Deadly Motive

by DS Butler

  Finally, he placed his oyster card next to the sensor, passed through the ticket barrier, and continued on to the exit. As he passed, he glanced at the London dragons – or were they griffins? Their teeth bared and clutching shields of St. George; they were there to ward off evil and guard the City of London.

  Whoever designed the dragons had given them fearsome talons and snarling mouths; they looked impressive. Shame they didn’t have a couple of real dragons in reserve, but then he supposed the dragons would probably be muzzled and have their claws clipped as part of a health and safety initiative.

  It was easy to moan about the bad side to modern policing, with all of its red tape and new directives issued almost every day, but when they had a successful case, it made him forget the bad stuff. The successes made it easier to forget the cases dropped by the CPS for lack of evidence, or the cases where you knew a youngster was destined for a life a crime.

  The MIT had a good success rate so far. A relatively new team, it was introduced in 2008 as part of the forces response to changes in the area. The City, crammed with financial institutions, used to be full to the brim until six pm. After six, when the City workers went home, it was deserted. For a long time the cafes and bars didn’t even open in the evenings.

  In those days, much of the crime involved fraud and some tourist-targeted theft. Now, as the City tried to compete with the likes of Canary Wharf, with its night culture of restaurants and bars, the City had seen a dramatic rise in the amount of alcohol and drug-fuelled crime, and the police force had adapted to cope, hence the formation of the MIT.

  Mackinnon climbed up the steps to exit Bank Station and looked towards the impressive structure of the Bank of England. He took a couple of deep gulps of air at the surface, which despite the traffic, was fresher than the air underground.

  Truthfully, he couldn’t imagine working anywhere else.

  Mackinnon walked along Gresham Street and passed a newspaper stall displaying papers with a photograph of a Labour MP splashed across the front pages. The MP had been caught visiting prostitutes.

  Gossip sells, Mackinnon thought with a shudder. He remembered the fight with DC Brookbank and hoped people weren’t still talking about it at the station.

  10

  Sean reached the coffee shop before Natasha. He ordered a latte and sat at a table outside because he knew Natasha would insist on it. She was a smoker, and as she had arranged to meet him during her break, she wouldn’t want to miss out on her cigarette.

  Natasha reached the cafe shortly after Sean took the first sip of his latte. She nodded, took off her coat and sat down on one of the cheap metal chairs opposite him.

  “Aren’t you cold?” Sean asked.

  “I’m boiling. Practically ran all the way. I only get fifteen minutes, you know.” She pulled a packet of cigarettes out of her coat pocket, hung the coat over the back of her chair and sat back to look at him. A smile played on her lips.

  “You said you had some information I’d be interested in?” Sean said.

  “Oh, you’ll be interested, all right.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively and then lit her cigarette.

  He had forgotten how annoying she could be. “I thought you only had fifteen minutes?”

  She looked at her watch. “Only ten left now.”

  Natasha turned to the woman who had appeared at her elbow, asking her what she would like to drink. She ordered a black coffee, all the while holding onto that maddening smile.

  She wanted Sean to beg for the information.

  He waited until the waitress had gone, then said, “Okay, so what do you have for me? I could do with a good story.” He smiled at her, hoping she couldn’t sense his irritation.

  She exhaled and the cigarette smoke wrapped around her head. “Oh, it’s good.”

  She leaned forward and he mirrored her posture, trying not to cough as he breathed in her smoke.

  She took another quick drag on the cigarette, then said, “A man was admitted to St. Bart’s today, his name’s John Weston. He’s some big financial guy, a science investor or something like that.”

  She smiled at him, looking pleased with herself. “But that isn’t the best part.” She lowered her voice and closed the gap between them. “The really interesting bit is that the toxicologist reckons he’s been poisoned.”

  Sean nodded; the name Weston sounded familiar, but he wasn’t sure why. He would have to look it up when he got back to the office.

  “Are the police involved? Do they have any idea what the poison is?”

  She shook her head at his questions. “The police are involved. Of course they are, but the really interesting thing is the toxicologist thinks he may have been poisoned using aconite. Last year, a woman poisoned two people putting aconite in curry, and this toxicologist worked on the case. He thinks Weston was poisoned with the same thing.”

  Sean nodded again, and pulled out his notebook and pen. He remembered the case, although it wasn’t one he had written about. “Do the police have any suspects?”

  She screwed up her eyes and stubbed out her cigarette just as the waitress delivered her coffee. She thanked her and then turned back to Sean, “How would I know? Ask them yourself.” Her lower lip jutted out. “It is a big story. The hospital’s trying to keep it quiet. I thought you’d be pleased that I got you the information first.”

  “I am. Of course, I am. I’m really interested; that’s why I asked if you’d heard anything about suspects. I mean, you’re observant, you notice things.”

  She blew over the top of her coffee mug. “Well, I did hear something. I’m not sure if it’s reliable information though.”

  Sean waited.

  “There’s a police officer stationed outside John Weston’s room and I heard him talking to the toxicologist. He said Weston had been targeted once before by an animal rights group.”

