‘Shinji, I forgot to show you this.’
The detective took the Polaroid photograph with robust eagerness. Every clue seemed to shoot fresh energy into his body, much like a defibrillator. ‘Any idea where this was taken?’ he asked.
‘No, but it’s just a brick wall; it could be anywhere in the world… Pisa, given the clues perhaps?’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘It was on the desk under a book. There’s no other reason why it would be there so I presumed it meant something – look for what doesn’t belong…’
‘You learn quickly.’ He waved the photograph in his face as if fanning himself then rested it on the table next to his laptop. ‘I have something to show you too. In fact, it might be useful if you can go back to the cabin and retrieve it, so I can take a closer look.’
‘What is it?’
Shinji opened up a folder on his computer where he had stored all the photographs from Philippa’s phone. He selected one of the more recent ones.
Keen to have a look herself, she reviewed the image, which the bedbound detective had expanded to fill the modest screen.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Look for what doesn’t belong, remember?’
‘I’m trying,’ she replied.
Shinji smiled like a parent knowing best, and fixed his mouse onto the target.
‘A flask?’
‘It’s a whiskey flask. Would that be allowed at work?’
How had she missed that? She shook her head and replied; ‘not unless it contained something else.’
‘You would have smelt alcohol in Rob Gadra’s breath no doubt, when you met up with him before.’
Philippa thought back and almost sensed the anaesthetist sitting close to her, his stubble blurring out the corner of her vision and his caffeine-rich breath. ‘No alcohol, only coffee…’ Then her eyes widened. ‘But that makes sense too…’
‘What?’
Philippa dragged out her folded sheets of paper. ‘This symbol.’
‘It’s from the drawing on the whiteboard; at the second death.’
‘Yes. It’s the chemical symbol for strychnine,’ Philippa replied and her breathing picked up pace as she pieced together parts of the puzzle.
‘How on earth did you find out, Philippa?’
‘My SHO Karan told me.’
Shinji stroked his naked chin. Something Philippa was fast associating with a suspect thought. ‘But… how does he know?’
‘He gave a talk on it to the first-years.’
‘First-years? Isn’t Justin a first-year?’
He was right. He always ended up being right.
‘Did you tell him anything else? How did he come to see the drawing?’
‘It was accidental,’ she replied before explaining what happened.
‘I’ve only dealt with one case of strychnine in my career,’ Shinji remarked. ‘It was the only case I was not able to solve– an assassination. The victim was found with his back arched like nothing I had ever seen, as though his body had been made out of playdoh. Eventually, the wife hired a PI who found out what had happened.’
Philippa held her breath.
‘The air was contaminated; the strychnine was inhaled. I later learned it could also be ingested… as I believe must have happened in this case, if strychnine was indeed the mechanism. Is there a way to prove it?’
‘I could take the flask to the lab.’
‘We’re running out of time.’
‘I’ll hurry.’
‘What do we know so far?’ He rubbed his eyes then closed the gallery. His home screen flashed momentarily, revealing a photograph of the younger Shinji Nyarko with his wife, akin to the more youthful version on the Get-Well card. But there was a third person in this photograph – a child who looked ten years of age, wearing her school uniform – a mixture of purples and greens.
‘Is that your daughter?’
Shinji paused to frown. ‘Was…’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ he said with a sniff. He swiftly re-opened the spreadsheet that he had been working on all night, revealing to Philippa the inner workings of his mind for the first time. ‘Jonathan Wickshaw; the killer left a scarf… he was killed by potassium.’
‘Mary Surrey; the killer left a red lipstick but we’re not sure exactly how she was killed,’ Philippa said in turn.
‘Then Rob Gadra; a pair of women’s shoes and killed by strychnine… but the killer also leaves behind this photo.’
‘There must be a link somehow…’ Philippa muttered, stating the obvious.
‘How did Mary Surrey die?’
‘She had a pretty bad pneumonia and was already very frail.’
‘So, she died from her pneumonia perchance at one in the morning? How did the killer time her death so precisely?’
‘I guess we didn’t find out about her death until much after. Her body was leaving the ward as soon as I arrived.’
‘To the mortuary, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there any way –’
‘For me to examine her body?’
‘To examine the cause of death,’ Shinji said, as if that made the idea of surveying a dead body any more acceptable. ‘Like you said; she may have been dying but we’re up against a killer, not a psychic. There must have been a way to end her life there and then.’
‘I can go to the mortuary. Her body will be there,’ Philippa replied.
