Deadly Motive

by DS Butler

  “But sure enough to lie and slow down the investigation?”

  Ruby held up her hands. “Okay. I am sorry.”

  “Not good enough, not by a long way.” Mackinnon pulled the entry logs from the inside pocket of his jacket. “What about these?”

  “What are they?”

  “Entry logs. They tell us when you all entered and left the building on the night of the break-in.”

  Ruby held her hand out for the sheets. “It seems correct. These are the times I gave you. Maybe I was off by a couple of minutes.”

  Mackinnon pointed to the erroneous entry. “And this one?”

  Ruby pulled the sheets towards her and shook her head. “That can’t be right. I didn’t use my card at ten forty-five. I entered at half seven and left four hours later, like I told you.” She handed the sheets back to Mackinnon. “This is wrong.”

  “Right, so I should trust you over the computerized system?”

  “Maybe there was a blip in the system,” she said. “I don’t know. I am telling you the truth.”

  She looked up when Mackinnon didn’t answer. “Maybe someone cloned my card?”

  Mackinnon narrowed his eyes. “So a minute ago you thought I was overreacting to a scaremongering tactic. Now what? You think some high tech extremist group is involved? And they have decided to frame you by cloning your card?”

  Ruby picked up her mug. “Cloning cards isn’t exactly high tech.”

  Mackinnon looked at the contents of her mug. It wasn’t coffee. There were bits of leaves and tiny flowers floating about in it. “What is this? Some kind of Chinese herb?”

  Ruby slammed the mug back on top of the filing cabinet and some of the liquid spilled out over her hand. She pushed it towards him. “If you’re so interested, why don’t you try some?” she said.

  Mackinnon met her stare. “What is it?”

  “You think it is some kind of Chinese herbal medicine, don’t you? Maybe it’s brewed aconite?” She shook her head. “It is green tea with jasmine. You could at least make some effort to disguise your racism, sergeant.”

  49

  When Charlotte entered DCI Brookbank’s office three hours later, she almost turned around and walked straight back out again.

  As expected, Brookbank was fuming, a complete turnaround from his cheerful mood this morning. He stopped pacing the floor as Charlotte walked in, but his fists remained clenched at his sides.

  DC Webb and DI Tyler sat in front of Brookbank’s desk, looking very sorry for themselves and Charlotte wondered if they had screwed up, too.

  Brookbank didn’t say anything for about ten seconds or so. He looked as if he were trying to get his temper under control.

  Charlotte decided to wait for him to speak first.

  Finally, he took a deep breath and looked around before wheeling his chair over for Charlotte to sit on, and then he perched on the edge of his desk.

  “DC Brown, I have a job for you. I need you to ask Dr. O’Connor some questions. He is working with the Clarkson group on a research project so he has access to the lab. And theoretically, the aconite.”

  Charlotte nodded. That made sense. In this situation, it was good to be cautious. They needed to question anyone who had access. But she didn’t know why Brookbank wanted her to do it.

  Brookbank folded his arms and looked at the two officers opposite him. “Unfortunately, we have had a few problems with him. The gentleman in question believes our line of questioning is somehow beneath him.”

  DI Tyler scowled. “Dr. bloody O’Connor. He’s just a know-it-all, nerdy type. He thinks we’re all thick. I think we should bring him in, scare him a bit. See how cocky he is after I’ve had him in an interview room for an hour.”

  Brookbank ignored the comment. “We also know that Dr. O’Connor’s start-up company is funded almost exclusively by John Weston’s company, Biosphere. We need to know what sort of relationship he has with Weston. Look out for any tension.

  “If you spoke to him, you might be able to...” Brookbank paused, seeming to search for the right words. “Help him understand that we are not all so far beneath him. You’ve got a science degree. If he was made aware of that, perhaps he might not treat you like an imbecile.”

  Charlotte wasn’t sure this scientist would be very impressed with her science knowledge from her undergraduate science course six years ago, but she agreed to the request. It would be interesting to find out what Dr. O’Connor knew about the toxin itself and doing this would help keep Brookbank onside.

