The Third Breath

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Cyril listened to the explanation. “So you’ve interviewed his partner? What about the other businesses, didn’t you say that he had three? What about the CAA medical report… has the coroner also asked for that to be checked by Caner and his GP medical records?” He sipped his tea as he listened to the responses.

  “Early start. Brief me tomorrow at 7.30am, and I want Richmond and Smirthwaite there also. You said he was checking finances, yes? Good. See you in the morning. And Owen, have ANPR records been checked for Stephens’s car?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cyril could tell from Owen’s tone that there was some doubt in his mind as to whether the death was from natural causes. However, unless he had proof and hard facts natural causes would be the outcome. Cyril felt an excitement at returning to work. “Castle Greyskull indeed!” he said quietly and smiled. He somehow felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  6

  It was with some relief that Cyril turned out of the passageway linking Robert Street with West Park; it was always a conduit for a cold draught of air even in the summer months. Crossing the road, he suddenly felt the early morning warmth. It would be good to get back to work and clear his head of the domestic complexities that had plagued him for the last few weeks. Even after being away a relatively short time, being back in Harrogate felt like the cure-all that he needed, its security and familiarity and Julie.

  He turned to look at the spire of Trinity Church, a grey obelisk set within a verdant sea made up of the many trees that surrounded and edged The Stray; all seemed to be competing for his attention. A car horn sounded and a hand waved as the vehicle slowed and the driver smiled. Cyril suddenly felt as though he were home and safe, a feeling that persisted when he reached the station. He received a warm welcome upon signing in, and slipped the security ID lanyard over his head before approaching his office.

  Owen knew immediately to whom the shoes belonged to as they appeared and crossed the room while he groped on the floor beneath his desk; it was the shine and the neatly tied laces.

  “Morning, Owen. In search of the truth or merely looking for inspiration down there amidst the detritus of your everyday life?”

  Owen’s head popped up like that of a prairie dog emerging from a hole, a huge smile of success on his face.

  “Morning, sir. Dropped my mint ball when I squeezed it from the packet.” He grinned before blowing on the retrieved sweet and popping it into his mouth. “Search and thou shall find, my gran always said.”

  “Some things don’t change, Owen, we’ve to be grateful for that. One day, I’ll wager, I’ll come to work and find that you’ve contracted the Black bloody Death. My office in ten and please don’t forget to bring Richmond and Smirthwaite with you.”

  “Meant to tell you on the phone that Caner sends his condolences.”

  Cyril simply smiled. “And was he amazed that I wasn’t born in God’s own county, Owen?”

  “Funny that. We both were to be honest.”

  “You can never judge a book by its cover and sometimes neither can you judge it by its contents! My office…” He looked at his watch. “In eight.”

  “Never did like books,” Owen mumbled as he went in search of April.

  Owen presented his causes for concern about the irregularities in the case but quickly admitted that he was reacting purely on his instincts. He had looked across at April before mentioning the need to commit resources to ensure that David Stephens’s death was not through foul play. Cyril had simply nodded.

  The evidence suggested there had appeared to be nothing untoward in Stephens’s relationship with his business partner and, according to Smirthwaite, all the financial and business dealings appeared to be above board. There was debt, but that was managed through business loans and mortgages. The family home was owned outright. It was difficult to ascertain the amount of savings Stephens and his family held but it could be assumed by his lifestyle that he was a very wealthy man.

  Questions were asked about his ability to sustain such a lavish lifestyle. It was evident that although the businesses were performing well, it was questionable as to whether they were healthy enough to support a helicopter and a personal aircraft. There was, at this stage, a belief that a good deal of his wealth was through inheritance.

  “His wife?” Cyril rolled the electronic cigarette along his lower lip.

  “Originally worked in the business but stopped when the children reached school age. The son is presently on holiday from Nottingham University; he’s studying sciences. For some reason he wants to be a teacher.” It was the inflection in Owen’s voice that made Cyril sit up.

  “Does that not seem right to you, Owen? It’s a good profession for anyone to take. It’s a vocation.”

  “You’d think he’d follow his father. He’s seen what rewards are to be had and… Well, you would wouldn’t you… it’s there on a plate.”

  It was April who answered with an astute observation. “He might also have seen the long anti-social hours that could have had a direct impact on family life, seen the effect on his father’s health and maybe, just maybe, he’s seen a part of life that at this moment is hidden from plain sight. He could be the wise one. The daughter doesn’t seem to have an interest in the business either. She’s a model and trying to break into acting.”

  “I believe Caner’s convinced that it’s natural causes?” Cyril questioned, knowing the answer but wanting to hear Owen say so.

  “To quote Caner, sir.” Owen shuffled his notes until he found the page. “I don’t work on gut feelings or whether a pinecone is open or closed. As a pathologist I work on facts. I make judgements based on hard facts, indisputable, medical evidence that after years of training and many more years’ experience this profession has bestowed on me. What I write, Owen, is what I see and understand and not what might or might not have happened; fact and not fiction… I do not make things up. The word ‘pathology’ comes from the Greek meaning ‘the science of disease’. Science is the key and you, young man, as an officer of the law, should be mindful of that! I felt like a child getting a bollocking. Christ, I even made myself stand in the corner for fifteen minutes afterwards.” He grinned and winked at Cyril.

