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  “I did Sir, if you recall. You said I believe let me guess... Mrs Flint and I said no but then the subject was changed.”

  It was the first time he had seen Owen stand his ground.

  “Well, if it wasn’t Flint at the time, what was it?”

  “Mary Stuart.”

  “You kid me. Changed it officially?” Owen nodded his head. Cyril lifted one eyebrow.

  There was a long pause as this sank in. The time-line of Dr. Flint’s career seemed normal. After qualifying, he worked in Harrogate, linked to the main hospital for a while within the geriatric wards and then as a locum covering a number of village practices and Ripon College, of course, before settling back home in Richmond. He even had a spell working voluntarily for a charity in Sierra Leone.

  “He’s been about. Find out what you can about his time abroad. The charity will have records of his spell with them. I’ll see about the hospital here. Let me know as soon as we clear him from the dead kids.”

  “You are sure about that aren’t you?”

  “Elementary, Owen, elementary.” He tapped his nose and collected his jacket.

  Owen stared at his boss, convinced he saw him wink with his paralysed eye.

  From his research, Owen discovered that Dr. Flint had taken two years’ leave to work with an international medical charity in late 1991 centred in Kiodu Town in the Kono District of Sierra Leone. He had remained in Sierra Leone for only eighteen months. According to the charity, his record was very good and he received glowing references. It clearly stated that his time there had been fraught with dangerous work in exceptionally difficult circumstances and a considerable number of lives had been saved by the medical team. He had been positive, courageous and totally reliable. He had been an asset to the team.

  Owen checked his computer as the audible belch signalled a new message had arrived in the in box. It was from forensics. The DNA sample was negative and that cleared the Doctor of being the father of either child. Further forensic analysis of the skeletal remains suggested that there was a strong likelihood that one of the parents had Mediterranean origins. This could have been parents or grandparents. Also the ground showed evidence that the internment of the children happened in the autumn.

  “He seems a regular do-gooder our Dr. Flint,” Owen mumbled to himself as he picked up the phone and dialled Cyril’s mobile.

  “Sir, thought you would like to know that you were correct regarding the DNA. Flint also worked in Sierra Leone for eighteen months during the early part of the civil war. Had it rough too by all accounts and returned early. Also further forensics show one of the parents might be Mediterranean and the bodies were buried in autumn. Can’t give a time or date,” he said somewhat tongue in cheek. “How do they work all this out?” The question was rhetorical as he immediately requested permission to look through the diaries.

  “They’re on my desk. There seems little point in staying here. Hospital gives glowing references; worked in Accident and Emergency for twelve months. Checked Medical Council records too and there’s nothing to send him to the gallows. Help yourself to the diaries. Make copies of all of them so that I can return them quickly.”

  Owen smiled to himself, wondering if it were just another opportunity to meet the housekeeper. “Quick as a flash, our Flash!”

  The diaries were extremely detailed, even down to the weather for the day. Owen spent time going through them, stopping at certain pages where the Doctor had attached an odd photograph. He copied each diary in turn. One picture was of Ripon College, clearly showing the modern chapel and the rather bizarre metallic structure of the chapel bell. There was a clergyman standing next to what looked like a black Lotus 7. There were also pictures of girls performing gym activities on the front field of the College but there was neither a link to the specific date nor any type of annotation regarding the photographs’ contents. He wondered if it was written on the reverse. He was just about to close the fourth diary when he found the first annotated picture. ‘French Exchange Students, 1972’. He studied the coloured image carefully. The fifteen students were standing at the main entrance of the College building, four male, eleven female.

  “I wonder which students went to France?” he tapped his pencil on his chin. He brought up the College files on screen and checked the date for 1972 and noted all those studying French in some form or other and there it was, ‘Mary Nixon, French subsidiary studies’. He noted a few others and then brought up the ‘Friends Reunited’ web-site, signed in and added the photograph with a request for information about the exchange. He also randomly picked three students whose main study was French and brought up on screen their present addresses and contact details. The first call, nobody answered but the second, a Marion Stevens answered.

