Deadly Motive

by DS Butler

  He threw his mobile across the room in frustration.

  A ping from his computer caught his attention. He had email. He scowled at his phone on the floor, then turned to look at the email.

  Before he had even opened it, he felt excitement bubble up in his chest. It was a reply to the message he had posted on the Freedom for Animals forum.

  He read the message.

  The attack on John Weston exemplifies the lengths animal rights activists are willing to go to in the fight against animal cruelty.

  You might be interested to know that the aconite poison is used next door to the new animal laboratory in Oxford, by the Chemistry Research Laboratory.

  The university, John Weston and others involved with the animal laboratory were warned action would be taken against them.

  They chose to ignore this warning.

  There was more waffle about the fight against animal cruelty, but Sean stalled over the mention of the Chemistry Research Laboratory. Sean read the first few paragraphs over and over again. Did that mean the aconite used to poison Weston had come from the laboratory at Oxford?

  From what he had read about the previous aconite poisoning case, he thought aconite was usually found in herbal remedies, from countries like India – so where did the university fit into it?

  It didn’t make any sense.

  He typed a reply to the message and asked the author to explain the link with Oxford. Hoping for a speedy response, he opened a new window in his web browser and navigated to the University of Oxford’s homepage. He typed the word “aconite” into the search bar and the university’s website produced a satisfying number of results.

  Sean smiled. He had studied at Oxford so that should make it easier to ferret out the information he needed.

  Sean clicked on the first link in the list, which opened up the research page belonging to Professor Mike Clarkson. Sean couldn’t believe his bad luck. Of all the members of staff, why did it have to be Clarkson? During his second year, Sean attended a series of lectures by Professor Clarkson. He was as sharp as a tack and there was no way Sean would be able to get information from him without making him suspicious. But maybe there was another way...

  He navigated through to the section on group members.

  The internet really is an amazing resource, Sean thought, as a picture of the research group appeared on the screen. He might hate Twitter and online newspapers, but no one could argue with the fact that the internet made researching a story a hell of a lot easier.

  There were four people in the photograph, one female the rest male, a ratio that he supposed must be fairly typical for a chemistry lab. Sean recognized Professor Clarkson and slid the cursor arrow over the professor’s face; a name and job description appeared on the screen.

  Sean smiled. That was very helpful.

  Sliding the cursor over the rest of the group, he jotted down their names.

  The female was Ruby Wei, a third year DPhil student. Gus Gilmore was next in line, another student. He was very tall in comparison to Ruby and he had an expression on his face that made Sean think he was probably a cocky so-and-so. The third student in the photograph, Alex Rush, stood on the other side of Gus in the photo and Alex didn’t come off well in the comparison. He looked pale, short and spindly. The spiky, ginger hair didn’t help either.

  Who should he target? Sean sat back with his hands folded behind his head, so he could take in the whole photo.

  The most logical choice would be the girl. If he turned on his charm, he could get the details he needed from her.

  He typed RUBY WEI into the University of Oxford’s contact page and it came up with her email address and phone number. This is almost too easy, he thought, picking up the phone.

  Before the call connected, he replaced the handset. He was getting ahead of himself. He needed to think of a good reason to be calling her, something that would earn her trust and get her to talk to him.

  What could he say to get her to talk to him? It should be the truth or at least close to the truth. He typed her name into Google. The first few hits were irrelevant, followed by titles of papers she had co-authored, but at the bottom of the page, Sean saw his opening and he could hardly believe how well his day was turning out.

  “God I’m good,” he said aloud as he started to dial the lab’s number.

  13

  DC Charlotte Brown had transferred to the City of London Police just a month ago.

  There were whispers and rumours about her transfer. Mainly, Mackinnon thought, because she kept to herself and hadn’t spoken about her time at the Met at all. The truth was likely to be much less scandalous than any of the rumours.