  Sean took a moment to think and winced as he watched Natasha gulp down the rest of her, still steaming, coffee.

  “Anyway, I have to get back. You’ll get these?” she asked, gesturing at her empty coffee cup on the table.

  Sean agreed and promised to call and arrange a dinner date soon. After she left, he stayed sitting at the table for a few minutes. He thought over what she had told him and wondered if there could be a story in it.

  *

  Back at the office, Sean printed off all the articles he could trace on the poison curry incident, the description of the aconite poison from the Kew Gardens website and all the information he could find on John Weston.

  He planned to take everything back home with him to see if he could work it into a story.

  Just as he stood up from his desk, Max poked his head around the cubicle, with a smile hovering over his lips that didn’t quite take hold.

  Sean shoved the printed papers into the bottom drawer of his desk.

  “Sean, have you seen today’s copy?” Max asked, obviously trying to keep his tone upbeat.

  Sean glared at him, hoping to convey just how pissed off he really felt. He sat back down, folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair.

  “Yup, I did.”

  Max cleared his throat. “I know it must seem like a kick in the teeth... I did ask them to put your name on the byline too.”

  Sean stared at him. “So you knew they were going to press with the story and didn’t mention it?”

  Max sighed. He probably thought Sean was making a fuss over nothing. Max’s gaze drifted down to the bottom drawer of Sean’s desk. “What have you got there?”

  Sean looked down. The drawer was still open a crack. He slammed it shut. “Nothing.”

  Max held up his hands, “I know you’re angry...”

  “I’ll live. Now, if you don’t mind, Max, I am kind of busy here.” Sean gestured to his computer screen, and then flushed when he noticed it was switched off.

  “Are you sure you’re all right? You look a bit preoccupied.”

  Sean kept his head down, focused on the task
of shuffling through the Rolodex on his desk. “I’m fine.”

  Max nodded and walked with his hands in his pockets back to his office.

  As soon as Max was out of sight, Sean looked around the open plan office to make sure no one was watching, pulled open the bottom drawer and grinned.

  His luck was improving.

  Sean was home by three pm. He switched on his computer, and while he waited for it to boot up, he grabbed a can of lager from the fridge.

  He spent the train journey home studying the printouts and discovered that John Weston was a serious investor, who preferred to invest his money in small scientific developments and biotech start-up companies.

  Sean could only find one account of Weston’s run-in with animal rights campaigners. The account described how the group, called Freedom for Animals, poured red paint on Weston’s car, sprayed graffiti on the walls of his house and sent him threatening letters.

  It seemed, on that occasion, they didn’t follow through with the more serious threats.

  Freedom for Animals had their own website and forum. Sean searched the site for any mention of Weston. There was only one entry. The post was two years old and described Weston and his company as “despicable and callous,” and it called for fellow Freedom for Animals members to join a protest outside his company premises.

  Next, Sean searched the website for any mention of the poison aconite. This was more difficult as the poison seemed go by a myriad of names. According to the Kew Gardens’ website, it was known as “aconitum,” “monkshood” and “wolfsbane,” among other things. He typed in each name he found for the poison, but got no hits from any of them. He crushed his empty lager can and threw it in the bin.

  As a last resort, he registered on the Freedom for Animals forum and posted a message, asking if anyone had information about the poisoning of John Weston.

  11

  When Mackinnon got to Wood Street Station, he exchanged a few words with Jim Dobson, the duty sergeant on the front desk. Jim didn’t mention Friday night, so Mackinnon thought perhaps he wasn’t the subject of gossip at the station after all.

  When he reached the open plan offices on the second floor, he realised he was wrong. No one made eye contact and the general chatter ebbed away as he walked through the office.

  He kept his head high and walked across to Detective Superintendent Wright’s office. He rapped on the door and opened it when he heard Wright’s voice telling him to come in.

  DC Brookbank stood in front of Wright’s desk with his hands on his hips and his face flushed.

  Brookbank turned around and gave Mackinnon a filthy glare.

  Mackinnon realised he had interrupted a heated discussion.

  Detective Superintendent Wright sat behind his desk, his eyes flickering between Mackinnon and Brookbank for a moment before he told Brookbank to shut the door on his way out.

  As he walked past Mackinnon and out of the office, Brookbank whispered, “Bastard,” low enough so only Mackinnon would hear it.

  “He looks happy,” Mackinnon said.

  “Sit down, Jack.”

  Mackinnon sat down on one of the uncomfortable, imitation leather seats set in front of Wright’s desk.

  Wright waited until he was seated and then leaned forward, facing Mackinnon across the desk.

  The pause before he spoke made Mackinnon uncomfortable. He had worked under Bob Wright for a number of years and he knew the Detective Superintendent was a reasonable guy. He also knew that making people ill at ease was one of Wright’s talents. Most people were not comfortable with the prolonged silence and they would joke, babble or say anything to fill the gap in conversation.

  As Mackinnon tried to wait it out, he took the opportunity to study the Detective Superintendent’s face for a clue to his mood. Angry would be his first guess. Wright’s normally deeply hooded eyes were narrowed and his lips were pursed together so tightly, they were outlined in white.