  “Hello, am I speaking to Marion Stevens?”

  “Well, nearly correct, Yes. I used to be a Stevens a long time ago.” The voice sounded too old and defensive.

  “My name is David Owen and I am researching some history of Ripon College of Education and wondered if you might be able to help.” He didn’t wait for a reply. “I am trying to find out more about a French exchange of students that took place in 1972 and from the College records you studied French in that year.”

  “I was one of the exchange students.” Her voice became lighter as her mind skipped back over the decades. “It was three weeks in Laval at École Normale, a really useful three weeks but they refused to allow a degree of freedom. Let us say there was a lot of evening escaping.” She giggled sounding a little younger and a little excited.

  “Do you remember who went from the College?”

  Marion paused for a moment and then reeled off fourteen names and concluded with, “and me, of course!”

  Owen scribbled them down.

  “Did Mary Nixon not go? I believe she studied French.”

  “No, Mary didn’t but I believe she was a paid helper with the French group that came to Ripon. They escorted the group exploring the English country-side and dens of iniquity,” she giggled again. “Although they were all competent English speakers, those supporting would be amongst French speakers and there would be a mutual benefit. It was quite a success.”

  “Do you know the names of any of the students who came to Ripon?”

  “No, but if you contact Mary or any of the three other helpers, they might have names. I only know one other and that was Phillip Jarvis. They were fun times, Mr. Owen, fun times. Why are you researching the College? It now no longer exists, a modern housing estate I believe.”

  “It’s just personal interest. I’ve logged a photograph of the French group on the Friends Reunited web-site, maybe it will bring back memories. If it does, please call me.”

  He proceeded to give her his mobile number, thanked her and hung up. After some degree of difficulty he found a contact number for a Phillip Jarvis who now appeared to be living in Nice, France. He dialled but it was an answer-phone, the recording was in French at that and he felt somewhat shaken. He understood not one word of the message but left a response in English and a contact number.

  Cyril walked into the room and looked at Owen.

  “Grab yourself a coffee and come and tell all.” He moved to his office and hung up his jacket.

  Owen closed the door with his foot and put down his coffee, spilling a few drops on the ordered desk. Cyril glanced at him and proffered a box of tissues before he began to fill the mouth-piece of his electronic cigarette with menthol fluid. He then sat back and inhaled.

  “Well, what news?” he asked as vapour poured from his nostrils.

  Chapter Eleven

  The heavy-duty polythene hung like soft, blue, opaque glass from the newly constructed wooden frame in the corner of the workshop. Lawrence moved round stapling the material to the wooden skeleton. It even had a roof. It was divided into two, one of the rooms contained a sink and a shower head attached to the taps and large plastic inflatable child’s paddling pool. Lawrence stood in it and checked the taps could b
e adjusted from the position. The shower head was directly above the empty pool. The larger of the two rooms contained the work bench and all the tools. Each small room had its own entrance door and there was an interconnecting door between the two rooms. He stood back, pleased with his work. Everything was laid out in both rooms, NBC suits on a small plastic table, yellow disposable bags attached to the frame, tools and safe in the other room. He walked through a scenario imagining dressing, moving from one room to the next, taking out a shell, removing the contents, storing and sealing. He stopped and went to collect the spanner and brought it closer along with a large roll of industrial cling-film. He continued the rehearsal until he was standing in the plastic pool. He nervously moved things a centimetre here and there. He would do this again three times more before he was ready. He was now on annual leave; two weeks but it would be far from a holiday.

  He collected a glass from the side and sipped the water whilst staring at a notice board on the wall and the collage of news cuttings he had carefully pinned to it. Each one contained some revelation of hospital misconduct; cruelty towards patients, poor nursing, patients allowed to die of dehydration all because some nurse couldn’t be bothered. Each cutting was highlighted and names of the first ten offenders were listed. They were in an orderly line, soldier-straight, and ready for the whistle to ‘go over the top’. He raised his eyebrow.