  Years ago, when they were both starting out, Mackinnon had worked with her at the Met. Over the past few weeks, he had seen her around the station, nodded hello as they passed in the corridor, exchanged a few words, but they hadn’t had a chance to catch up properly. Not that she had blanked him. She just hadn’t encouraged a conversation.

  Now that the superintendent had asked him to keep a friendly eye out for her, he felt guilty he hadn’t made more of an effort earlier.

  He recognized Charlotte immediately, despite the ridiculously oversized, white hazard suit she wore. Charlotte was at least half a foot shorter than anyone else in the group of people gathered outside Mason House.

  She passed behind a white containment tent, appeared on the other side and ducked under the crime scene tape. She spotted Mackinnon leaning against the side of the crime scene van. She crossed over the road and walked towards him.

  “I hear you’ve crossed over to MIT, Jack?”

  Her black hair, scooped back in a ponytail, exposed pale, round cheeks that gave her face a youthfulness she tried to hide with heavy eye makeup. She reminded him of a kid playing dress-up with her mum’s makeup.

  Mackinnon looked over her head and saw DCI Brookbank, but he was busy running around, trying to look important so Mackinnon was safe, for now.

  “I’m just a temp, boosting manpower,” Mackinnon said.

  Her face grew serious and a small pucker appeared between her eyebrows. “They’re still going through the scene. I put this bloody thing on,” Charlotte pulled at the white crumpled suit, “and then they wouldn’t let me in anyway.”

  “All dressed up and nowhere to go?” Mackinnon said.

  “Something like that. The Fire Service is still in there; they’re not convinced it’s safe yet.” She nodded in the direction of Mason House.

  Mackinnon reached into his pocket for a Rennie. How could he have indigestion? He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. He looked up at Mason House, a ten-storey building, fronted in smoky glass. The building had been evacuated on the advice of the Health Protection Agency. The road hadn’t been blocked off though and the traffic slowed as it passed them, the drivers rubbernecking.

  Uniform had cordoned off the area around Mason House and the office block was still full of Fire Service personnel, specially trained to respond to a chemical incident. Mackinnon watched them moving slowly, hindered by the bulk of their protective gear. As a precaution, all the office workers had been told they couldn’t get into the building until tomorrow, at the earliest.

  Charlotte tucked a stray lock of black hair behind her ear, cleared her throat and looked at her feet, encased in lace-up boots. “How have you been? Good weekend?”

  It was a very ordinary question, and usually he would have replied readily enough, but coming from Charlotte now, it sounded odd, stilted.

  “Wasn’t bad, just a quiet one.”

  She nodded and kept the serious expression on her face. Mackinnon wondered if she had heard about his exploits on Friday night, but he doubted it. She was the last person he would expect to gossip.

  “The DCI asked me to fill you in on what we have so far.”

  Mackinnon straightened. Behind Charlotte, he saw DCI Brookbank heading their way.

  Charlotte turned to try and see what he was looking at. “What?”
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  “I think I better leave you to it,” he said, turning to leave.

  “But we haven’t even talked about the incident yet.”

  From three feet away, he turned back to her, nodded in the direction of Brookbank and said, “I’ll explain later.”

  *

  Back at Wood Street Station, Mackinnon stood next to Charlotte in the incident room and watched the playback from the crime scene. There hadn’t seemed much point in them hanging around outside Mason House.

  Mackinnon was grateful for the video recording of the scene. The crime scene had been photographed and videotaped to minimize the number of people entering the building. God knows what had been released in that room and he didn’t fancy going in there, even with the protection of one of those daft, white suits.

  Mackinnon and Charlotte studied the video playback, killing time before the briefing. They watched the Fire Service and Health Protection Agency scientists, analysing the scene, dressed in big, white suits that made them looked like astronauts. Astronauts who had taken a wrong turn and ended up in the centre of London.

  They were diligent and methodical, taking their time over the examination of the room. On the screen, there wasn’t much to see; but then you couldn’t see toxic gas, bacteria or viruses.