  “You can take Mackinnon with you,” Brookbank said. “Just make sure he doesn’t get in the habit of knocking off early whenever he is in Oxford.”

  50

  Mackinnon drove back to Oxford for the second time that day. They discussed an interview strategy during the journey and decided to keep it informal. Although Mackinnon tended to take the lead in interviews, they thought Charlotte’s science degree might give her an advantage, and Charlotte thought she would probably end up asking most of the questions.

  They arrived at the science park on the outskirts of Oxford. The car tyres crunched over the gravel and they drove slowly up the link roads, trying to read the passing signs. It was a bit of a maze, and it took them a while to find Dr. O’Connor’s building.

  They were surprised to find his biotech company housed in a temporary Terrapin building. A smiling receptionist greeted them, ushered them to a sofa in the waiting area and offered them tea.

  Dr. Declan O’Connor kept them waiting for ten minutes. When he was finally ready to see them, the sunny receptionist led the way along a narrow corridor with a creaky floor.

  O’Connor smiled broadly as they walked in. “Hello, DC Brown and DS...” He shook his head, “...sorry, forgotten your name.” O’Connor walked around his desk to shake their hands.

  “Dr. O’Connor, this is DS Mackinnon,” Charlotte said, supplying Mackinnon’s name. Although she had a sneaking suspicion he hadn’t forgotten at all, but enjoyed putting people on the back foot.

  “Yes, of course, DS Mackinnon,” O’Connor said. “That’s right; you’re investigating a break-in at the Oxford lab, aren’t you?” O’Connor walked back around the desk to his chair. “Please, take a seat. I guess you’ll want to interview me because I’ve been hanging around the lab so much recently.”

  Charlotte and Mackinnon sat down on two hard-backed chairs, the type that gave you a numb backside after five minutes.

  “Yes we do have a few questions for you, Dr. O’Connor.” Charlotte sat forward in her seat. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Fire away,” O’Connor said and sat back in his chair.

  “What is your involvement with Professor Clarkson?” Charlotte asked.

  “I am collaborating with his research group. We work together on some projects. Or at least, we will do when all the paperwork is out of the way.” O’Connor steepled his fingers under his chin and looked at Charlotte. “You know how long these things take.”

  “Will you be working with the aconite toxin?”

  “Amongst other things.”

  Charlotte took a moment. O’Connor was evading her questions, dismissing them. She needed to take control. She glanced at Mackinnon.

  He took the signal. “Can I ask what research you do here?” Mackinnon asked.

  “Why, yes of course, it is lovely when people like you make an effort to be interested in science.” O’Connor paused. “Do you have a science background?”

  Charlotte cringed at the condescending tone of O’Connor’s voice and noted O’Connor’s use of “people like you.” She had no doubt Mackinnon had picked up on it too, but to his credit, he didn’t let it faze him.

  “Does a GCSE count?” Mackinnon said.

  “Try to explain it in laymen’s terms please, Dr. O’Connor,” Charlotte said.

  “We will be studying the effect of mutations of amino-laevulinic acid dehydratase,” O’Connor said, looking at Mackinnon with an amused expression.

&
nbsp; Mackinnon bent his head over his notebook and wrote something down. Charlotte knew he wouldn’t have understood what O’Connor had just said, let alone spell it.

  “That is hardly laymen’s terms,” Charlotte said.

  O’Connor smiled at her mischievously. “Sorry, I’ve never dealt well with laymen.” He got to his feet and stifled a yawn as if their presence was boring him. He stood looking out of the window, apparently waiting for their next question. Let him wait. She decided she wouldn’t speak until he turned around and looked at them.

  Even his profile matched his personality, haughty, almost Byronic. His dark hair contrasted against his pale skin. Charlotte imagined he didn’t see the sun much, probably not one for the great outdoors. She supposed some women, the ones who liked moody, brooding types, might find him attractive.

