The deadliest legacy, p.17
The Deadliest Legacy, page 17
‘It was hard to tell, boss. It wasn’t even clear to me whether or not she could breathe unaided.’
‘Did you ask when we might be able to talk to her again?’
‘Not exactly, boss. Didn’t seem any chance of it. They were pretty much still fighting to save her life.’
Vogel checked his watch. It was not quite five a.m.
‘All right, Perkins, you take yourself off home and get some sleep,’ he instructed. ‘But before you go, find one of the uniforms who’ve just arrived and send them up here to take over from you. Preferably the woman – PC Docherty. Might be better under the circumstances. Seem a bit less heavy-handed.’
As he spoke, Vogel realized he had probably been voicing sentiments no male officer should give voice to any more, particularly not a senior officer. He shook his head at his inability to fit into the modern world sometimes. He was never going to be woke, was he? However hard he tried.
He watched Perkins take off in search of Docherty. The DC made no comment. For a fleeting second, Vogel wondered what he was thinking. But there were rather more important issues demanding his attention.
He considered calling Nobby Clarke then, in order to get the enquiry stepped up to attempted murder status. He wasn’t worried about waking her, not any more. Not after an attempted murder. But he would very much like to be able to speak to Delia Day before he did so. He had felt all along that Delia’s show of bravado was just that, and possibly concealing certain information she did not wish to share with him. Or at least, until now she hadn’t wished to share with him.
A senior nurse passed by, probably the nurse in charge, Vogel thought. He introduced himself and asked when he and Saslow could see Delia.
‘It’s vital that we question Miss Day as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘Ideally, I would like to see her straight away.’
‘I’m afraid the answer is no at the moment, Detective Chief Inspector,’ responded the nurse. ‘Miss Day very nearly died, as I expect you know. We need to be sure she is out of danger and functioning properly before we can allow her to be interviewed by the police. She is actually only barely conscious. So in any case I doubt you would get much out of her right now. I’m running this ward until the day shift come on at eight, and there’ll be doctors’ rounds soon after. I’m sorry, but I certainly couldn’t permit you to talk to her until then.’
‘I’ll respect that for the moment,’ responded Vogel. ‘But I must insist that a police officer sits right by Miss Day’s bed and keeps watch over her. After what happened earlier, I’m sure you would agree to that.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said the nurse. ‘As long as they don’t try to talk to her.’
‘They won’t—’
Vogel was interrupted by the arrival at the ward, with excellent timing, of PC Morag Docherty.
‘Reporting for sentry duty, sir,’ she said, by way of greeting.
‘Right, Docherty, please do not move from Delia Day’s bedside until you are relieved,’ instructed Vogel. ‘It is quite likely she is still in danger.’
‘Yes, sir, of course, sir,’ said Docherty smartly.
Vogel knew that Morag Docherty was an experienced constable, with a reputation for having a brain that was every bit as sharp as the way she looked and spoke. It was good to have her around, and her presence also meant he could fulfil his promise to his daughter.
‘Before you get settled in, Docherty, any news at all on the missing cats? I suspect I would have been told if you’d found my Rosamund’s Storey?’
‘Yes, indeed, sir. And I’m afraid we only have bad news. It’s just been reported that another cat went missing on Friday night. From Northam. Went out before bedtime as usual, and hasn’t been seen since.’
‘Damn it. No leads at all, still?’
‘Not really, sir. In any case, we’ve been taken off it at the moment because of the festival—’
‘Yes, of course, Docherty,’ interrupted Vogel.
He called out to the nurse who was on her way back into the ward.
‘Nurse, I would very much like you to let PC Docherty know as soon as we can talk to Miss Day. I can’t stress too much how important this is.’
The nurse agreed that she would. Vogel turned to Docherty again.
‘Call me as soon as you have any news at all,’ he instructed. ‘Most importantly, when we can talk to Delia, of course, but also anything else that you notice – a change in condition, however minute. And watch out for anyone not obviously medical staff who tries to approach Delia. Is that clear?’
