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

That meant Gardener could certainly rule out Craig Sutton. Apart from the fact that Sutton was right-handed, he suspected Sutton was too big to work with such precision. Not to mention he lacked the intelligence to handle such a deadly toxin. The field was open again.

Gardener thought about Summers. Although he was convinced the agent had withheld information, there still wasn’t enough evidence to suggest his involvement. Where did Warthead fit in? The motive was clear – revenge. Someone out there had a grievance, a score to settle. The biggest question, however, was what had Thornwell and Plum done to warrant such a terrible death? Christ! What a can of worms.

“What are you thinking, Stewart?”

“I’m trying to eliminate suspects. Maybe I need to study the medical sector more closely.”

“Possibly. As I’ve said, use too much, and you’ll kill the victim. Your man is using the exact amount to keep his victim alive. Maybe even sadistic enough to talk to them, tell them why he’s doing this before administering something even more disturbing. It’s someone who’s extremely intelligent, highly efficient. I think the syringe was deliberately thrown into the bushes for you to find. Whoever it is, they’re more than likely playing games with us now.”

“And you’ve still no idea what’s destroying the body?”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could help you, but there’s a distinct lack of evidence in that department. Matthew Stapleton is still no further on than I am.”

Gardener rose and picked up the bag containing the syringe.

“So, where the hell do I go from here?”

Chapter Forty-one

Gardener’s team was in the incident room at eight o’clock sharp. The air of trepidation was palpable. The last person in was Briggs, who shut the door and sat in one corner with his arms folded.

“There’ve been some new developments, but I’d like to see what you’ve gathered first,” said Gardener. He was standing next to the spider chart with a pen at the ready. Glancing at Sharp, he asked, “Colin, what have you found out about Thornwell?”

Sharp addressed the gathering with the help of his notebook. “In some respects, he was similar to Plum. Bernard Thornwell was a sixty-three-year-old single male who lived in a bedsit in Middleton. Seems he had few friends, but a neighbour has confirmed one of them as being Herbert Plum. Thornwell was last seen on Friday afternoon when he left for work dressed as Santa Claus.”

“Dressed as a Santa?” Gardener asked.

“Apparently, he used to get changed before he went to work. He was often seen in the local pubs wearing his uniform.”

“Did this neighbour say anything about a clown’s outfit?”

“No, only a Santa suit.”

“Did he have any female acquaintances? Has he ever been married?”

“According to the neighbour, he was at one time. He and his wife lived in the Holt Park area. When she died about seven years ago, he was left with a lot of debts. He sold the house to clear them, and ended up in Middleton.”

“Okay,” said Gardener, bullet-pointing the information Sharp had relayed on the chart. When he’d finished, he turned back to the group. “There’s a task for someone. Find out from his previous address all you can about him. What his wife was like, how the debts accumulated. Speak to old colleagues, neighbours. Go as far back as it takes. Dig up everything you can.”

“Do you want me to cover that?” Sharp asked.

“No, I have something else in mind for you. Anything else to add?”

Sharp returned to his notes. “Unlike Plum, he paid his tax, national insurance. Had bank accounts, credit cards, and from what I’ve found out, didn’t owe anyone anything.”

“Compared to Herbert Plum he seems like a saint. But someone wanted him dead. So, there has to be an incident in his past. I want to know what it was. Did you search the flat, Colin? Any pornography?”

“It was clean, everything in its place. Food in the cupboards, bed made. The room was pretty tidy, considering he was a widower. No porn, but then again, no computer, which might answer for a lack of porn.”

Gardener had hoped for a different answer. There had to be something to tie Plum and Thornwell together, apart from the fact that they both worked for Summers and were killed in identical circumstances. “Anything else?”

“No,” said Sharp, sitting back down.

“Okay, good work. Your next task is to investigate an entertainment agent by the name of Derek Summers.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything from the day he was born. Find out everything you can. Sean will tell you what we know, but I want you to go and personally build a dossier on the man. Whatever progress you make, you report directly to me. No one else, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The rest of you, listen carefully. Fitz gave us some important information yesterday. The syringe we found in the churchyard contained a lethal poison called curare.”

“It’s Agatha Christie,” shouted Frank Thornton, glancing round, laughing.

“Very droll, Frank.” Gardener waited for the laughter to subside before continuing. “In almost all the cases that Agatha Christie used it in her novels, someone was killed with it. Our killer is not using the curare in fatal doses. Fitz thinks it’s being used as a paralyzing drug. He believes the dose is precisely measured so the victim is aware of what is happening to them. To make them suffer.

“Whoever is using the poison knows exactly the right amount to keep their victim alive and for how long. It’s whatever they use after the curare that’s really doing the damage.”

“Does Fitz know what that is?” asked Briggs.

“Not yet.”

“Do we need to widen the net, include doctors?” suggested Thornton.

“It’s possible,” said Gardener. “It could also be a chemist. I want every hospital consulted on curare,