Only the Dead Read online

  “Still racing cars, Doctor?”

  “Touché, Chief Inspector, touché. I, however, don’t try to leave the ground. Come let’s go in.”

  Cyril glanced back at the object under the tarpaulin and wondered. Janet greeted him as he entered the house and he felt his face redden.

  “Dinner will be in thirty minutes, Dr. Flint. Lovely to see you Chief Inspector.”

  The two men settled in the study, each had a small dry sherry, although Cyril could have murdered a pint and was still a little anxious about eating meals in public.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Stray seemed particularly dark. The streetlights shadowed the leaves, patterning the pathways. There was little movement in the trees keeping the shadows static. He waited.

  Keith Chew had left home to meet friends and crossed the Stray. He would soon be in the heart of town. He always crossed the Stray with its runners and dog walkers. It didn’t take him long to reach West Park Road. The Friday evening traffic was light as he crossed the road towards the Cenotaph, a tall obelisk standing within a small, gardened area in the centre of the roads. There was a couple on a bench in front and a number of pedestrians. As he passed he heard a faint whistle, a police-type whistle. It blew gently for a few seconds and he paused momentarily looking in the direction from where he thought the sound had come but there was nothing. He glanced at the couple; they had continued their conversation and all the other pedestrians seemed to carry on; maybe it was his imagination.

  Lawrence reached into his pocket with his gloved hand. He was wearing a butcher’s glove made from stainless steel fibre into which he had taped two steel blocks. Between the blocks was inserted a labelled phial, ‘Keith Chew’. He blew the whistle again and as he turned, Lawrence crushed the phial, letting the viscous liquid run into Keith’s hair. Keith gasped in shock at someone being so close and then disappearing. Pausing, he moved his hand to his hair and felt the liquid warm and oily. He instinctively brought it to his nose to smell it.

  “Fuck! If this is bird shit...”

  It was the worst thing he could have done. As his hand passed his eyes they immediately prickled as if he had been peeling onions but then the sensation stopped. He moved his hand away to see if he could identify the substance. Without thinking he moved his hand to his eye and rubbed the lid. Unbeknown to Keith, the sulphur mustard had now started to react with the tender, nasal membrane, the back of his throat and his eyes.

  His initial anxiety gone, he continued to the ‘Glitz Lounge’, a gay bar he frequented as often as possible, to meet friends. Entering the bar he waved when he saw them and went over. They looked at his hair, felt the liquid and they laughed. He went to the toilet to check his appearance. His eyes prickled, tears ran occasionally and he coughed. He joined the others and they drank and laughed.

  “Always me,” giggled Keith. “If something’s going to happen, it’ll happen to me.”

  He slid his hand onto Tony’s knee. “How’s my hair?”

  “Beautiful.” Tony leaned over and kissed him gently.

  Lawrence had watched his victim until he entered the bar before moving away into the shadows of the Stray. He thrust his hand into a bag containing water and removed the outer butcher’s glove before sealing the bag tightly. He then pushed that into a large vacuum flask and screwed the top tightly. The under gloves were bagged and sealed. The last thing he removed was the small face mask. He now had to wait to see if he too had been contaminated. He looked at the mask. He had stuck a large moustache onto the front, imitating the brass face of the car mascot in the workshop. Old Bill had stepped in and completed the first.

  ***

  The meal was wonderful; some people had just the touch when making Yorkshire puddings; light fluffy and sitting in a dark, beef and onion gravy. With coffee in hand, the two men returned to the study.

  “Brandy, Chief Inspector?”

  It was strange how the formality remained, neither wishing to remove this barrier first.

  “No, thanks, driving. Is that a Ralph Hedley?” Cyril pointed to the painting half hidden in the alcove.

  “Bravo! You like Yorkshire artists?” The Doctor replaced the decanter into the Tantalus.

