CATHERINE
MOLONEY

1

A Terrible Coldness

It occurred to DI Gilbert (‘Gil’) Markham, sitting on his favourite bench in the terraced graveyard of St Chad’s Parish Church on Monday morning, that he was on the same page as Annette Sullivan when it came to Christmas.

  There had been some sad Christmases in his early life, but time was a great healer and now when he thought of the past he travelled back to the years before the family unit was irrevocably disrupted by the arrival of a stepfather and it was just him, his mother and brother draping their modest artificial tree with winking lights and squabbling amicably over where to place the garish felt santas and furry reindeers. He smiled as he recalled the sinister santa face which always went on top of the tree instead of the more traditional star or angel. Something about the floppy red hat, limp white beard and unnaturally radiant features unnerved him. But the peculiar little puppet had been passed down the generations, so his protests were to no avail.

  His reminiscent smile faded as he recalled those other puppets at Old Carton Hall in the anteroom where Charles Larrain had been discovered the previous day….

  ‘S’like Madame Tussauds,’ DS George Noakes pronounced. ‘Only creepier.’

  The gloomy oak-panelled room held a range of effigies, some life size but others just the head and torso, along with a collection of death masks in glass cases.

  Noakes, predictably, didn’t care for the Twiss squirearchy.

  ‘The blokes are all pigeon-chested,’ he declared. ‘Probl’y from the wigs an’ all that furry clobber they dressed up in.’

  ‘Not to mention the velvet and ermine,’ Markham observed, noting the extravagant robes on the full-size mannequins.

  ‘The women are a bit scary,’ the DS continued, eyeing a haughty hook-nosed noblewoman clad in richly embroidered brocade. ‘Mebbe that’s why the fellas look like they’ve been squashed in the sack.’ Since their investigation into an obesity clinic, Noakes’s eyes had been opened to new aspects of gender warfare.

  The pathologist Doug ‘Dimples’ Davidson, a bluff countryman and dead ringer for Tristan Farnon in the original All Creatures Great and Small, laughed at this.

  ‘I’m not sure the Twisses would care for that interpretation, Sergeant’ he said. ‘The effigies were meant to convey refinement and aristocratic breeding.’

  ‘Inbreeding you mean,’ the other grunted as he stooped to examine the effigy of a young child on its plinth. ‘Most likely that’s why this poor little bleeder never made it to his teens.’

  He squinted at the decorated oak tester on the wall above the child’s head and then at the adjacent museum-style plaque.

  ‘It’s supposed to show a pair of monkeys,’ he said rumpling his salt and pepper thatch so that it stood comically on end. ‘King James kept ’em as pets an’ gave one to little whatshisface when he came here on a visit cos the lad took a shine to it…. called it Bombadil. Hey,’ he brightened, ‘ain’t that the name of some bloke in Lord of the Rings?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think they were into Tolkien back then,’ Dimples observed wryly. ‘Anyway, it would seem the boy didn’t live long enough to enjoy it.’

  ‘Yeah, says here the chimp pined away an’ died after the lad got smallpox an’ snuffed it.’ The shrewd piggy eyes were suddenly compassionate as he contemplated the wistful wax figure in its full-length crimson robe with tiny lace jabot. ‘Poor little bleeder,’ he repeated before turning back to the pathologist.

  ‘So what did ole Charles Aznavour die of then?’ he demanded, his gaze roaming over the corpse bent in its fearful boomerang-like death throes.

  ‘Charles Larrain,’ Markham corrected him mildly. Noakes’s chronic tendency to rechristen victims and suspects had on occasion got him into serious hot water, but the DI knew no-one was more tenacious than his untidy, uncouth wingman when it came to tracking down a murderer.

  ‘Well, the way that young lass talked about him, you’d have thought he were some frog pop star ’stead of jus’ a shopkeeper,’ the DS retorted.

  It was certainly true that Annette Sullivan had spoken of the dead man with an ardour that suggested a teenaged crush. Noakes – father of perma-tanned Natalie who was the apple of his eye – refrained from open raillery until she had been shepherded away for a cup of tea but now saw no reason to hold back. ‘Sounded like the bloke thought he were god’s gift,’ he insisted.

  ‘To answer your question, Sergeant,’ Dimples interjected with heavy forbearance, ‘I believe Mr Larrain was poisoned.’

  ‘How come?’ The DS looked round the museum-like antechamber in bewilderment. ‘I mean, how’d it get into his body?’

  The pathologist held out a slim pouch in his gloved hand.

  ‘I’d say someone tampered with his vape kit or whatever they call these e-cig contraptions these days.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Mercury vapour….’

  ‘So he inhaled it then?’ Markham asked, startled.

  The medic smiled. ‘It’s not unheard of these days,’ he told them. ‘One of Vladimir Putin’s critics made the mistake of calling him “the new Stalin”. Next thing you know, he died of a heart attack they think was caused by someone spraying poison on the reading lamp next to his bed…. The heat from the lamp vaporised the poison, see, and he was sitting right next to it. His bodyguards just stuck their heads in to say goodnight, so they got sick but survived.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s the Ruskies,’ Noakes declared. As much as to say, what else can you expect. ‘Stuff like that don’ happen here.’

