by Ray Clark
“Do you think you need one?”
“I haven’t done anything. So why am I so concerned all of a sudden?”
“Where were you last night?”
“I was here, all night. Ask my children.”
“Apart from your children, can anyone else confirm that?”
“There was no one else here, so no. And given that you have my landline records you’ll see I never took or made another call last night.”
“What about the night before?”
“Here again,” replied Rosie. “What is going on?”
“We’re just doing our job, Mrs Henshaw,” said the smaller, friendlier copper, in a soothing tone. “And there are times when we don’t like it but we still have to do it. Three months ago, a man and his wife were killed in a hit and run, which involved your husband and his business partners, all of whom went missing pretty much immediately afterwards. No one’s seen anything of them since, apart from Michael Foreman.”
“So you have found him?”
“Yes, Mrs Henshaw, we’ve found him,” said the taller one.
“So why don’t you ask him the questions you’re asking me?”
“I’m afraid we can’t.”
“Oh my God…” Rosie’s hands flew to her mouth. Her expression changed from one of abstract fear to growing concern.
With her legs trembling, she dropped back onto the kitchen chair. “Oh my God, that’s why you’re asking all these questions, isn’t it? That man in Leeds yesterday was Michael Foreman, and he’s dead. And you think it was me?”
Chapter Thirty-seven
They found Fitz in his office. The smell of fresh coffee hit them as they walked in. His desk, as usual, was clean and tidy and the only thing out of place was a small lunchbox to the left of his PC, containing a couple of sandwiches, two tomatoes, a chocolate bar, an apple and an orange. Gardener noticed the steam rising from the coffee cup. A classical music piece that he did not recognise filtered around the room.
Fitz glanced up at them. “Freshly brewed, help yourselves.” He then glanced at Reilly. “Biscuits in the top drawer of the filing cabinet.”
“It’s not like you to give up the location so easily.”
“That’s because I want my office in one piece when you leave.”
Reilly glanced at Gardener. “I don’t know who he thinks I am.”
“He has a pretty good idea.”
Gardener chose a seat opposite Fitz, as did Reilly once he had the coffees and the biscuits.
“I take it you have something for us.”
“I certainly do.” Fitz finished up the sandwich he was eating, took a sip of coffee and wiped his hands on a napkin. He retrieved a folder from a desk drawer, placing it on the desk in front of him, pulling out a sheet of paper.
“I have Michael Foreman’s dental records here so we know for a fact that it’s him, although I don’t suppose there was any doubt when we had two passports. What was the other one all about?”
Gardener took him briefly through what they knew about Michael Foreman, the night of the hit and run and the connection they had so far found to the others. He finished off with what they had come across earlier in the day – another body.
“In the same place?”
“As good as,” replied Gardener.
“Someone’s ahead of you.”
“Be nice to know who,” replied Reilly.
Gardener mentioned the quote they had found beside James Henshaw’s body.
Fitz reached into his folder again. “That’s interesting, because I found this stapled to Michael Foreman’s back.”
He passed over the A4 sheet of scrolled paper. It was identical to the one found beside James Henshaw, but the quote was different. Gardener read it before passing it over to his partner.
Then I saw when the Lamb broke one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, “Come.” I looked, and behold, a white horse, and the one who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer. Revelation 6:1-2
Reilly sighed and placed it back on the desk in front of him.
“I recognised it,” said Fitz, “it’s from The Book of Revelation. One of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, namely Pestilence.”
“The quote we found on James Henshaw this morning was also from The Book of Revelation,” said Reilly. “That quote referred to Famine.”
“Which is almost certainly what our killer did to him,” said Gardener. “He starved him.”
“Somebody obviously knows what’s going on here,” said Fitz. “I take it this James Henshaw isn’t dead yet?”
“Not that we’ve heard,” said Gardener, “but from what we saw of him I doubt he’ll survive much longer, even with the best medical care.”
“The important question for you two is where he was being kept,” said Fitz. “He’s obviously been holed up somewhere for quite some time, to be able to do that.”
“We know that,” said Gardener. “Whoever had James Henshaw very likely had Michael Foreman.”
“When do you think he took them?”
“No idea,” said Gardener. “But we’re still left with the question of who.”
“The other two are still at large,” said Reilly, “so one of those two could be responsible.”
“Unless it’s someone who knows what happened and is taking their revenge on all of them,” offered Fitz.
“It’s a good bet,” said Gardener, “but that only leaves us with one suspect, and she doesn’t really fit the bill.”
Fitz nodded but didn’t answer.
“James Henshaw’s wife, Rosie,” said Reilly, “but I can’t see how she could control everything so tightly when she has two kids to look after.”
“Apart from that we are keeping a close eye on her, and she doesn’t appear to have stepped out of line, so far,” said Gardener. “We’ve read everything that the Bradford cyber team collated on her and I have my doubts.”
“So, back to Michael Foreman, what killed him?” asked Reilly.
Fitz sucked in air through his teeth and pulled out another folder from the desk.