  When O’Connor turned back to look at her, he had a glint in his dark eyes and she felt he could tell what she was thinking. Flustered, she looked at Mackinnon. His head was still bowed over his notebook and his jaw was clenched. He was still writing.

  Charlotte turned back to face O’Connor. “Do you keep any stocks of aconite on the premises?”

  “No. None at all. As you can see...” O’Connor gestured around him, “...we’re still setting up our labs. This is our temporary placement. Until my labs are finished, I will do most of my work at the university.”

  “Can you tell me what you know about the aconite project?”

  O’Connor blustered on for about five minutes. Charlotte knew he was doing it on purpose, choosing words they had never heard of and using long-winded descriptions of biological processes she was almost sure were not relevant.

  Her science degree did not help her understand a single concept. He could be making it all up and they would be none the wiser.

  Charlotte looked over at Mackinnon, giving him a signal to change the direction of the questioning.

  “You know John Weston,” Mackinnon said. It was a statement, not a question.

  O’Connor inclined his head slightly and looked down at his desk. “Yes.”

  Mackinnon waited for a moment. Charlotte knew he was waiting to see what information O’Connor would volunteer.

  O’Connor looked up to meet Mackinnon’s gaze, but said nothing.

  “Officers have been looking through John Weston’s investments. Is there anything you can tell us? Anything that might help us discover who poisoned him?”

  “I heard it was down to an animal extremist group,” O’Connor said, fiddling with a pen on his desk.

  “Perhaps you could tell us about John Weston’s investments. We know he funded your work.”

  O’Connor gave a lazy smile. “He funded many science projects, DS Mackinnon. He made a career out of it.”

  “Did you have any disagreements about the money? Perhaps he threatened to withdraw your funding?”

  O’Connor frowned. “And why would he do that?”

  “Perhaps he didn’t think you were up to the task? Perhaps he decided you’d be a bad investment risk.”

  Charlotte saw a flicker of annoyance flash across O’Connor’s face. Mackinnon had touched a nerve with that one.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you. There was no disagreement. My business arrangement with John was very amicable.”

  “Then why did you make a complaint to Thames Valley Police last October?” Mackinnon flipped through a notebook, pretending to look for the details. Charlotte knew he didn’t have anything in there about the complaint. He hardly ever wrote anything down.

  “That was nothing, a stupid misunderstanding.”

  “So why not come forward and provide the information when you had heard Mr. Weston had been poisoned?”

  “I know it is in a police officer’s nature to be suspicious, but there’s no dark ulterior motive. The reason is very mundane: I didn’t want the project hit by funding delays.”

  “A man has been poisoned. He might die, Dr. O’Connor, and you are worried about funding delays?”

  “I’m afraid so. It isn’t quite as callous as it sounds, though. The funding has nothing to do with John Weston’s poisoning. And when he recovers, he’ll be very disappointed if he finds out that the project was delayed.”

  “If he recovers, Dr. O’Connor, I’m sure the funding for your project won’t be the foremost thing in his mind,” Mackinnon said.

  “This research could save many lives, sergeant. A delay to the project would be the last thing John would want. It’s what he lived for, but perhaps I shouldn’t expect someone like you to understand that.”

  “It’s all for the greater good, is it?” Mackinnon asked. “And nothing to do with selling your ideas to a larger pharmaceutical company down the line and making yourself a tidy profit?”

  Mackinnon stood to leave. “I wonder if you would feel the same if you were in John Weston’s shoes.”

  51

  Ted held his breath as he entered the dark, dank space that held the animals.

  Tonight was his second shift, so he knew what to expect, but it still took his breath away. The air was saturated with the smell of urine, and Ted fought against the gag reflex pulling at the back of his throat. He raised an arm and covered his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

  Larry Wicks, the owner of this piece of hell on earth, walked toward him, grinning.

  “Evening, are you not used to the smell yet?”

  “It needs to be thoroughly washed down and disinfected. It’s disgusting,” Ted said between shallow breaths.

  Larry’s smile faded. “That’s your job, pretty boy. You’d best get on with it,” Larry said as he carried on walking past Ted through the lock-up to the offices at the rear.

