Internet forums he posted on.”
“DC Brown.” DCI Brookbank turned to face Charlotte. “I’d like you to go to the hospital today. We need to question Vinnie Pearson and Robbie Baxter as soon as possible.”
Charlotte nodded.
Mackinnon didn’t envy Charlotte that task. Robbie Baxter may only have been fourteen, but they’d had dealings with his family in the past. Both of his older brothers were serving time for armed robbery, and his mother had a particular hatred of the police.
As Brookbank continued with the briefing, Mackinnon wrote Craig Foster’s name and Syed Hammad’s name on a piece of paper, with a line linking the two. Was it really possible both deaths were suicide? Two deaths from hydrogen sulphide inhalation in the same week? Could it be a coincidence?
He didn’t think so. There had to be a link. They just needed to find it.
19
AFTER THE BRIEFING, DC Charlotte Brown spent the rest of the morning at the hospital, getting absolutely nowhere. Every single doctor she spoke to told her the same thing. Neither Vinnie Pearson nor Robbie Baxter was up to answering any questions.
She hadn’t managed to catch a glimpse of Robbie yet, but Vinnie Pearson looked in perfect health in her opinion. He had even given her a cheeky smirk as she stood in the doorway to the ward. A scary-looking junior sister, with a hairy mole on her chin, had blocked her path. Charlotte had pleaded for just a couple of minutes, but the sister had crossed her arms and shook her head. She was adamant that Vinnie did not want to talk to the police at the moment, and the doctor had said he wasn’t strong enough for questioning.
He looked strong enough to Charlotte. He was strong enough to laugh and give a regal wave when the nurse had sent Charlotte packing.
Charlotte insisted the junior sister call the doctor, but he was unreachable, apparently. He was probably playing golf somewhere with one of the surgeons.
Even though she hadn’t managed to talk to Vinnie, his condition cheered her. Medically, he would be fit for questioning soon and there wouldn’t be anything he could do to get out of it then.
She couldn’t believe the cheeky bugger had waved to her as the junior sister ushered her out of the ward. His laughter followed her all the way down the corridor. It was hard to imagine someone who laughed that much had tried to take his own life.
Charlotte should probably have given up and gone back to the station, but she still held out a little hope. She asked one of the nurses to contact Dr. Sorensen. Dr. Sorensen had been very helpful on a previous case involving contaminated heroin in the area, and Charlotte hoped she might be able to help her out a little bit here, too.
She was in luck. Dr. Sorensen was on duty, and within ten minutes, she was striding along the corridor toward Charlotte. A flicker of recognition passed over her face.
“Dr. Sorensen, I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m DC Charlotte Brown,” Charlotte said.
Dr. Sorensen nodded. “Of course. Sorry to keep you waiting.” The doctor rubbed at the creases in her forehead. “It’s been a busy morning. We’ve been trying to patch up a man who jumped off a roof.”
“Suicide attempt?”
“No. I don’t think so. He was high at the time. Apparently he told his friends he was going to fly to Battersea.”
As Dr. Sorensen delivered her words with a straight face, Charlotte wasn’t quite su
re how to respond. Luckily she didn’t have to as Dr. Sorensen continued, “What can I help you with today?”
“Two young males were brought in with hydrogen sulphide poisoning.”
“I heard about that. Do you know how it happened?”
“We’re still looking into it,” Charlotte said. “At the moment, it’s looking like a suicide and the kids got exposed accidentally. Wrong place, wrong time.”
Dr. Sorensen nodded. “Not a very nice way to go. We had a memo on hydrogen sulphide suicides issued about a year ago. Everyone thought it could become very common. From what I’ve read, there have been a few cases in the US, but it’s very rare here.”
Charlotte stepped to the side, moving out of the way of a cleaner who slopped a mop along the hallway, humming to herself.
“Well, Vinnie Pearson appears to be getting better, although apparently he isn’t strong enough for questioning yet. I’ve just seen him and he looks pretty energetic to me.” Charlotte pulled a face. “Do you know how Robbie Baxter is getting along?”
“No, but I can find out,” Dr. Sorensen said and headed inside the ward to speak to the nurse at the nurses’ station.
As Dr. Sorensen spoke to the nurse in a low voice, Charlotte looked anxiously round for the junior sister. She didn’t want to get Dr. Sorensen in trouble. She probably should have mentioned the fact that Robbie Baxter’s doctor had said he wasn’t up to talking to the police yet. But Charlotte only wanted to see him. She was quite prepared to wait to ask her questions. She just hoped that wait wouldn’t be very long.
Dr. Sorensen returned from the nurses’ station and said, “He’s in the next ward along. Linden Ward.” She began to walk down the corridor. “This way. I’ll show you.”
As Charlotte followed her, Dr. Sorensen said, “Robbie’s mother is around somewhere. She’s probably just gone to get a cup of coffee. She’s been here all the time. They have arranged accommodation for her in the nurses’ block, but I don’t think she has used it.”