  “I have a small collection, nothing really special. I’ve often enjoyed the more obscure artists, mainly because they’re cheaper. I believe Hedley was born in Richmond before moving to Newcastle. He can’t really be classed as a Yorkshire artist. Yorkshire man, yes, Yorkshire artist definitely not”

  “Indeed, a little known fact. You are full of surprises, Sir. My father had a sense of humour! He bought it when I qualified. It’s called ‘The Quack Doctor’. Wonderful!

  “Tell me about your time abroad.”

  “Sierra Leone was a nightmare with children displaced left, right and centre. Many were either forced into child prostitution or into joining the rebel army, the Revolutionary United Front. Children were ordered to murder their own parents and then could either join or die. They soon became more cruel than the adults. Some even wagered on the sex of an unborn child and would then cut out the child to see who had won. My base was the main diamond mining town and RUF wanted the diamonds. You’ve heard the stories of arm and hand amputations so that the people couldn’t dig for them; all true unfortunately. The Government had also told the people that they had the power to change things, it was in their own hands and so the RUF soldiers simply removed them. Charles Taylor, Liberia’s President, had much to do with it and of course Liberia had such a porous border for the transit and smuggling of diamonds and weapons but that’s a different story. Besides he got sentenced to fifty years by a UN backed war crimes court a few years back. We moved thousands of kids to safety and we patched up many infected limbs.”

  The Doctor walked over to the safe, removed a small, leather pouch, opened the string and carefully emptied the contents onto the table. They were neither spectacular nor disappointing but they were a curiosity.

  “Blood diamonds, Chief Inspector.” He paused. “Each one of these stones was a gift for the life of a loved one. They were removed from every human orifice and squeezed into my hand. They were forced there for two reasons, one, gratitude but two and most importantly fear. If they’d been caught with a stone they would have been searched like no one has searched a human body before. Whether they suffered was immaterial, whether they died was of no consequence. If they were found to own a diamond, they would die anyway.”

  Cyril moved them around the table. He had never touched diamonds in the raw before.

  “May I?” The Doctor nodded and Cyril lifted one to the light. “They look like pieces of irregular, smooth, broken glass. Are they really diamonds?” was more a rhetorical question he asked himself.

  “Illegal to trade, of course, but each could be cut and polished into a beautiful trinket for the rich. Rough diamonds, Chief Inspector, but special. You may be unaware that the diamonds mined in Sierra Leone are gemstones of very high quality, therefore of high value and very much prized. There are very few countries that mine stones of this quality. If it were possible to put these on the market there might be a million dollars in front of you. You’ll be aware that all diamonds now need certification and these do not have that, they shouldn’t be here, but that is a long and complex story and irrelevant as these will never leave, they will never be sold. They remind me of the bravery, the suffering and the untold misery some humans will inflict on others. I’m sure in your job, Chief Inspector, you know that only too well.”

  He reverently collected the stones, wrapped them and returned them to the safe.

  “That reminds me.” From his bag Cyril produced the diaries and the photograph. “We’re still looking into the information we found so they’ve been most useful. I’ve enjoyed my evening thoroughly, thank you for your hospitality and I must thank Janet.”

  The Doctor smiled.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Keith Chew felt dreadful. He had eaten and he drank his third glass of wine before a s
tream of vomit erupted over the table. Blood began to trickle from his nose as tears continued to flow. He could hardly bear the dim light of the bar. Others within the group began to feel unwell.

  The paramedic’s siren echoed within the close confines of the stone streets as the vehicle made its way down the one-way system to the bar, closely followed by the lumbering ambulance.

  It was clear from the initial chaos that a number of individuals was in need of assistance. The defensive bar manager explained what he could and emphasised that no one had drunk too much and all had eaten different choices from the menu. It was clear from the vomit that all was not well. There was another aroma adding to the pungent air that told of total loss of control.

  Two of the party were sitting to one side; the majority of customers had left after Keith had involuntarily sprayed the next table with bloody vomit. They had started to sneeze and three of the five showed signs of bleeding from the nose and mouth.