Docherty said it was crystal clear.
Vogel checked his watch again. They still had more than an hour and a half to kill before heading for the post-mortem. There was little point in leaving the hospital and attempting to move the investigation forward elsewhere.
‘How do you fancy some breakfast, Saslow?’ Vogel asked. Saslow asserted that she would very much fancy some breakfast, and suggested the Costa situated just behind A and E. It was, however, closed. Which was not surprising at that hour. After all, it was still the middle of the night, more or less, thought Vogel. Only it seemed neither of them had given that a thought.
‘Funny, if you are up and about, how you just assume everyone else is too, whatever the time, don’t you think, Saslow?’ remarked Vogel somewhat philosophically.
‘Yes, boss,’ agreed Saslow obligingly.
They had to make do with coffee and biscuits from a vending machine, which they carried to a row of empty chairs just off the main corridor on the way to orthopaedics.
Once settled there, Vogel called Clarke. She didn’t question the time of call, and neither had he expected her to. She would know perfectly well that he wouldn’t call her at that hour without a sound reason.
He told her briefly and succinctly about the attack on Delia as she lay in her hospital bed. An attack that could only be regarded as an attempt on Delia’s life, he remarked.
‘Almost certainly the second attempt by the same perpetrator, boss,’ he continued. ‘I have no doubt that we are investigating two cases of attempted murder. And I think we should set up that incident room and an investigation team accordingly.’
Clarke didn’t respond directly.
‘What about a post-mortem on James Harding? Do we have that set up yet?’
‘Yes boss, it’s scheduled for seven this morning.’
‘And you are hoping that the post-mortem will discover that James Harding did not die of natural causes, after all, are you not?’
‘I don’t know about hoping, boss. But I’m pretty certain that will prove to be the case. Even more than I was when we last spoke.’
He also told her about Harding and Day sitting down behind the wrong name cards at the beginning of their panel.
‘I see. So you now think that Harding was killed by mistake, is that it?’
‘Well, boss, I do believe that is what could have happened.’
‘So how exactly was he killed? Nobody approached either of the panellists on stage, did they? Nobody was shot or stabbed or strangled, were they?’
‘No, boss. And if they had been, the killer would, in the first place, almost certainly have been apprehended at once, and, in the second place, wouldn’t have been very likely to kill the wrong person. I think there may have been a less immediately obvious MO.’
‘Oh, Vogel, for God’s sake, you don’t really believe Harding was poisoned, do you?’
‘I strongly suspect it, boss. There were bottles of apple juice put out for each participant. I think our perpetrator spiked the wrong one – the bottle placed where Delia Day should have been sitting. But that bottle of juice ended up being in front of James Harding. And he drank it, or a considerable quantity of it, I understand. And, as you point out, boss, no third party inflicted any sort of injury on Harding, so I’ve pretty much come to the conclusion that poison is the only reasonable alternative to natural causes in this case.’
‘Reasonable? You must be aware that poisoning is a thoroughly unfashionable murder method in the twenty-first century. Far too easily detected with modern forensics.’
‘Yes, well, maybe we don’t have a very modern murderer. And if I’m wrong, and James Harding was the intended victim, well, he was a perfect candidate for a heart attack, and – without what has happened since – there may not even have been a post-mortem. Not straight away anyway. I have to admit that he does have a history of heart trouble. A dodgy valve, apparently. We’ve already checked his medical records.’
‘But even that didn’t make you change your mind?’
‘No, boss …’
‘As intransigent as always. I would expect nothing other. Tell me, Vogel, have you ever actually investigated a poisoning?’
‘No, boss. But I’m well aware of more than one very high-profile case in recent times. As I’m sure are you. The Skripals, father and daughter, only narrowly survived after being poisoned in Salisbury by the nerve agent Novichok, and then there was Alexander Litvinenko who died in a London hospital after being poisoned—’
‘Vogel, you know perfectly well these were people linked with international espionage, who were believed to have been targeted by Russian assassins,’ interrupted Clarke. ‘I doubt there are too many wannabe murderers in North Devon this weekend who can get their hands on Novichok, or even have a clue what it is or what it does.’