“I’m still awaiting the results of the screening tests.”
“But you have a good idea.”
“Yes, and I’m afraid you’re not going to like it.”
“Do we ever?” asked Reilly.
“In my opinion, what Michael Foreman had been given was a highly toxic substance, and it was administered by someone who really knew his way around the stuff. In rapidly dividing cells, blood, hair follicles, cells in the gut, sperm, bone marrow and cancer, it becomes obvious when the original cells die and are not replaced. In treating cancer you rely on cancer cells having a quick turnover and you stop the treatment before it causes cell death in other organs.”
“Is that what he was given, an anti-cancer treatment?”
“Not strictly. I’m of the opinion he was given a dose of nitrogen mustard, which is related to mustard gas, some of which can be used as anti-cancer drugs. I think it was short term, probably administered as an injection not long before you found him. If it had been long term, we would likely have seen sickness, vomiting, hair loss, infection and anaemia due to low blood cell counts – just like the Russian diplomat who was given polonium some years back.”
Gardener struggled to believe what he was hearing. “What is nitrogen mustard, and how do you get hold of it?”
“Nitrogen mustards were originally produced in the 1920s and 1930s, potentially as chemical warfare weapons,” said Fitz. “They are vesicants, or to be more precise, blister agents, similar to the sulfur mustards. They come in different forms that can smell fishy, musty, soapy, or fruity. They can be in the form of an oily-textured liquid, a vapour, or a solid. But I don’t believe it was a solid. I still think he was injected with the liquid form of the agent.”
The mention of the word agent made Gardener shudder involuntarily. That led to nerve agen
ts, which could lead to government involvement, especially when you considered where most nerve agents came from.
“But there is another complication that you might need to investigate,” said Fitz.
“Go on,” said Reilly, having risen from his seat to pour another coffee.
“They are also known by their military designations of HN-1, HN-2, and HN-3. To my knowledge,” continued Fitz, “nitrogen mustards were never used in warfare. HN-1 was originally designed to remove warts. It was later identified as a potential chemical warfare agent. HN-2 was designed as a military agent, but that was used in cancer treatment. Other treatment agents now have replaced it. HN-3 however, was designed solely as a military agent.”
“Has anyone used it?”
“Certainly not us.”
“Is it contagious?” asked Gardener.
“If nitrogen mustards are released into the air as a vapour, you could be exposed through skin contact, eye contact, or breathing. If it’s released into water, then you’d be exposed if you drank the contaminated water, or getting it on your skin.”
“But you think this was injected in liquid form, so how likely is the exposure?”
“Very slight,” replied Fitz. “You could be exposed by coming into direct contact with liquid nitrogen mustards but I don’t believe either of you were.”
“Is there an antidote if you are?” asked Reilly.
“No,” said Fitz. “No antidote exists for nitrogen mustard exposure, the best thing to do is avoid it.”
“Now he tells us.”
“So which one of the three do you think he was given?” asked Gardener, not relishing the answer, or its implications.
“Without the results of the toxic screen I won’t know for definite, but in my opinion he was given HN-3.”
“And you’d get that where?” asked Reilly.
Fitz sat back, deep in thought. “There are any number of places on the black market, if you know the right people or the right place to look. If you two are going to start anywhere there’s only one place I know in the UK.”
“Go on,” said Gardener.
“Porton Down.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Downstairs in a bathroom unit at the rear of the building, the driver opened a cupboard. Reaching inside he selected a sealed vial of iodine, and a vitamin supplement for Zoe Harrison.
His hand shook when he slipped it into the box of syringes. Before he even extracted the bloody thing he could feel his forehead sweating and his legs weakening.
He placed them in a small Boots bag before leaning back against the wall, calming his breathing.
When he felt ready he stood up straight, smiling about the fact that his prisoner thought she’d be given Carbimazole, a pro drug used to control an over-active thyroid; it stopped the thyroid gland from making too much thyroid hormone. Clearing out her riverside apartment, he had studied Zoe’s medicine cupboard. A couple of hours’ worth of research, both on the internet, and studying all her paperwork in a small wall safe she kept hidden behind an oil painting – how original – and he knew exactly what she was suffering from.
That had led him into researching things that were bad for her. People with hyperthyroidism should avoid preparations high in iodine because it can make the condition paradoxically worse. Additionally, in certain people it could provoke hypothyroidism.
Once he had emptied her cupboards he very carefully drained the sealed bottles of Carbimazole, replacing it with iodine, which was now beginning to take its toll. But it wouldn’t be for much longer.
She really needed to avoid products such as kelp. They would almost certainly interfere with the thyroid function. He knew kelp was derived from seaweed, naturally high in iodine. According to Google, it was sometimes marketed as a “thyroid booster”. He’d purchased it in dry preparations and tablets, grinding up both. As with iodine, kelp would have no health benefits for her at all.
Something else to avoid was soya, which also interfered with thyroxine absorption. That was more of a problem for him. She did not drink tea or coffee, or hot drinks of any description, only energy drinks. Soya milk would have been perfect.