  “Evidence on the glass?”

  “They’re working on it. Should have it by late today,” April answered.

  “The drugs, granted not much but surely that counts?”

  “Owen, if we arrested everyone who tested positive for drugs we wouldn’t have enough courts or prisons. We live, sadly, in different times. ANPR records?”

  “From what we saw he came straight into Harrogate or let’s say that his car did.”

  “So we accept an open verdict because of some rogue readings within the blood samples taken from the brain showing rapid death through oxygen starvation… structural neural changes of hypoxia… to do with the rapid rate of death?” Cyril paused and looked up at each officer in turn. “Clear as mud but I know just the person to help me understand that mud.”

  Within the hour, Cyril was shown to Julie’s office and was informed that she would see him in five minutes. He waited for the secretary to leave before walking round the room like a penniless child in a sweet shop. No matter how many visits he made, the objects that were either floating in some kind of liquid within sealed glass jars or standing on one of the many dusty shelves always intrigued. The one that caught his eye on this occasion was on Julie’s desk and seemed, from a glance, to be quite ancient. A yellowing, hand-written label in fine copperplate Latin script was attached to the lower part. Inside the glass was a head; the face had suffered severe damage to the eye socket, nose and mouth. There was a large cavity where those parts of the face should have been. He was about to pick it up when Julie entered.

  “You coppers can leave nothing alone! If you touch that I wouldn’t go to the toilet without washing your hands.” She bent and kissed his cheek. “The damage you see there is a result of syphilis, Cyril.”

  S
he watched as he moved away and looked as Cyril wiped his hands on his trousers. The look on his face said it all.

  “I’m giving a talk to some college students and these exhibits tend to grab their attention. I’ve borrowed it. Now, let’s focus on what you came here for. Caner’s report is sound; I’d have come to the same conclusion. I can, however, see why there is a slight diagnostic anomaly. Caner found evidence of neural hypoxia prior to death. That means that the more rapid the death, the more changes can be seen. This is because sudden death occurs while life functions including enzyme activities are operating to the fullest. It’s to do with the neural changes in relation to the duration of the agonal period.”

  It was evident from Cyril’s face that he was struggling to understand. “Think of the agonal period as the short time during a person’s last breaths or in some cases, the last gasps a dying person takes. This is a result of inadequate oxygen supply to tissue or total lack of oxygen. If that’s the case, Cyril, it is then termed anoxia, it’s complex but it’s to do with the destruction of the cells through the action of their own enzymes. A heart attack can show the same results.”

  He scanned the notes she had handed to him.

  “Keep them. You owe me dinner.”

  He smiled. “Always a pleasure, Doctor.”

  “May I bring my friend?” She pointed to the specimen jar containing the head.

  Cyril looked down at his hands and said nothing.

  Staff at the Bauhaus bar busied themselves cleaning and preparing for the lunchtime trade. Paul Ashton moved behind the counter and then into the back storeroom where he found Carla, the manageress. She was taking a quick stock check. He started to move a number of boxes.

  “Lost something?” She didn’t give him time to answer. “With the death of Mr Stephens is this place still viable? What the staff really wants to know is, are our jobs safe or should we all be looking for new ones, Paul? If you don’t mind my saying so, we know that you were walking a financial tightrope before he came along… sorry… but we’re all concerned about our future prospects here.”

  He stopped his search and dragged a large cardboard box to the centre of the room, suddenly noticing the item for which he had been searching. They both sat on the box.

  “You’re right and I hold my hands up. Spent too much on the place in the first instance and really took my eye off the market. If it helps, I’ve had a word with David’s family, and things will continue just as they are for the immediate future. Mrs Stephens has spoken to her accountant and they believe the business to be viable. We’ll be continuing as before. I’m confident we can make a go of it; you just have to trust me. Providing we all do our jobs, there should be nothing to worry about. Happy?”

  Carla smiled. “That’s a relief what with my new flat.”

  Paul put his hand on her arm. “Everything will be fine. If you hadn’t asked I wouldn’t have moved the box and found that.”

  “My mother used to say that my father always did a man look, not too thorough!” Carla giggled putting her hand to her mouth. “Thanks!”

  Paul picked up the blue pot-bellied steel flask and returned to the bar.

  7

  The electric garage door slowly and quietly rolled up and the Jaguar F-Type moved onto the large parking area, set well away from the main house, the exhaust bark breaking the relative silence. Jonathan Stephens climbed out leaving the car rumbling on tick over and walked round the car. It had been his father’s latest pride and joy but then all his father’s cars were special when they were new but his interest soon waned. Usually within months he would be yearning for something else. It wasn’t only cars either. He knew his father had a roving eye and the family had faced some emotionally difficult times. Things would be different, for according to his mother the car was now his and he was, for the time being at least, the male head of the family.

  He turned and pressed another keypad. A second larger garage-style door opened to reveal the small Robinson 22 helicopter, also painted blue. He and his sister had been two of the youngest helicopter pilots in Britain qualifying just after their seventeenth birthdays. He pressed the button for a second time and the hangar door closed.