  The paramedic went to the car and called for back-up and police help. The last time she had experienced anything like this, had been the result of a chemical leak in Halifax when she had first started as a paramedic. She put on a paper suit and a face mask and gloves before attending the three worst cases. Each man showed identical symptoms, each was struggling to breathe and to keep their eyes open. The skin on one man showed signs of inflammation from the forehead to the bridge of the nose.

  As the police entered she called for them to stay away, to clear everyone out and to take names and contact details.

  “If anyone starts to feel unwell go straight to A and E, and tell them you were here, that’s essential!” she shouted, her voice muffled by the mask. She pointed to a police officer. “You, call the hospital and tell them there are possibly five chemical or severe food contamination cases coming in and to be ready. They should be prepared for the worst and create isolation areas. These two first as they are least affected.”

  One of the boys sitting away from the group sneezed and coughed, then remembered Keith’s mysterious liquid.

  “It was in his hair, oily. We thought it was pigeon shit at first or something from a roof. It was Keith who started with the running eyes and a cough, and then suddenly, his nose started to bleed. He said too that his throat was sore. He threw-up first. The other two touched the fluid but I was at the bar and Carl here hadn’t arrived. Keith was fine when he arrived, laughing about the crap in his hair and all that. He was fine yesterday too ‘cos we were out together. You know what I mean? Will he be alright?”

  “How long ago did it happen to him?”

  “Not long, an hour maybe a little longer. He arrived here at eight-thirty and he said it happened by the war memorial.”

  The paramedic looked in Keith’s hair and rubbed the front where he had been attacked. It was oily. She moved away and took off the glove, sealing it inside another before tying the end. She put on new gloves.

  Three ambulances and two police cars were lined up outside as the paramedics, all wearing suits, gloves and masks led the boys into the ambulance. Blue lights flickered out of sync reflecting off walls and windows as the vehicles moved in concert towards the main A and E department. The police closed down the “Glitz Lounge” awaiting a forensic team. Blue and white tape made a flimsy barrier as is writhed in the breeze.

  The paramedic who attended would be first back. She needed to check whether she needed decontaminating.

  ***

  Lawrence sat in the workshop, his fingers tapping a tune on the bench. Three hours he was showing no symptoms. His butcher’s glove had been tied in a yellow plastic chemical waste bag along with his face mask. He had already crossed off Keith Chew’s name from the list. He cross-referenced to see why he had been first. The news cutting hadn’t named him, just his cruelty, the way he humiliated those in his care whilst nursing the elderly, dementia patients. It hadn’t been difficult to find a name and an address as he was working within the same hospital. Now he would need to be cared for, he would have to rely on others to ensure that he had any quality of life. However, Lawrence knew that no matter how much care was given, he would never return to nursing. He now looked at the next name on the list.

  “Nine green bottles...” he began to sing before turning off the lights.

  Lawrence closed the doors before bolting the three locks and then went home. The clear air startled his conscience into life and for the first time he felt a pang of remorse, not for Keith Chew, he deserved everything that developed from his exposure, but for the innocents that might have come into contact. Should he care? It was war after all but he made a mental note to try to minimise the risk to others.

  ***

  Cyril closed the front door. He didn’t put the main light on, only a table lamp, poured a whisky and sat contemplating his evening. His eyes travelled to the wall, taking in the few paintings that he had collected. His gaze rested on an oil painting by a northern artist, Lawrence Isherwood entitled ‘Boats at Lyme Regis’. He stood and went closer taking a sip of his drink followed by an inhalation of the menthol vapour. He remembered buying it purely because he had read that the artist had observed that Anyone can paint-but not like me. Somehow Cyril had felt an affinity with that, he felt the same about his policing and therefore he had bought the painting. However, he had to agree that no one painted like the artist and it certainly wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea!