‘Fair enough, boss. Doesn’t rule out a more readily available poison, though. Anyway, we’ll know soon enough. Saslow and I are attending the post-mortem, and I’ll contact you as soon as we have any news.’
‘Good. Meanwhile, I’ll get it cleared for you to move into Bideford nick. Are you happy with Janet Peters as your deputy SIO and office manager?’
‘More than,’ replied Vogel.
He had worked with DI Peters on two previous cases. On the first occasion, he had not been entirely impressed, perhaps because she was relatively new to the task, and he’d been still hankering after DI Margot Hartley, the experienced deputy he had worked with during his time in Bristol with the Avon and Somerset. But Janet Peters had just seemed to get better and better. She was quick, clever, indomitable and fiercely loyal. He was delighted to have her on board again.
‘I’ll send an MCT presence over straight away, also get some local officers on board,’ Clarke continued. ‘And if your hunch is right, Vogel …’
She paused. Vogel knew that she was aware how much the suggestion that he was following a hunch would annoy him. That wasn’t how he saw it at all. Vogel believed that he had studied the facts and carefully deduced the most likely conclusion.
‘And if your hunch is right,’ Nobby Clarke repeated, to the DCI’s further annoyance, ‘then we’ll be launching a full-scale murder enquiry today, probably before half the country sits down to its breakfast. Then I’ll ship in teams from stations right across the two counties to bring you up to full strength.’
‘Thank you, boss,’ said Vogel levelly. He’d got what he wanted. It wasn’t the time to be small about it.
SIXTEEN
Vogel and Saslow, kitted up in PPE, entered the mortuary on the far side of the hospital complex just a few minutes before seven.
Daisy Dobbs was already there. So was James Harding, or Vogel assumed it was James Harding, as the body on the table dedicated to post-mortem examination – which was more or less a large tray with a raised edge, on legs and slanted so that blood did not spill on to the floor – was covered entirely by a sheet.
Daisy’s assistant, Raoul, whom Vogel had met before, was laying out the required instruments on a smaller adjacent table. These included a powered bone saw, primarily used to cut open the chest cavity, a knife closely resembling a domestic bread knife, and usually called by that name, which was used to shave off slices of organs for examination, special scissors for opening up the intestines, a hammer with a hook to remove the cap of the skull, and a Hagedorn needle, used to sew up the body after examination. There was also a set of rib shears, used to get at important organs inside the ribcage. Some pathologists believed that shears gave them more manageability in certain instances than a power saw. When Vogel had been in the Met, he had worked with a pathologist – even more eccentric than, in Vogel’s opinion, they usually were – who liked to use a set of garden shears which he insisted were better suited to the job than any specialist implement he had been supplied with.
Vogel took it all in at a glance. The very sight of the body on that awful table, and the instruments being prepared to summarily dissect it, was enough to have already made him feel slightly nauseous.
‘Morning David, Dawn,’ Daisy Dobbs greeted them cheerfully.
It was Vogel’s experience that pathologists always seemed to be cheerful. As well as eccentric. Vogel responded in kind, as much as he could manage. Unlike him, Saslow never seemed concerned on these occasions.
‘Right, so as we’re all here, we may as well begin,’ Daisy continued. ‘You all set, David?’
Vogel ignored her. He just wished people would leave him alone to cope with his various inadequacies.
First came the external examination, which even Vogel could cope with easily enough. Daisy scrutinized Harding’s entire body, back and front, removed hair samples, head and pubic, and also took samples of saliva, ear wax, and mucus from inside the nose. She photographed everything step by step and gave a recorded running commentary.
She paid particular attention to Harding’s face and mouth, eventually making a remark which put Vogel on red alert.