  There could be anything in there.

  John Weston’s office was elegantly furnished. An oversized mahogany desk took pride of place in the middle of the room. Did anyone really need a desk that big? It was three times the size of Mackinnon’s desk here at the station. The carpet was thick and dark red, not to Mackinnon’s taste, but it had likely cost a fortune. The room itself was large. Even with nine, white-suited officers milling around inside, it still looked spacious.

  When DCI Brookbank entered the room, Charlotte left Mackinnon’s side to go and talk to him.

  It was too much to hope that Brookbank’s son had kept their little altercation on Friday to himself. Mackinnon guessed he was a long way from being Brookbank senior’s favourite person right now.

  The incident room buzzed with activity. One officer he’d never met before dashed back and forth between a phone on one desk and a computer on another. He glared at Mackinnon when he didn’t move out of the way fast enough. He was just getting in the way here.

  Mackinnon waited for Charlotte in the corner of the incident suite, partially hidden from view by one of the whiteboards. He shuffled through a few papers he’d been given to get up to date on the case.

  The sound of a car horn outside made him look towards the window. Heavy traffic clogged up the road outside as people started to leave work. He watched as a cycle courier darted in and out between the cars, risking life and limb. A girl, in her late teens or early twenties, stood on the corner, trying to flag down a taxi.

  The girl, her fair hair worn long and loose, reminded him of Chloe’s daughter, Sarah. He knew she resented him moving in, but he didn’t know what to do about it. He didn’t know how to tell her he didn’t want to come between her and her mother.

  He was wrenched from his thoughts by DCI Brookbank’s deep voice barking his name. The man was a bloodhound. He must have sniffed him out behind the whiteboard.

  Mackinnon stood and turned to face him. Brookbank tilted his head to look up at Mackinnon. Most people looked short standing next to Mackinnon, and Brookbank was no exception.

  “DS Mackinnon, what are you doing tucked away in the corner? I expect all officers in this team to pull their weight.” Brookbank took a step back and narrowed his eyes, waiting for a response.

  Mackinnon had never spoken to DCI Brookbank before, and this wasn’t a very auspicious start. He obviously wasn’t about to be warmly welcomed to the team.

  A sharp reply bubbled up in his throat, but he swallowed it back down. It wasn’t worth it. He nodded and stared back at Brookbank. “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

  Brookbank’s cheeks flushed. “Briefing’s postponed till six.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Brookbank turned and walked away from him, Mackinnon glanced across the room and caught Charlotte staring at him.

  As he started to walk over to her, DC Webb called after him. “Jack?”

  “What?” Mackinnon said, more sharply than he intended.

  Webb actually flinched. Mackinnon’s new reputation had obviously preceded him.

  “Sorry, bad day. What do you need me for?” Mackinnon tried to keep the harsh tone out of his voice.

  DC Webb held out a piece of A4 paper. “It’s a copy of the note found on John Weston’s windscreen. You asked for it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure,” Webb said, backing away.

  Charlotte had already told him what was in the note, but Mackinnon read it again anyway.

  JOHN WESTON WAS KILLED BY A DRUG THAT WAS ABOUT TO BE TESTED ON ANIMALS. IT WAS ONLY FAIR THAT THE DRUG WAS TESTED ON HIM FIRST.

  John Weston had been in hospital for two hours before anyone found the note. The paramedics had been called to his office and at first, it had looked like a heart attack, or maybe a bad case of food poisoning. He was a fifty-four-year-old man with a bit of a paunch on him, and no one had noticed anything suspicious.

  It was only when the vomiting continued and he developed heart problems that the hospital suspected poisoning.

  Then the note was found on the windscreen and everything racked up a gear. That’s why there were people dressed like astronauts running around in Weston’s office and why Mackinnon had cancelled his leave.

  Officers started to gather for the evening briefing.

  Mackinnon made his way over to Charlotte, who was stretching her back as if to rid herself of an ache. Her forehead was creased in a frown.

