SHADOW OVER THE FENS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense (21 page)

‘Very few of the trials were,’ she snorted distastefully. ‘Mainly they were for rheumatoid treatments, testing with gold, or sulphasalazine. The last one however . . .’ her voice dropped to a whisper, ‘. . . was for drugs that were being used to interrogate prisoners, well, foreign spies and traitors, more like. We are talking the Cold War, Sergeant.’

‘So this
is
MOD stuff?’

‘No, I don’t think so. It was a big pharmaceutical corporation. We were told it was British and we truly believed that we were helping our country, now I’m not so sure.’

‘And what was this drug? A truth serum?’

‘No, a special kind of hallucinogen. It didn’t make the user tell the truth, it altered their perceptions of reality, so things that normally would have been of paramount importance meant absolutely nothing.’

Joseph shivered. ‘And did David know what he was being tested with?’

‘Oh yes, they all did. The group was totally committed to the trials. They believed they were pioneers.’

Joseph thought about Martin, Amelia and Paul, and the terrible deception made him feel nauseous. ‘So what happened?’

‘They signed waivers. They were well paid, and when the drug proved to be a devastating mistake, they were offered a very large one-off payment and private medical care for the rest of their lives. Then they willingly signed more legal disclaimers that bound them from ever talking about the tests and everything and everyone involved. And why not? They believed the doctors were the good guys.’

‘And
were
they looked after?’

‘Absolutely. And with great care. Medication, regular check-ups and even highly qualified personal liaison managers to help with any problems.’

‘Can you get hold of one of them for me?’ asked Joseph quickly.

The woman’s face darkened. ‘Funny that. Their numbers are suddenly unobtainable.’

Joseph cursed silently, then murmured, ‘So what’s gone wrong?’

Linda shook her head. ‘I really don’t know. After all these years of support, why abandon them now?’

Not abandonment, thought Joseph, this is termination.

‘There is one thing.’ Linda stared at him. ‘About a year ago a woman came sniffing round asking questions. David was sure that she was a reporter. He told her nothing and reported it to his liaison officer. He was pretty certain that he was the only member of the trials group that she’d managed to trace, but it was just after that that Amelia died.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe nothing to do with the journalist, but . . . ?’

Joseph’s mind raced. A reporter onto something? Can’t kill the reporter, too high profile, so damage limitation? Quietly dispose of the ‘loyal pioneers’ so that there was nothing left to uncover.

‘The other crew is pulling in, Sarge. We’ll take it from here.’ Niall pulled on his hat. ‘You’ll be safe with me. I’ll escort you all the way, Miss Kowalski.’

‘Take great care of her, Constable.’ Joseph turned to Linda. ‘And humour me here, will you? Please don’t eat or drink anything until you are safe at the police station. Nothing at all, is that clear?’

Linda nodded, and as Joseph stepped from the car he knew that she totally understood the implications of his request. He watched the two vehicles pull away, then raced back to his Ford and rang Nikki.

‘Then it’s almost a given thing that they were murdered, isn’t it, Joseph?’ There was a tremor in his boss’s voice. ‘I really do have to thank you for that, and Martin would thank you too.’

‘It’s nothing, Nikki, but I suggest it’s going to get even more difficult from here on in, finding those responsible. If we ever do,’ he sighed. ‘But still, if you can do as much for me with Billy Sweet, I’d be eternally grateful.’

‘I will get you answers, Joseph. I will take this killer off the streets, I promise you.’

‘I know you will. And no matter how painful this is for me, Nikki, you have to do whatever it takes, you know that, don’t you?’

He hardly heard her reply. It was little more than an under breath. ‘Whatever it takes, Joseph, I’ll do it.’

As he drove back towards Cloud Fen, he prayed that she meant it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Nikki picked up the photograph of Martin, Hannah and herself and gave it a light kiss. ‘I never believed for one moment that you could have voluntarily jumped from that tower, my friend, and certainly not in front of those little kids.’

She felt a surge of optimism. As Joseph had said, it wouldn’t be easy, but they were on their way to clearing the stigma from her old friend’s name.