‘There is some swelling of the mouth and tongue and discolouration of the skin around the mouth which could be consistent with the presence of a toxic substance,’ she said.
The internal examination began as usual with the dissecting of the subject’s ribcage, or, as all pathologists were inclined to say, the unzipping. This was the bit that caused Vogel the biggest problem. He could instantly feel the bile rising in his chest and throat until he could taste it at the back of his mouth. You really would think he’d have got used to it by now, the number of post-mortems he’d attended. But he hadn’t. He did what he always did, bowed his head slightly, shut his eyes and hoped nobody would notice. Though he was fairly sure that the people who worked with him regularly, like Saslow and Daisy Dobbs, were perfectly aware of what he was doing. And he could still hear the crunching sounds of the chest breaking open and the slurping squelching noises as Daisy delved into the organs within the cavity.
When he thought the worst was over, he opened half an eye. Daisy was harvesting various biological fluids and tissues, no doubt for toxicology tests.
She paused in her recorded commentary and addressed Vogel and Saslow directly.
‘We’re going to start with presumptive tests,’ she began. ‘Primarily of stomach contents, urine, and blood.’
Vogel had a fair idea of what she was talking about. Saslow looked blank, which Daisy Dobbs obviously noticed.
‘Colour tests, Dawn,’ she said. ‘The substances I have collected will be tested by a reagent which will effect a colour change if any of the specific compounds, or classes of compounds, which we may be looking for are present. In this case, dangerous toxins or poisons. The emphasis for colour tests, which are quick and easy to perform, is on indication. Such tests do not provide confirmation of identity. Almost certainly, we will have to complete further more complex and specialist forensic tests, which will take a little longer.’
‘But will these tests give you a pretty good idea, more or less straight away, of whether or not James Harding has ingested or otherwise absorbed a poisonous substance?’ asked Saslow.
‘They will indeed,’ Daisy replied.
Vogel was aware that Raoul was already beginning the analysis process of the substances extracted from James Harding’s body. He was preparing slides, rather as Vogel remembered from school, but beyond that, this was a whole new world of science. In modern pathology, analysis is primarily digital. Both Daisy and her assistant were now studying computer screens linked to a high-tech unit into which the slides were inserted.
Vogel made himself wait in silence for Daisy to speak again.
After just a few moments, Daisy stood up and moved closer to Vogel and Saslow.
‘Almost all of the biological fluids we have removed from James Harding’s body contain a significant level of toxins,’ she announced. ‘Indeed, a catastrophically high level. To such an extent that I think you can safely assume that your theory is right, David. James Harding has been poisoned.’
‘Wow!’ said Saslow.
‘Right,’ said Vogel. ‘But do I take it that you can’t tell us at this stage what poisoned him or how it was administered?’
‘No to both of those. These colour tests can often indicate the nature of a specific poison, or indeed a drug, but, in this case, there is nothing we have been able to recognize so far. Raoul here thinks it’s something neotropical. He’s a bit of an expert in that field – before leaving India, he worked for a while at the subcontinent’s answer to Porton Down.’
‘Porton Down? That’s where they research chemical warfare, isn’t it?’ Saslow blurted out.
Meanwhile, Vogel was wondering if his conversation with Nobby Clarke concerning fatal and near-fatal attacks with rare and deadly poisons by secret service agents or the like might turn out not to be as far-fetched as she had suggested.
‘Not entirely, it also involves research into toxic and poisonous substances for all kinds of reasons,’ interjected Raoul. ‘As indeed was the case at the laboratory where I was employed in India.’
‘So are you going to be able to find out exactly what did kill Harding, and how long will that take?’ asked Vogel bluntly.
‘Oh yes,’ said Daisy. ‘Particularly with Raoul’s specialist knowledge. And within hours, rather than days, I would hope.’
SEVENTEEN
Vogel was just wondering whether to await developments in the hospital or pay a visit to the newly emerging incident room at Bideford Police Station when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.
PC Docherty’s name was displayed on the screen.
