Part 6 (2/2)

Norman, the retired schoolteacher, looked up from his digging, a worried expression on his gaunt face. 'Is something wrong, Dr Watson?'

Neil forced himself to smile. 'No, Norman, it's nothing. How are you getting on?'

As Norman gave a detailed description of his discoveries, Neil noticed him glance over at Lenny warily. Almost as if he was afraid.

The coffee at Le Pet.i.t Poisson had given Wesley Peterson an appet.i.te so he picked up a sandwich from Burton's b.u.t.ties on the way back to the police station.

As he entered the shop he almost collided with a fair-haired young woman who was carrying a large wicker basket filled with sandwiches over her arm. She wore a name badge that said 'Joanne' and smiled shyly as he made his apologies.

He was served by a man wearing a man wearing a badge that told the world he was 'Robbie Manager' Steve's father himself. Wesley kept the conversation to a minimum, wondering whether Steve had mentioned that there was a black inspector in his department who thought he was G.o.d's gift to detection and that would be the good version. Wesley left the sandwich shop with his tuna mayonnaise baguette, as anonymously as he'd gone in.

When he got back to the station, climbing the stairs rather than taking the lift, he found a report on his desk. It was from Colin Bowman and as soon as he'd read through it, he abandoned his lunch and made straight for Gerry Heffernan's office. He'd want to know about this.

The DCI's office was gla.s.s fronted. A goldfish bowl for a publicity-shy goldfish. On several occasions Heffernan had threatened to bring a set of net curtains to give him more privacy as he sat with his feet on his cluttered desk, contemplating the workings of the criminal mind.

He looked up, saw Wesley approaching, and signalled him to come in. Wesley was clutching Colin's report to his chest and he placed it in front of his boss with a flourish.

'Remember Socrates?'

'Didn't he play for Manchester United?'

'The Greek philosopher.'

'Bit before my time, Wes. What about him?'

'He poisoned himself with hemlock.'

Heffernan sat back in his mock-leather executive swivel chair and it emitted a loud groan. 'And?' He wished Wesley would get to the punch line.

'Hemlock was found in Charles Marrick's body.'

Heffernan sat for a few moments in stunned silence. 'Hemlock? You mean he was poisoned then someone stabbed him in the throat? Why didn't they just leave him to die of the poison?'

'Belt and braces? They wanted to make sure?' Wesley said the words but he wasn't really convinced. If you went to the trouble of poisoning someone, why not just let the lethal substance do its job? Why risk detection by hanging around and getting yourself covered with blood? It didn't make sense.

He took the report off Heffernan's desk and began to reread it. He hadn't taken in the details the first time and now he noted every point. 'Colin's given us a useful list of the effects of hemlock.'

Heffernan scratched his head. 'Go on.'

'Its effects are similar to those of curare although it's slower acting. It paralyses the muscles.'

Heffernan held up his hand. 'Maybe that's why there were no defensive wounds. Colin was puzzled about that, wasn't he?'

'It says here that the symptoms of poisoning can take a while to appear and the victim can take several hours to die. There's a gradual weakening of the muscles resulting in paralysis and eventual failure of the lungs but the victim's mind remains clear until death occurs.'

'So when he was stabbed he would have known exactly what was going on. Whoever did this must be a s.a.d.i.s.tic b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

'Colin makes one interesting observation. Did you know that quail can eat hemlock seeds and be immune to the poison? Then, if someone eats the contaminated meat, it can kill them.'

Heffernan raised his eyebrows. 'Wasn't Marrick's last meal quail or something like it? Do you think that's what happened? Do you think he ate contaminated quail? Perhaps the killer called and found him there helpless and took the opportunity.'

Wesley considered this scenario for a moment: it was a possibility. 'But whether or not this quail theory's correct, we need to know where Marrick ate lunch on the day he died. I'll send someone round all the local eating places with a photo.' He paused for a few moments. 'Fabrice Colbert seemed most offended when I suggested he was serving quail at the moment. Apparently it's out of season and all the ingredients he uses are fresh. But if he happened to have a quail stuck away in his freezer ...'

'He might have treated the man he knew had cheated him to a free lunch.'