  “Soon, very soon,” he said out loud. He removed his glasses, held them up to the light, squinting at each lens before breathing on them individually and cleaning them.

  He switched off the light, locked the door and left.

  ***

  The following morning, Lawrence hung the small cage containing the canary over the shelf above the work bench. It hopped timidly from one perch to the other. He touched the bars with his gloved hand making it flutter and emit the occasional shriek.

  The first shell was tightly clamped in the vice and Lawrence felt comfortable in the NBC suit. Everything was to hand and his scientific background dispelled any real fear of handling dangerous chemicals, his only concern was the stability of the material after so long in the ground. It was a risk he was quite happy to take and he experienced a frisson of excitement as he removed the fuse completely. Once removed, he saw the blanked filling tube where the chemical had been inserted into the thick, glass sleeve, a little like the inner core of a vacuum flask. Lining up his new containers, he carefully drilled through the bung, cautious not to slip and shatter the glass. Once drilled, Lawrence carefully inserted a glass pipette and began to draw up the yellow-brown, viscous liquid, depositing it into a 7mm glass phial before screwing down the top and standing it securely within a wooden rack.

  Retrieval was more difficult that he had imagined; the viscosity of the sulphur mustard was greater than his research had led him to believe. Originally, when a shell of this nature exploded, the sulphur mustard liquid would be vaporised into mustard gas but, after years sitting motionless, the viscosity had changed. He had to extract as much as possible from within this ancient shell case without releasing any fumes and without spilling any.

  After an hour, Lawrence had six phials ready and there seemed little point in trying to extract more from this shell. He now had to test its effectiveness. He opened a small fume cupboard, stood the pipette in a chemical flask and secured the door before lifting a small glass tank from under the bench. A black and white rat moved from side to side. Lawrence removed a small, round cap on the lid that would just allow the pipette nozzle to penetrate. The inquisitive rat moved eagerly more closely to investigate, as this was how he normally fed and watered the creature. He squeezed the pipette bulb. The yellowy liquid hit the rat on the head. He withdrew the pipette, placed it in a sealed bag before closing the lid opening.

  Lawrence carried the glass tank into the other area, stood it in the pool and showered it. He looked to see if any water had entered; none had. It was sealed correctly. He placed the tank on the floor and removed his suit, depositing it into a yellow hazard bag but kept the mask and gloves on. The rat began to hit the side of the tank and curl and twist as liquid ran from its distended eyes; the sulphur mustard was still effective. Within an hour the rat would be dead. He looked at the caged bird; it was fine. He removed his mask and gloves and slipped them into another hazard bag. Even though he was away from work, he would take them to the hospital and deposit them for incineration.

  It took six days to extract all of the sulphur mustard from the remaining shells. One shell proved impossible to access owing to the precarious state of the fuse; the contents also proved too viscose to be drawn up the pipette. The safe now contained twenty-seven phials; each phial held a label and on each label was written a name. The hard work was complete and to Lawrence’s amazement, the canary still sang.

  The shells were loaded into three old, metal ammunition cases and placed into the back of the Renault. If he were going to be caught he might as well be in possession of them all. The following day they would be back in Belgium and they would be buried in ones and twos, they would go back to the ground from whence they came. He would then rest a while.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cyril’s palsy was showing small signs of improvement, his mouth now seemed to belong to him more or less. Although still slightly crooked, he now had more of an appearance adopted by poor actors in early Westerns, but it was definitely improving. Full advantage was taken of this as he could call at the pub occasionally and eat comfortably in company. The eye still caused concern and needed regular artificial tears.

  He dialled the Richmond number and it would be wrong to suggest that there wasn’t a degree of eagerness in the way he dialled, anticipating that the Housekeeper might answer; he actually experienced a cocktail of nerves and excitement.

  “Dr Flint’s residence.”

  “Good morning, this is DCI Bennett, you might remem...” He was interrupted.

  “Chief Inspector, how lovely it is to hear from you. How’s the palsy? A little better, I hope.”