Feeling calmer, he left the bathroom and headed up the stairs two at a time. He opened the door. She was still sitting at her desk, her hands flying across the keyboard. Suddenly, as he closed the door, she went into a spasm, wrapping her hands around her stomach.
“About time,” she said, through gritted teeth. “God only knows what’s wrong with me.”
He put the small bag on the table, retreating to the door, and standing with his back to it. Not that she would try to escape but he was taking nothing for granted.
She pulled everything out of the bag, inspecting it. She held the sealed packet containing the syringe in the air, at arms’ length to her, and a little closer to him than he would have liked. His breathing quickened. He was beginning to wonder if she had cottoned on and was taunting him. All his research had told him that Zoe Harrison was by far the sharpest tool in the box. He was going to have to watch her more carefully.
Another forceful movement, probably another spasm, resulted in Zoe dropping the syringe.
The driver felt it was deliberate, as she’d made sure she threw the syringe toward him.
Once the spasm had allegedly passed she glanced at him, her arms still comforting her body.
“Can you pass that, please?”
He kicked it over. He doubted very much she could unseal it and do anything to him but his training told him not to take chances. As did his trypanophobia – if you were frightened of needles you stayed away from them.
She quickly picked it up, extracting the syringe.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” said the driver, slipping out of the room.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Entering the incident room, Gardener had a number of things on his mind but prioritising his actions was uppermost. Things had changed, and no doubt they would continue to, largely depending on what his team had to say.
He studied the whiteboards, which had been updated in his absence as the news came in. James Henshaw now had one to himself.
He took a sip of water and turned to face his team.
“Okay, let’s see what we’ve learned in the small amount of time we’ve had. As you all know we discovered a second body in Butts Court earlier today, which we believe to be James Henshaw. From what we saw, Sean and I are of the opinion he’s been held captive somewhere and systematically starved, kept alive with only water. That would have been excruciating. Underneath his body were a number of items, two of which were passports; one in the name of James Henshaw, and the other in his DPA character, Jack Heaton.”
“You make him sound like a character in a game, sir,” offered Patrick Edwards.
“Right now, he’ll wish he was,” said Reilly.
“Is he still alive?” asked Dave Rawson.
“I haven’t heard anything to the contrary, Dave,” continued Gardener. “Also underneath his body we had a quote on a scroll. Add that to what Sean and I discovered from Fitz earlier today, and this investigation has become a whole different ball game.
“Sean and I are now convinced that someone is taking revenge on the DPA team. Whoever it is, he or she means business, considering the extreme lengths to which they’re going to administer justice. What we don’t know is who’s responsible? We appear to have a number of suspects in the frame but I’d like to go with what, if any, information you guys have found before I make any decisions.”
Gardener turned to officers Thornton and Anderson. “One suspect now is Rosie Henshaw. Shortly after the hit and run, her husband, James, disappeared, as did the other members of the DPA team; one of his business partner’s then shows up and dies in suspicious circumstances. This morning, her husband is discovered near to death and, to my knowledge, is still critical.
“That leaves two people from the DPA team, either still at large, or also being held captive somewhere. Finding them a
live is imperative. What does Rosie Henshaw know? Is she involved? You guys paid her a visit today, what did you find out?”
Anderson took up the challenge. “Well, we know from Winter’s notes that she’s been living a lie, but whether or not she knows more than she’s letting on is another matter.” He confirmed what they already knew about false business premises and the Overfinch not where it was supposed to be.
“When we spoke to her today, sir,” said Frank Thornton, “she claimed she hardly met any of the other members of the DPA team but she dislikes them intensely.”
“Why?” Gardener asked.
“She wasn’t very specific,” replied Anderson, “but it was the expressions and the gestures when she talked about them that backed up her feelings. She said that Zoe Harrison was totally unsociable, reckoned that to communicate with her you had to send a text or an email even if you were in the same room. Although she did say that it was Harrison’s money that started the company.”
“She claims to have met Michael Foreman only twice,” said Thornton.
“Twice?” questioned Gardener. “In how many years?” he asked, quickly searching his notes on DPA.
“About eight,” replied Thornton. “Apparently they were not the type of company to socialise or hold Christmas parties. They rarely, if ever, got together and the only person she spoke positively about was Anthony Palmer.”
“How so?”
“She reckoned he was more of a family man than the others. He had an aunt and uncle who lived close by but she didn’t know where.”
“But we do,” said Reilly.
“Did you feel she was hiding anything?” Gardener asked. “Is she capable of what we’ve seen?”
“I don’t get that impression,” replied Anderson. “She’s fiery, I’ll give her that, but I think it’s more of a passion for her keeping her family safe.”
“I think she feels totally let down,” said Thornton. “Her husband isn’t the man she thought he was, and despite the fact that she didn’t like the others, I don’t think she thought they were capable of murder. That alone has turned her world upside down. Winter asked if he could put a tap on her landline so that if any of them called her at any point, the conversation would be recorded. Shona Pearson gave us those transcripts.”