Just over half an hour to go before the killer strikes again…
‘Is it possible?’
She thought carefully about the proposition. To hell with it; I’ve put my registration on the line enough times tonight. ‘I’ll have to be quick.’
‘And while you’re at it, maybe it’s time to poke the bear and question this colleague of yours – Justin.’
‘He’s a bit bigger than I am. If he turns out to be the killer, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop him.’
Shinji shrugged. ‘Then let’s bring him here.’
Philippa Haven hurried along into the cold and wet outdoors. Too many tasks, too little time…
She dipped her head as the rain lashed her face and skipped down the path to the portacabin. As she walked up the stairs, she wrapped her arms around herself though she wasn’t sure if this was in response to the bitter air or the bitterness in her heart.
Then she remembered her card didn’t grant her access to the building. She would have to return to security and ask Wes to help her. But before she could turn around, she noticed that the light was on. Hadn’t she turned it off when she left?
She stopped in her tracks.
The memory remained fresh.
Inside the portacabin, a man dressed in scrubs identical in colour to Rob Gadra sat with his back to her. The phone was pressed against his ear.
She craned her neck to gain a better view of the man, who was bald and wore thick framed glasses. Her fists thumped on the door.
He jumped and did a double-take before ending his telephone conversation to open the door.
‘Hello, you are?’
‘Philippa, the medical registrar.’
‘Oh, you’re Philippa.’
She was not expecting that response.
‘Hi, come on in. I’m Luigi, the anaesthetic consultant. Gemma called me in – she told me what happened.’
‘Yes. She said she would. Thanks for coming in,’ she replied.
The cabin had been cleaned already. The furniture returned to their original places and the coverings of sharps and syringes had been disposed of.
They shook hands.
‘It’s just terrible…’
‘I know,’ she said, but her eyes were keen to locate the whiskey flask.
There it was, lying on the floor.
She breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Did you know him well?’ he asked. Luigi was very softly spoken and possessed a sagacious composure.
‘Met him tonight for the first time. One of the most welcoming and friendly people in this hospital, I’m sure.’
He nodded in agreement. ‘I thought he knew you better.’
‘Why?’
‘I found this,’ he said gesturing Philippa to follow him back to the desk.
‘What is it?’
‘A letter of some sort, I’m guessing.’
‘For me?’ She took the small envelope, which was quite clearly addressed to her. On the flip side, Rob had written his name. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘It was just on the desk.’
‘Right… thanks.’ Philippa swallowed hard. She had checked the desk in great detail and would not have missed the letter. The killer had been back in this cabin.
‘I was just talking to his brother. He didn’t handle the news very well.’
‘I don’t blame him. Is he coming in to visit?’
He sighed. ‘He won’t make it here for a few hours; he lives up in Yorkshire. He’ll aim to arrive for nine when bereavement opens, but his parents are on their way in. I’m going to speak with them shortly. Did you leave something; is that why you came back?’
Philippa cleared her throat. ‘Yes, I thought I erm left my… flask here.’ Idiot response, she thought, I hope he doesn’t see it.
‘Sure, I’ll head to ICU and make sure things are in check there. Nice to meet you.’
‘And you.’ She breathed a sigh of relief.
Re-visiting portacabin three, as she had now learned it was called, was a harrowing experience. Crushed by the weight of a busy, understaffed medical take, an unforgiving exhaustion and the continual torment by the ruthless serial killer, the medical registrar collapsed on the green sofa.
There was no time to be procrastinating under the light of the portacabin ceiling but Rob Gadra’s mummified aftershave, ingrained upon the fabric put her at ease, as did the habit of picking at the loose weaving.
The envelope fluttered in her trembling hand as she dreaded opening it. What if the inside was laced with anthrax? What if it contained another clue?
Come on Philippa, pull yourself together. You’ve still got lots to do. Hurry.
She sat up and unfolded the seal, which had not been licked shut, merely slotted into the back.
It was a greetings card, for Bonfire Night.
She opened it.
Dearest Philippa,
When the hand reaches seven,
Will it be Hell or Heaven?
This rhyme serves to assist you:
Remember, remember!
The fifth of November,
The place where it happened, is a clue.
You will find them helpful;
The digits complete, at your disposal,
Though it’s not one you’re more used to.
It was the wake-up call she needed. She slipped the riddle into her dress pocket, grabbed the flask and made a beeline for the laboratory.
Every few days... 