IMPURITY Ray Clark (types of ebook readers .txt) 📖

“No.”

“Not Thornwell?”

Sutton paused. “No, never with Thornwell.”

“Did you see him with Plum when he was with Olive Bradshaw?”

“No. He were only ever with Plum.”

“And you’ve no idea what kind of relationship they had?”

“What?” Sutton’s expression suggested he was horrified by the question. “You mean, like, Felix and Plum, a couple of puffs?”

“I didn’t necessarily mean that. I meant, how close? Father and son close, for instance? Or friends?”

Sutton paused and thought. Then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr Gardener, I don’t know.”

Gardener realized he was going to have to terminate the interview. He’d suspected all along that Sutton was no killer. Although he was disappointed, he had picked up some useful information. He checked his watch before nodding to Briggs and Reilly. To Sutton, he said, “One more thing before you go.”

Gardener produced a document. “Can you just sign this for me?”

“What is it?” asked Sutton.

“It’s nothing. Just a release paper. Lets you know you haven’t been arrested, and you understand that you’re not being charged. You know what it’s like, all that red tape.”

Gardener observed Sutton pick up the pen and sign the papers. With his right hand.

Chapter Forty

As Gardener approached the lab, he could hear Fitz on the other side of the doors.

Judging by the shouting, the pathologist’s mood was bordering diabolical. As he opened the door, Fitz stopped mid-fury, turning and lowering his arms. He sighed at the sight of Gardener. “How many hours do they think I have in my day? I suppose you want a piece of me now, too?”

A quick survey of the lab informed Gardener that Fitz was letting off steam. The only other occupant was a lanky, twenty-year-old assistant tucked away in the far corner, paying little heed to the senior man. Gardener cautiously approached the gurney that Fitz was working on.

“What… is… that?”

“A mummy.”

The sight of the bandaged corpse piqued Gardener’s curiosity. “Where did it come from?”

“Sheffield.”

Gardener studied it. The mummified rags were mouldy, covered in dust and cobwebs. The exterior appeared parched. He imagined one touch would disintegrate the whole thing.

Fitz continued. “Police in Sheffield found it in a cupboard at the top of the stairs. Young couple had bought the house. They were in the process of moving in, deciding what to decorate, where to put things, when they found it.”

“How long’s it been there?”

“Quite a while, I should imagine. It’s virtually a carbon copy of the one found in a house in Rhyl, North Wales, in 1960. Leslie Harvey, a taxi-driver, was redecorating his mother’s house while she was in hospital. The cupboard at the top of the stairs had always been locked since he was a boy. When curiosity got the better of him one day, he forced it open and found a mummy. It was stuck solid to the floor. They had to use a spade to prise it loose.”

Gardener was surprised by his morbid fascination.

“Apparently Leslie’s mother once had a semi-invalid lodger boarding with her. One day she found the lodger on the floor, screaming in agony. Shortly afterwards, the lodger died. His mother didn’t know what to do, so she locked the body in the cupboard.”

Gardener sighed but declined to comment.

Fitz strode over to the sink to clean up. When he’d finished, he said, “Follow me.”

Gardener anticipated bad news. The pathologist entered his office and sat behind his desk. He slid a sealed bag with the syringe from the church grounds across the desk to Gardener.

“I take it you’ve found out what was in it?” Gardener asked as he examined it.

“Curare!”

“Pardon?”

“Takes some believing, doesn’t it? I’m certain it belongs to the killer. It confirms earlier thoughts of the victim being incapacitated by something. You see, most drugs take time to act, which means the victim is capable of resistance. An injection of curare would paralyze the victim almost instantly, making a struggle impossible.”

“What exactly is curare?”

“A skeletal-muscle-relaxant drug of botanical origin. It’s used in modern medicine primarily as an auxiliary in general anaesthesia. But it’s more widely known as a very old and lethal poison. One of the earliest encounters appears to have been during the exploration of the Lake Maracaibo region in Colombia by Alonzo Perez de Tolosa in 1548. Scientific studies of the substance began in the latter part of the eighteenth century with the Akawai Indians of Surinam. They used it as a poison on their arrows.”

“Any idea why it’s being used now? Here?”

Gardener was struggling to accept Fitz’s findings. Lethal poisons, body-destroying chemicals. The outlook was growing bleaker by the day.

“Almost certainly as a blocking agent. It produces flaccidity in striated muscle. Which means it prevents nerve impulses from activating skeletal, or voluntary muscles. It’s pretty dangerous stuff. I think the person you’re looking for knows exactly what he’s doing with it. It first affects the muscles of the toes, ears, and eyes, then the neck and the limbs and, finally, respiration. In fatal doses, death is caused by respiratory paralysis.”

“Is curare capable of destroying the body?”

Fitz sighed. “No.”

Gardener cursed and glanced upwards. “Marvellous.”

“I wouldn’t give up just yet. At least we know how the killer is operating. My guess is, the victims know the killer. I imagine they’re taken by surprise, immediately injected with the curare which renders them disabled. Then the killer has the time to perform the real task.”

“Would the victim be aware of what was happening?” asked Gardener.

“Almost certainly. We’ve done tests with curare. In fact, I did one yesterday with Richard.” Fitz chuckled. Richard was his lanky assistant ignoring him in the corner. “Gave him a small dose. Frightened him half to death. He was aware of everything, even heard me talking, but he couldn’t move a muscle. It wore off after a few minutes. He was all