Then she thought about Joseph. As she had replaced the handset, she felt his frustration pouring out across the ether. She’d come very close to being suspended herself on more than one occasion. She’d sailed too close to the wind and ruffled an awful lot of gold braid as she did, but somehow she had always managed to hang on to her position. Which made it all the tougher on Joseph. If they’d thrown the book at her, she would have deserved it. In the past she had crossed lines, cheated, bullied and flaunted the rulebook to get the drug dealers sent down. Joseph on the other hand had been an exemplary officer, honest, full of integrity and moral fibre, and it was
his
warrant card that was sitting in the super’s filing cabinet along with a half bottle of malt whisky.

Nikki shook her head. It wasn’t fair, but at least his enforced absence had brought them closer to unravelling the sinister cover-up and ruthless killing of innocent people.

She took a long look at the old picture, then placed it back on her desk. As she did, she noticed the scrap of paper on which she had written Bryony Barton’s address. She picked it up and stared at it. Joseph had seemed quite happy at receiving the text, but had Bryony actually sent it? It had come from her number, but anyone could have tapped it in. She stared at her own cell phone. How many times had she left it unattended on the desk?

Allowing herself to forget Martin Durham for the first time in days, she looked again at the address. If she had been Joseph, knowing there was a killer on the loose, she wouldn’t have been content with a text message. No way. And Bryony had been out of contact for quite a while now. Perhaps too long for comfort.

Nikki pushed back her chair and looked around her small office. Something wasn’t right. With a determined snort, she pulled a contact file from her drawer. Joseph had told her that Bryony worked at the Public Analysts Laboratory, and that number would be listed. She ran a finger down the page, then stopped and grunted with satisfaction.

Nikki dialled the number and waited.

‘I’m sorry but Miss Barton called in sick today. If it’s regarding a sample for analysis, I can put you through to the technician who is covering her workload?’

Nikki paused, then said, ‘No, it’s nothing like that. I am DI Galena, Greenborough CID, and I need to speak to whoever is in charge.’

‘I’ll put you through to the lab manager.’

There was a period filled with clicking sounds and a melee of tinny music, then a deep voice said, ‘Simon Lewis, how can I help you?’

Nikki introduced herself and told him that she needed to contact Bryony Barton on a matter of some importance. The man was naturally hesitant, so Nikki gave him the station number and after a few moments, he was back on the line.

‘I understand her mobile is down so I need to check her home address with you, if that’s okay?’ Nikki quoted the street number that she had, and Lewis confirmed that it was correct.

‘I’m not sure about her mobile being down though. I’m sure it was her number that showed up on the display when she rang in sick,’ the man paused then added, ‘. . . even though it was her friend that spoke to me.’

Nikki felt a hard jolt of concern. ‘Friend?’

‘Yes, a man. But I didn’t like to pry. I know very little about her private life so I rather assumed it was a partner.’

Nikki’s mouth felt dry as she asked. ‘How long has Bryony worked for you?’

‘Around eighteen months now, I suppose.’

‘And is she popular?’

‘Very. She’s an asset to our little team.’ Lewis gave a short chuckle. ‘Although I’m sure she won’t be here long term. She is far too highly qualified to waste her life doing lab checks on dodgy kebabs.’

‘Qualified in what way?’ asked Nikki suspiciously.

‘She is a biomedical scientist, Inspector. She specialised in pharmokinetics.’

‘Is that as complex as it sounds?’

‘Complicated is correct, and Bryony is top-notch.’

‘So what’s she doing with you?’

‘It’s nothing unusual, Inspector. When kids with PhD’s are stacking supermarket shelves, this could be classed as a good job to have. And she’s very happy here.’

Nikki thanked the man, but before she hung up she added. ‘Sorry to ask, but is she helping you to arrange a charity event of some kind?’

‘The scavenger hunt? Oh yes, it’s for the Butterfly Hospice. Can we put you down for a donation?’ he asked hopefully.