  He sat. He was growing to like Dr. Flint. He also thought about Janet. He raised his glass. “Game on!” he said to himself. “Game definitely on.” He downed his nightcap in one.

  ***

  At the same time the Doctor moved to the safe and brought out the diaries returned after the police inspection and flicked through them. He then put his hand into the back of the safe and brought out another. He tapped it, opened it and smiled. Was it really hook, line and sinker? Maybe not, our Inspector Bennett was brighter than that, he sensed and would need careful watching. He returned the diaries to the safe apart from one, this he tucked beneath his arm. He switched off the light and went out through the front door to the garage. The lights flickered before illuminating every corner. He moved to the back of the garage, unlocked two large doors and walked through. It was here that he kept his everyday car, an Audi A4 estate. He drove it through the garage past his collection and parked it at the front before securing the garage. He opened the glove box placing the diary there. It was time it disappeared. The same time tomorrow, he would be in Troyes and the day after that he should be relaxing at his ‘bastide’, as he liked to call it, in the South of France. The house was a ‘small’ luxury that he had bought after his work in Sierra Leone; he felt he had earned it. Mandelieu-la-Napoule suited him, close enough to Nice but not too close.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Euro Tunnel crossing was easy by comparison to the snail like pace of the M25 and for a Saturday the motorway was ridiculously congested. It was the worst part of the journey and he had said on more than one occasion that if driving through France was a fifth as traumatic he would fly south but the freedom of driving through France was a breath of fresh air. He passed St. Omer and headed onto the E17, stopping only once for fuel. By four in the afternoon he had checked into his usual hotel, the car was in the secure garage and he was sipping a beer. He would enjoy a good meal, and take an early night in readiness for the seven hour drive the following morning.

  ***

  Cyril Bennett was enjoying a day off. Saturday was a lazy day, breakfast and the paper followed by a walk if the weather were fine and then a beer and pub lunch. Perfect. The paper dropped through the letter box with a crash; he checked his watch, it was late again. He retrieved it looking at the headline as he headed back to the kitchen. It was an advert for a diamond bracelet in the bottom corner of the front page that grabbed his attention and made him reflect on the Doctor’s illegal cache of rough diamonds. It was hard to believe that they could be transformed from something so ordinary to something so staggeringly beautiful. He tossed the pap
er onto the table, went to remove the cosy from the teapot and poured a cup of tea. He had never seen the value of dunking a tea-bag into a cup. Two pieces of toast lethargically popped their heads out of the toaster and for once the smoke alarm slept on. He buttered the slices and placed the plate next to the paper. He looked again at the diamonds in the advert and tried to imagine how they might have looked in the rough. The melted butter on the toast dripped a honey coloured globule onto the newsprint and he wiped it away with his paper napkin, smudging the text.

  ‘Chemical Poisoning in North Yorkshire Town’, was the small header that spread and blurred under his greasy mark. He put down the toast and read the short, seven lines of text describing the casualties now isolated in Harrogate Hospital; two serious and one critical. Nothing else.

  Cyril picked up his toast and continued his breakfast. He would make a mental note to read any reports back at ‘the shop’ on Monday if he could remember that is. His mind kept processing events of the previous night with Dr. Flint. The painting his father had purchased was one recurring image. Why would you buy such a subject when your son had just qualified as a Doctor? Secondly, the diamonds, he was unsure as to the legality of owning them, particularly when they came from such a sensitive time in the country’s chequered history. Buying or finding souvenirs and gifts when on holiday, that we all did, he thought, remembering the piece of carved stone he had found whilst swimming off the Turkish coast. He had instinctively known that its transfer in his suitcase, out of the country and back to England would be illegal but he had justified it in his mind by arguing that it was only small and he liked the piece. There it was, the incriminating evidence, sitting on the bookcase. If someone gave you a small gift, you didn’t question their generosity, you kept it. He also pondered briefly on the concealed car but not for long because Janet’s face kept moving into focus.