  He ran his hand over the car’s roof affectionately before opening the Jaguar’s door. It was then that he felt as though someone was watching him. Looking around, Jonathan let his eyes scan the hedges and trees that lined the garden periphery and then the drive. There was nothing. He tapped the car and smiled before climbing in. The engine revved and the rear wheels spewed loose gravel that clattered under the wheel arches as they churned the driveway. From the bridle path that ran alongside the house, a solitary figure emerged and watched the Jaguar speed away before hands moved towards the hooded, covered face.

  “A watched kettle never boils, Mum used to say.” The words tumbled from Carla’s lips in an attempt to reassure herself as she walked down Victoria Avenue towards the entrance to the Harrogate public library. Checking her watch she was disappointed to see that her forty-five minute break was slowly eroding. She had looked at all the parked cars on both sides of the road, hoping her boyfriend had found a parking spot but his car was nowhere to be seen. He was never late. Had she looked more carefully she would have noticed that she was not the only person impatiently scanning both sides of the road.

  A horn blasted, causing a few pigeons to scatter from one of the nearby buildings. Both anxious observers turned in the direction of the horn. Carla chuckled and ran towards the black VW that had clearly seen better days. As she approached, her boyfriend pushed open the passenger door and she quickly jumped in to be met with a smile and the aroma of fried chicken.

  “Sorry, lovely, late with traffic.” He leaned over and kissed her. “Let’s find somewhere to park and eat. I’ll drop you back at the Bauhaus on time, don’t worry, unless of course you get carried away and have wicked plans!”

  She slapped his thigh as the car accelerated. “I need food,” she whispered. “Food!” She exaggerated the vowel sound.

  The person across the road had watched the whole street drama unfold. For some inexplicable reason it had brought a smile to his face but he turned to concentrate on the other cars coming and going. He rested his large rucksack on the pavement, lodging it carefully against his legs. It was getting heavy. He checked his watch again. The car for which he waited was normally parked at this time. Maybe, like the VW, it too was delayed by traffic or an accident. He would wait another hour and if it had not arrived by then he would try again the next day.

  It would be another forty minutes before his patience was rewarded. The Volvo approached and parked in the central area of Victoria Avenue; it was one of the few roads in Harrogate that allowed parking on either side and along the centre. The driver climbed from the vehicle, collecting his jacket and bag.

  The observer approached quickly removing a simple handheld jamming device from his pocket. Even though the driver had walked away from his car believing it would automatically lock with the press of his thumb, the signal had been blocked, the car remained unlocked.

  Within minutes of the driver leaving, and in broad daylight, the observer opened the driver’s door, found the vehicle’s diagnostics board and downloaded the key code to a blank key fob. His research had been accurate and it had proved to be a simple and quick procedure. The passing vehicles neither distracted him nor caused concern.

  On completion, the door was closed and as he walked away from the vehicle he turned to see the lights flash once as his thumb hit the button on the remote key fob. The initial stage of the job was completed. He checked his watch. If Bill Baines, the owner of the Volvo, were to keep to his normal timetable, something he had just failed to do, he would not be returning to the car until 6pm.

  After putting the fob into his pocket, the observer rubbed his hands and blew onto them before moving towards the library. The object held securely within the rucksack would be placed in the car a little later. He could spend his early afternoon enjoying
peace, quiet and a good book. Later, however, would be reserved for a far more guilty pleasure. He just needed to calculate the timing of his next deposit accurately.

  At 5.45pm, Bill Baines, the Volvo’s owner, left his office after packing some files and his laptop into a briefcase. He glanced out through the office window onto Victoria Avenue. The sun still cast dappled shadows and it appeared warm. Already sitting securely just behind the passenger seat of his car was a quilt-wrapped flask. The safety latch had been released, the lid fully opened. The car doors were locked. The observer waited a safe distance away.

  It had been three hours since he had pressed the key to release the lid and he had walked past to ensure that everything was as it should be. It was. This was the crucial stage.

  Cyril checked his watch; 5.50pm. The day had been relatively mundane. The mountain of paperwork seemed to have grown in direct proportion to the amount of time he had been away from his desk, making him question when the promised paperless workplace would arrive. Somehow, however, staring at the small forest of files, he knew, like flying cars and ray-guns, it would not be any time soon. He was relieved to see six o’clock come round.

  The day ended with his usual, some said anal, desk tidying routine. Unplugging the charging electronic cigarette that dangled from the wall socket like a dead rodent, he popped it into his top pocket. Owen had left an hour earlier and the office area seemed quiet. The glow from one of the computer screens was clearly visible illuminating April Richmond’s face with a ghostly blue-white glow.

  A gloved hand carefully opened the passenger side door of the Volvo as wide as possible. The collapsed body of Bill Baines was visible, his head resting across the gear lever, eyes vacantly staring into the foot well, his upper torso contorted over the central arm rest. Leaning in, the observer moved the back of the passenger seat forward as he had done earlier and grabbed the padded flask. He left the door slightly ajar before walking round to the driver’s side. He opened the door a fraction and turned to leave.