  “Have you heard anything else from the Health Protection Agency?” Mackinnon asked.

  “Not yet. We won’t know anything until after all the samples taken from the scene have been processed. It is an absolute nightmare. Best case scenario: it’s only Weston and the secretary who are affected. Otherwise…” She shrugged. “...The paramedics, medical staff or anyone who was in the building could be at risk.”

  Mackinnon could see most of the members of the Major Investigation Team were present for the briefing, as well as some officers from other departments brought in to boost numbers. Thankfully, DC Brookbank, the DCI’s son, was not present. He worked in the economic section.

  Much as Mackinnon hated to admit it, DC Brookbank had an excellent reputation as a forensic analyst and had been involved in high publicity financial scandals over the past few years. Personally, Mackinnon preferred to work with crime of the old-fashioned sort. It amazed him that a criminal could spend more time in jail if he took money from a multi-national company, than if he took a life.

  Scanning the room, Mackinnon looked for DC Collins. Despite the fact he had apologised twice already, he still felt terrible for ruining things on Friday night and he wanted to repeat his offer to pay for new plants and a new rug. He needed to square things with Collins, even if he had to import a new plant from Mexico.

  He whispered to Charlotte, asking where Collins was. She told him Collins was posted at the hospital, waiting for Weston to regain consciousness.

  A hush descended as DCI Brookbank made his way to the front of the room and there was a last minute scramble for the remaining seats. Brookbank looked down at the agenda.

  These days, the senior investigating officer had to record every part of an investigation. Sometimes things went wrong. Decisions that seemed logical at the time could be questioned at a later date, and the powers that be might want to examine the choices the officer had made while running the case. The senior investigating officer needed to have all his decisions and findings carefully documented. If he could back up his decisions with strong reasoning, he had his back covered, even if those decisions later turned out to be wrong.

  DCI Brookbank looked up from his agenda and surveyed the team gathered together in the incident room. The informal chattering had now lapsed into silence a
nd everyone waited for Brookbank to begin.

  “This is our second briefing of Operation Rubix.” After looking around the room to make sure he had everyone’s attention, the DCI continued. “At one fifteen, today, Monday the twelfth of March, Mr. John Weston was found in his office, on the tenth floor of the Mason building, on Lyndon Street. He was discovered by his secretary, a Miss Sally Turner, when she returned from picking up their lunch,” DCI Brookbank said as he looked around the room at his assembled team.

  “Sally Turner found her boss unconscious on the floor in his office. Unable to rouse him, she called for an ambulance. Around this time, Sally Turner also began to feel unwell. Paramedics arrived at the scene and both John Weston and Sally Turner were taken by ambulance the short distance to St Bart’s Hospital.

  “As a precautionary measure, the entire office block of Mason House as well as Weston’s home address have been evacuated. As the secretary is also unwell, they were both probably exposed to a toxin at Mason House. Fire Service personnel are working at both properties to determine whether other people are at risk, and uniform are conducting door-to-door enquiries in the vicinity of Mason House and Weston’s home address.”

  DCI Brookbank stood to one side so the assembled group could see the white screen behind him. He picked up a remote control on the table in front of him and pressed the play button, starting the playback of the video Mackinnon had watched just a short time ago.

  “This is Weston’s office, and this...” Brookbank pointed to the screen with a red laser pointer, highlighting an area on the floor of Weston’s office. “...is where he was found, unconscious.”

  After the video had run to the end, Brookbank flicked through a number of photographs, mostly from outside Mason House. He paused on one photograph of the car park situated near the office block. Mackinnon assumed this was where Weston left his car.

  “Shortly after both John Weston and Sally Turner were admitted to St Bart’s, a note was found on the windscreen of Weston’s car. It was reported to the police by...” DCI Brookbank looked down at the papers in front of him, “...by a Mr. Richard Porter, who works as an attendant in the car park where Weston leaves his car during office hours.”