  There was genuine sincerity in her voice and nervous excitement ignited a flutter in his stomach. “Yes, thank you kindly for asking.”

  He was just about to ask how she was but was interrupted again.

  “You’ve done it again, Sir. The Doctor is out with the dogs. Can I get him to ring you on his return? To be honest, he wants to thank you for slowing down the motor-cycles. He’s noticed a marked improvement and two speed camera vans over four days is a record for this neck of the woods he informed me.”

  Cyril was a little confused as he had forgotten to mention the problem on his return. Maybe Owen had seen to it. He made a mental note to ask him when he saw him, if he remembered. Cyril gave her his mobile number and after a few pleasantries he hung up. He turned to the window trying to conjure up a picture of her. ‘Pretty,’ he thought.

  He turned to find Owen eclipsing the light of the doorway and felt himself blush a little.

  “Did you report the Doctor’s concerns regarding the speeding motorbikes?”

  “Yes, Sir. He seemed most concerned and he’d reported the problem seventeen times this year so I had a little word with friends in traffic. Is that alright?”

  “Thank you, the Doctor was very pleased. Two, unmarked police camera vans in a week. That’s unheard of. The news has spread very quickly.”

  “And the Housekeeper?” Owen tilted his head and smiled.

  “Coffee, no sugar. You’re not that good. Anything from Nice?”

  “No, Sir, not yet.”

  “So why are you blocking the light and gawping there?” Cyril turned to his computer and feigned work.

  Owen shook his head and left. Light seemed to return instantly to half of the room. It was 11:30 when his phone rang.

  “Inspector, pleased to hear there are improvements. Thank you so very much for the attention we’re receiving; the Agostinis of this area seem to have found their slow pedal, wonderful. What can I do for you?”

  “I have some items of yours
that I’d like to return as soon as possible. They have been most useful.”

  “You’ll stay for dinner, yes? Janet’s a wonderful cook. How does tomorrow suit, say eight?”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  ***

  The gravel drive crunched beneath the car wheels. Cyril parked by the main door, straightened his tie in the sun shield mirror and climbed out. A light was on in the large, barn-like garage to the right of the house and he couldn’t reign in his curiosity. Four cars were parked in a row and the Doctor had covered one and was just covering the second. Cyril gave a discreet cough.

  “Ah! Chief Inspector is it that time already? Once I get in here the time just flies by.”

  “May I help you?” Cyril moved closer to the Doctor. “They look rather splendid.”

  “My small collection, well that’s not strictly true as two belonged to my father, these are my additions.” He pointed to a Triumph GT6 and a blue Ferrari.

  It was the Ferrari that captured Cyril’s eye. He had always liked this model, the Dino, after watching ‘The Persuaders’ on television as a kid. Tony Curtis had driven one. The Doctor could see Cyril’s interest drawn to it.

  “Didn’t buy that new but it was only twelve months old, temperamental, Italian bitch but beautiful. Wouldn’t part with any. Unusual colour too, Azzurro, quite rare. Are you a petrol head, Chief Inspector?”

  “Bit of an A to B man personally, as long as it’s clean, tidy and reliable but I can certainly appreciate the beauty in these. Once fancied a 911 but couldn’t justify a car costing as much as my house.”

  Cyril then noticed the shape of another car tucked in the far recess of the barn hidden beneath a tarpaulin or two, its tyres appeared flat.

  “Wonderful, Zuffenhausen’s best, the 911 but unfortunately I never had one. How’s the palsy?”

  Cyril turned to the light.

  “Mouth is looking better but the eye will take longer. Take care of it. Janet’s been asking after you, seems to have taken a bit of a shine to you. Must be the thought of you in uniform.” The Doctor smiled and then sensed a degree of confusion on Cyril’s face. “Janet, my housekeeper. She really is a lovely girl. Lost her husband in a paragliding accident a couple of years back, tragic yet foolish. Why anyone would want to do these dangerous sports in middle age beats me. We thought he’d just be paralysed but...”