  All the signs pointed to a severe rollicking and Mackinnon braced himself. He knew an apology would be the appropriate response; he might even have to apologise to Brookbank. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

  “First off, Jack, what happened on Friday was unacceptable.” Wright shook his head. “I don’t understand what got into you. I really don’t.”

  Me neither, Mackinnon wanted to say. Usually it would have been Mackinnon breaking up fights, using his large frame to restrain opponents, rather than hurt them. He hadn’t been in many fights since he was at school. Mackinnon tried to suppress the little voice in his head telling him Brookbank deserved it.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve apologised to DC Collins for ruining his party.”

  Wright’s eyes opened a little wider and he nodded. “Are things all right at home, Jack?”

  Mackinnon rubbed his sternum as he felt the acid bubble up inside his chest. “They’re fine.”

  “Don’t repeat this...” Wright said, looking over Mackinnon’s shoulder to the door, “...but I’m sure DC Brookbank was not entirely blameless. Right, bollocking over, let’s move on. I called you in because MIT need some extra manpower. Up for it?”

  Mackinnon smiled and thought this was going a lot better than he expected.

  Mackinnon had wanted to work in MIT – Major Investigation Team – since its initial set-up. Mackinnon was pretty sure there were others equally keen for this chance and he appreciated the superintendent putting him forward. The superintendent had been helpful in Mackinnon’s career so far, recognizing his ambition, putting him forward for interesting cases. There were worse people you could have in your corner.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. There’s something else.” Wright paused for a moment and peered at Mackinnon as if he were trying to weigh him up. “There’s a new DC working in MIT. You were together at the Met for a while I think? She might need a friendly face. DC Brown.”

  “Charlotte Brown?”

  “Yes. She’s had a tough few months and I want to see her time here go as smoothly as it can.”

  “I’ll do my best to look out for her. Is there anything...” Mackinnon raised his eyebrows a fraction, “...anything I should know?”

  “It’s a personal matter. I think it’s up to her to decide if she wants to confide in anyone.”

  Wright handed him some paperwork and filled him in briefly on the case. Mackinnon thought, all things considered, he had gotten off pretty lightly.

  Mackinnon took the papers and started to flick through them. As he made to leave the office, Wright called him back.

  Mackinnon turned, with one hand still on the door handle.

  “I forgot to mention, DCI Brookbank is the SIO on this one,” Wright said.

  “DC Brookbank’s father?”

  “That’s not going to be a problem, is it, Jack?”

  12

  Ted Sanders set up the Freedom for Animals website three years ago. It had taken up far more of his time than he ever expected, but it was worth it if even a few people learned something from it.

  It was through the website that Ted had met a number of like-minded people. A couple, Paul and Jayne, met regularly with him for discussions on how they could advance their cause.

  Ted read Sean’s message on the Freedom for Animals forum twenty minutes after the journalist posted it.

  Ted knew all about John Weston and the funding he provided for science centres and biotech companies who used animals as an expendable resource. He couldn’t really feel much sympathy for someone like that.

  He skimmed the rest of the post until he reached the word “aconite.”

  There were a number of replies underneath the initial post, but Ted couldn’t read them; he couldn’t get past that word.

  Aconite.

  He felt a flutter in his chest. He knew about aconite; they used it in Alex’s lab.

  He sat staring at the monitor, thinking.

  Things like this really caught the public’s attention. It
could publicise the importance of animal welfare. It was a sad fact of life that peaceful demonstrations only got you so far. The most effective methods were the threat of violence and the threat of losing money.

  Although Ted was not involved, he knew protestors had targeted the Oxford University boathouse with an incendiary device, which had made the national press.

  Ted had written a vast number of letters to companies supplying the university with chemicals and apparatus, describing how they and their families would be targeted unless they ceased all association with the university. The letters had worked surprisingly well. Alex had told him on numerous occasions his orders for equipment had been turned down by companies afraid of repercussions.

  All at once, the fragments fell into place. Like a jigsaw puzzle, the pieces fit perfectly.

  Ted smiled and clicked on the reply button.

  *

  Sean had spent the past hour reading articles on the last reported case of aconite poisoning in the UK.

  In January 2009, a woman had poisoned her ex-lover by adding aconite to his curry. After eating the meal, the man fell ill and died in hospital four hours later. His fiancée had also been poisoned and was in a coma for four days, but she later recovered. The newspaper report said the police suspected the aconite had been acquired in India.

  Sean picked up his mobile and dialled Natasha’s number. He asked her for news on Weston.

  “And there was me thinking you might be calling to set up a date,” Natasha said.

  “I’ve really got to get this story written before I can think about my social life,” Sean said, then forced out a laugh. “Of course, you’ll be the first person I call when it’s finished.”

  “If I hadn’t told you about John Weston, you wouldn’t even have a story.”

  Sean bit his lip; he could tell she was close to hanging up on him. “Listen,” he said, trying to sound amenable. “What if…”

  He heard the dial tone.

  The cow had hung up on him.

  Next, he tried ringing the hospital and pretending to be a concerned family member, but they wouldn’t give him an update on Weston’s condition.