  Ted made his way to the front of the lock-up and opened the large metal door, flinging it wide to allow as much fresh air and light in as possible. He stood by the door for a moment, breathing freely.

  He slipped his hand into his pocket and felt the hard edges of his camera phone. He used it yesterday to take photos and had downloaded them to his computer last night. Today he wouldn’t get a chance to take anymore until Larry and his daughter went to dinner. Until they left, he would spend his time trying to make the environment just a little more tolerable for the dogs.

  Ted turned away from the door and looked back at the lock-up. There were rows and rows of wire cages, made out of what looked like chicken wire. Each cage was about two-by-three feet and contained anywhere from two to eight dogs or puppies. The cages were stacked on wooden supports.

  The idea was that all the faeces and urine would fall through the wire of the cage and onto the floor. But because cages were stacked on top of one another, it meant the waste from the dogs in the upper cages fell onto the dogs below and ended up matted in their coats.

  The dogs stood or sat on that wire for twenty-four hours a day. He hadn’t seen any evidence that the dogs were ever taken out of their cages for exercise, and from the look of the puppies’ under-developed, trembling legs, he doubted they had ever been allowed out of the cages to play.

  Ted picked up the broom and hose and began a methodical sweep-down of the room. The noise was deafening as over fifty dogs yelped and barked, desperate for attention.

  As he swept, Ted tried to block out the noise and thought about the policewoman he had run away from this afternoon. After all this, he would try to explain; perhaps she would understand.

  Ted had gone to the chemistry department to tell Alex where he would be this afternoon. He felt better, safer somehow, now that Alex knew he was here. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t trust Paul or Jayne to report him missing if anything happened.

  His sweeping brought him close to an older pair of female Retrievers that Larry kept in a bigger cage than the others. One of the dogs, a cream colour underneath the dirt on her coat, was quite disturbed and turned in frantic circles in a mad dance. Ted reached out and put his hand against the cage, murmuring softly to try and soothe her.

  “She’s gone doolal
ly that one. We call her Loopy-Lou,” a female voice said.

  Ted turned to see Larry’s daughter standing behind him. He hadn’t heard her approach, but that wasn’t surprising with the noise of over fifty dogs in such a confined space.

  “Maybe we could take her out of the cage for a bit?” Ted said.

  Larry’s daughter cocked her head to one side. She was an ugly woman, vastly overweight with greasy hair. She wore a tracksuit that was several sizes too small and it clung to her heavy thighs.

  “That won’t save her. Dad’s going to have her put down. She’s not breeding. She’s not doing nothing but turning in circles.”

  She stood too close to Ted, trying to flirt. Smiling and showing him her nicotine-stained teeth.

  “It’s probably because she is stuck in there all the time. A bit of exercise would do wonders. We could take her for a run-around on the grass outside. That would help,” Ted said.

  She wrinkled her nose. “You and me?”

  “Sure. We could do it together. I know it would help. Dogs are made to run around. She just needs to let off steam.”

  She frowned, as if considering his point, so Ted pressed on. “Maybe you could persuade your dad not to... I mean, when was he going to get the vet to put her down?”

  She knelt by the cage, oblivious to the excrement on the ground. “Tomorrow,” she said.

  Ted felt his stomach clench.

  She waggled her fat fingers through the cage.

  “All right, sweetheart. If we take you out, Loopy-Lou, are you going to stop going mental in there?”

  The dog paused, mid-circle, to snap at her fingers.

  “Ow! The fucking dog bit me.” She stood up, cradling her finger and kicked the cage. “I’ll be glad when it gets put down.” She looked up at Ted and held out her hand for him to see the bite mark. “Can you believe it? Ungrateful animal,” she said.

  Ted scowled at her. “You’ve got shit on your trousers,” he said.

  52

  An hour later, the room had been swept and hosed down. The smell lingered, but was nowhere near as bad as when he first arrived. Ted walked around the cages talking to the dogs. He noticed many of the puppies were ill. Many had red, sore, weeping eyes.