Wesley smiled. 'And we all know there's no such thing, don't we?'

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. DC Paul Johnson was standing there with a sheet of paper in his hand. And he looked excited.

Heffernan gestured to him to come in and Paul opened the door. 'Fingerprint reports are back, sir.' He looked from one man to the other, his eyes keen as a gun dog, anxious to make a good impression.

'Well?' said Wesley, wondering when Paul was going to let them into his secret.

'There's two reports here. First one concerns a letter sent to a Neil Watson standard computer paper, self-seal envelope and a few smudged prints but nothing that matches our records.' He paused as if he was saving the best till last. 'And the second is from the Marrick murder Foxglove House.'

Paul placed the sheet of paper on the desk in front of the DCI. 'There were several clear prints that didn't belong to family members or cleaners, sir.' He paused for effect. 'They belong to a Darren Collins. He's from London and he did three years for a post office robbery fourteen years ago.'

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. This brought a whole new dimension to the case. And it muddied the waters that were just beginning to clear.

'Has this Collins got a history of violence?' Wesley asked.

Paul considered the question for a moment. 'He held up a post office with a replica gun but he's had no form since then.'

'So where is he now?' Heffernan muttered rhetorically. 'Is there a photo of this Collins character?'

Paul produced an old photograph and placed it on the desk beside the report. Wesley picked it up and stared at it. The young man who stared out at him was around eighteen with close cropped hair, resentful eyes and a small tattoo of a spider on his neck. There was something familiar about him but Wesley couldn't think what it was. Maybe he had just seen too many like him before. Young tearaways out of control, terrorising a postmaster or off licence a.s.sistant for a handful of notes from the till that would keep him in drugs till the money ran out again.

But, according to police records, this particular young thug hadn't continued his career of crime. Unless he just hadn't been caught.

Wesley pa.s.sed the photograph back to Paul. 'Find out all you can about this Collins character, will you? See if you can establish any connection with any unsolved local crimes ... or with Charles Marrick. Check on the staff in his warehouse. And get someone from uniform to go round all the local pubs and restaurants to ask if Marrick ate lunch there on the day he died and, if so, was he with anyone. Look for places with quail on the menu.'

Paul was about to leave the office when Gerry Heffernan spoke. 'While you're at it, Paul, ask Rachel to go round to Le Pet.i.t Poisson and chat up the staff check exactly what time Fabrice Colbert got back on the afternoon of the murder. Okay?'

The tall, thin detective constable nodded wearily. For the first time in his career, Paul Johnson was starting to look as if the workload was getting him down.

Annette Marrick was doing her best to play the grieving widow. While the police were still hanging around the place like flies round a piece of rotten meat, she had to keep up the pretence. The pretence that she and Charlie had been a devoted couple. That he'd not betrayed her with other women. And that she'd been the model of fidelity.

Living a lie made her restless. Made her want to kick out and shout the truth in their smug, pious faces. Charlie was a lying, cheating b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Charlie was cruel and liked inflicting pain. And if she sought solace elsewhere, she couldn't be blamed. Anyone would have done the same.

She stood in the huge dining kitchen that was serving as a living room now the lounge was out of action, with her back to the door. She needed privacy. There was something she needed to do.

Petronella was around somewhere but there was one place Annette knew she wouldn't go and that was the lounge. The place still reeked of blood that rotting, faintly metallic stench she couldn't get out of her nostrils and the splashes on the walls had dried to a rusty brown. The carpet had been taken up and the sofa removed on her instructions. She had seen no point in keeping things as they were to remind her of that awful day.

Annette shut the door behind her and stood there, thinking about what she'd say. She'd be casual ... call in a favour. After all, she'd do the same for them if the situation ever arose. She listened for a while before picking up the phone and pressing out the number. The ringing tone seemed to last for ever and she was about to abandon the call when Betina answered.

'Darling,' Annette whispered. 'I'm going to ask you a great favour.' She was about to outline what that favour was when she heard a sound. She watched with horror as the doork.n.o.b turned slowly. 'I'll call you back,' she hissed into the phone before hiding the thing behind her back just as the door swung open.

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