An image of her ailing father flashed across her mind. ‘Sure. Put me down for twenty quid.’

Something was terribly wrong. She knew it as clearly as when a musician hit a bum note. It jangled like a cacophony of lies in her head. Nikki had a built-in warning system. A heightened sense of wrongness.

And right now it was smothering her. She was pretty certain that there was more to Bryony than Joseph knew about, but whatever that was, she may be in terrible danger.

She jumped up and opened her office door. ‘Yvonne! Quickly, take a couple more uniforms and get yourself around to 176 Blackfen Road. Ring me directly you’re on scene and let me know whether Bryony Barton is there and safe, okay?’

* * *

The answer was back in ten minutes.

‘There’s no response, ma’am. The next door neighbour says she hasn’t seen her since early yesterday morning.’ Yvonne sounded worried. ‘Shall we force an entry?’

Nikki thought about the fall-out if she happened to be wrong. ‘Yes. Do it now.’

A few seconds later she heard the sound of several crashes, then hurried footsteps.

‘Place is clear, ma’am,’ said Yvonne. ‘There’s no sign of a struggle, but we’ll do a thorough check and report back in a few minutes.’ The line went dead and Nikki was forced to wait for what seemed like an eternity before Yvonne got back to her.

‘There’s nothing to indicate that she was planning on doing a runner, ma’am. Her laptop is still on standby, Sky+ is set to record an OU lecture, and there’s fresh milk and food in the fridge. And importantly, her clothes are still hanging in the wardrobe.’

‘Is there a diary or a calendar? We need to know if she had any meetings planned.’

‘Nothing, ma’am. I’d thought of that.’

Nikki thanked her and asked her to hurry back to the station, and bring the computer with her. It sounded to her like Bryony had had every intention of returning home but something or someone had prevented her.

‘You look like you could do with this, guv.’ Cat Cullen placed a mug of coffee in front of her.

‘You are so right.’ Nikki rubbed her forehead.

Cat perched on the edge of her desk. ‘What’s worrying you?’

‘Bryony Barton,’ murmured Nikki. ‘She should be at work. She isn’t. Work thinks she is at home sick. She isn’t. No one has been able to contact her to actually talk to her since yesterday. All her belongings are untouched. Ergo, she isn’t on her toes. Plus . . .’ she stared at Cat uncomfortably, ‘an unknown male rang her office this morning using
her
cell phone. And that makes me feel very uneasy indeed.’

‘So where the hell is she?’

‘I wish I knew, and weirdly it seems that I may have been the last one to see her.’

‘You’re worried about her connection with Joseph, and
his
connection with the psycho-assassin, aren’t you?’

‘That woman has been out of touch for around twenty-four hours,’ Nikki shivered, ‘that’s far too long.’

‘Does Joseph know?’

‘No. He had a reassuring text from her, but I’m not so sure that
she
sent it.’

‘Shouldn’t we tell him?’ asked Cat.

‘Joseph’s in a very dark place right now, Cat. He’ll have to be told of course, but I have no way of even guessing how he will react. Not only that . . .’

Before she could continue, her desk phone rang.

‘Ma’am? Sergeant Conway here. A couple of my officers have just attended a shout at 3 Granary Close, off Fishguard Avenue. We were called regarding a suspected break-in, but they’ve found the body of an IC1 male.’

Nikki stiffened. Not now. ‘Please don’t tell me he has blond hair and blue eyes?’

‘’Fraid so, ma’am. Forensics have been notified and are already on their way, but will you attend?’

‘Damn right I will!’ Nikki threw down the phone. ‘Cat! With me!’

* * *

‘Oh dear God,’ whispered Cat, zipping up her protective suit. ‘I had no idea there were so many men in Greenborough with blond thatches and blue eyes.’

The dead man looked like a wicked parody of Chris Forbes, although this man’s life blood soaked into plush cream carpet, not weeds and filthy rubble. His hands were tied carefully behind him and the wide gaping wound across his throat was beginning to look horribly familiar. Nikki looked across at Professor Rory Wilkinson. ‘Don’t have to ask if it’s the same MO, do I?’

‘It seems that way, although this one must have put up a fight. His face is badly bruised, and . . .’ Rory’s expression was uncharacteristically serious. ‘I don’t know, I’ve only been here a few minutes, but . . .’

‘You have reservations?’ She looked at the dead man’s corn-blond hair. ‘Why?’

He stood up and stared down at the body. ‘Not reservations exactly.’ He gave her a tired smile. ‘I’ve learnt never to assume anything until my investigations are complete.’

Nikki nodded slowly. That was fair comment, but she had the distinct feeling that the professor was not comfortable. ‘One of my men says we have ID this time.’

‘You do. And maybe that’s what is odd.’ He nodded towards an expensive-looking solid wood table. ‘Over there, credit cards and a valid security pass card, although I have no idea to what it gives access. Your man says there is a pocket diary too. Something I’m sure you will be happy to ferret through.’

‘Makes a change, that’s for certain,’ said Nikki. ‘Which makes me wonder if he was disturbed and left in a hurry. The others had been carefully stripped of all ID.’

‘That or he actually wants us to know who this victim is,’ added Cat thoughtfully.

‘Maybe.’ She looked around. ‘Or perhaps he’s losing his touch. His last attack was thwarted, now this victim has been left with clear identification with him. Seems as if he’s either getting careless or distracted.’ She looked back to the pathologist. ‘No other obvious evidence?’

‘One thing. This man is clean and his clothes are well cared for, but your officers found a pile of filthy, and I mean absolutely rancid, clothes in the bathroom.’ He rolled his eyes at her. ‘But other than that, nothing yet, and probably won’t be. Our poor SOCOs are tearing their hair out at lack of physical or biological evidence. They are sure it’s the same professional clean-up job.’ He looked around, ‘And this flat was no slum to begin with, was it?’ He pointed towards a painting that hung over a modern futuristic-looking stainless steel fireplace. ‘I keep looking at that landscape and trying to tell myself it’s a print, that it can’t in a million years be a genuine Milton Avery.’ His eyes widened. ‘No way would an Avery be hanging, unprotected, in a classy little flat in Greenborough. But hell, I still keep looking at it.’

‘Milton Avery?’ asked Cat staring suspiciously at the strange painting.

‘My dear girl, he was called the American Matisse, and one passed through Christie’s in New York not so long ago for the princely sum of over nine hundred thousand dollars.’

‘Then it’s a print,’ said Nikki flatly. ‘This guy was clearly no Rockefeller.’

‘Well, naturally they don’t all fetch that kind of money. Maybe it’s a family heirloom, or an investment.’

‘And maybe it came from eBay for 99p with free postage, but this is not exactly helping our enquiry.’ Being careful not to touch anything, Nikki walked over to the table and looked down at the security badge. ‘Kurt Michael Carson. You really are a dead ringer for William Sweet, deceased, aren’t you?’ she whispered. From the inch square photo, there was no doubt that it belonged to the murdered man. ‘I’ll bag the diary and take it, then we’ll let you get on doing your usual admirable job, Rory.’

‘Be my guest. And I’ll get my preliminary report to you in my normal speedy and efficient manner.’

‘I’d expect nothing less.’ Nikki threw him an almost affectionate smile as she turned to leave. ‘And if I find that weird picture hanging on the mortuary wall next week, remember, I know where it came from.’

* * *

Cat yawned and stretched. ‘I think I’ve just about exhausted all avenues, ma’am.’

‘So recap for me.’ Nikki also stretched her aching back.

‘Kurt Michael Carson. British born, Dutch mother, English father. Age thirty-seven. Single. Works abroad and his company owns the property in which he was killed, the flat in Granary Close. Seems to have a healthy bank balance and no outstanding debts. He worked for an exporter called Carel Flora Bloemenexport. They export exotic flowers and plants from Holland. I rang them and spoke to his boss. The man was obviously shocked but asked if he could be kept informed as he would travel over to represent the firm at the funeral.’