  Dimples knew Noakes’s xenophobia of old. ‘It’s more creative than other methods, I grant you,’ he allowed patiently, ‘but I’m pretty sure that’s what you’re looking at in this case.’ He gestured at the body. ‘Mr Larrain also had a hip flask in his pocket, so if the murderer contaminated that as well as the e-cig – with something like a pesticide, say – then we’re talking a powerful double whammy.’

  ‘But how the chuff could they count on Charlie boy wandering round the château?’ The question was put with scornful emphasis on the last word just to show that the DS wasn’t over-awed by his surroundings.

  Dimples smothered a smile. ‘I gather from that nice woman who was in here before…. Sir Simon’s PA…. that Mr Larrain was in the habit of calling round at weekends.’

  ‘But he’s jus’ someone from that poncey shopping centre – the artisan wotsit,’ Noakes said crossly. ‘What business did he have making free with the place an’ strolling around without so much as a by your leave?’

  The pathologist made a tutting sound.

  ‘Now, now, that’s not very democratic of you, Sergeant,’ he said with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. ‘The people at the Hall think of themselves and the Artisan Centre as one big happy family.’

  Noakes jerked a pudgy forefinger at the body. ‘Not that happy by the looks of things,’ he glowered.

  Nothing abashed, Dimples continued smoothly. ‘And in any event, Mr Larrain was a good friend of Richard Twiss. Took a keen interest in The Power of Poison exhibition too…. Pretty much had carte blanche to go wherever he wanted.’

  ‘The security here’s gotta be pants.’ Noakes was not to be defeated.

  ‘Fairly relaxed, yes,’ the pathologist admitted. ‘It appears the live-in staff set the alarms at the weekend, but family and friends have their own keys and know the codes.’

  ‘So everyone an’ their dog could’ve come traipsing through,’ the DS concluded indignantly.

  Dimples raised his hands apologetically. ‘There hasn’t been a burglary here in the last umpteen years, so the system worked pretty well.’

  Until now, said Noakes’s expression.

  ‘Time of death, Doug?’ Markham asked.

  ‘Late Saturday night…. around ten or eleven, but don’t quote me on that.’ The medic’s face was sombre as he contemplated the body. ‘The poor man died hard.’ Unexpectedly he added, ‘It’s a coward’s choice, poison.’

  ‘They say it’s a woman’s weapon,’ Noakes ruminated.

  ‘Well, those Medici and Borgia dames were heavily into it,’ Dimples agreed. ‘But in our own times there’s the likes of Crippen and Graham Young getting in on the act.’

  ‘Oh yeah, Young was the bloke who knocked off his workmates.’ Noakes never missed a true crime documentary on CBS Reality. ‘Practised with weed killer when he were a kid an’ then moved on to thallium…. Always carried poisons on him cos it made him feel powerful, the sick git.’

  ‘He was a sexual sadist apparently,’ Dimples added mischievously, aware that the DS had a surprisingly prudish streak.

  Noakes shook his head. ‘Dunno about that,’ he replied. ‘But he were screwy right from the off…. his cousin said he sniffed her bottles of nail varnish to get high.’

  ‘Well, there you have it, Sergeant. Inhalation of toxic vapours.’

  The DS looked dubiously at the corpse. ‘But I mean, tampering with an e-cig….’

  ‘And most likely contaminating that hip flask,’ Dimples pointed out. ‘Perfectly doable if Larrain had put his jacket down somewhere.’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘I’d say the killer enjoyed doing this…. really wanted to make him suffer.’

  The pathologist gestured to two paramedics who had arrived with a gurney and awaited his signal. ‘You’re looking for a seriously troubled individual.’

  ‘As if we needed telling,’ Noakes burst out crossly after the sheeted stretcher had departed. He glanced round uneasily at the effigies and busts. ‘An’ if they’ve got a taste for this poisoning malarkey, they ain’t going to stop at one victim, no sirree!’

  Now as Markham sat contemplating the white-clad tombs and monuments, Noakes’s prophecy came back to him.

  They weren’t going to stop at one.

  He was struck with a terrible coldness that had nothing to do with the winter weather.

  A coldness that came from knowing there was a deranged enemy out there…. the more deadly for being unafflicted by conscience or remorse.

  There had been no question the previous day of their being granted an interview with Sir Simon and Lady Twiss, the family GP having attended so quickly that it was fair to assume they had him on speed-dial. In the meantime, Markham was prepared to wait until Dimples came back with the toxicology report.

  The DI’s thoughts turned to his team.

  He had been startled during their last case when Noakes had bruited the possibility of quitting CID and setting up as a private investigator. There was no doubt that DCI Sidney – or ‘Slimy Sid’ as he was known to the rank and file – would sing a Te Deum at the prospect of his bête noire heading for pastures new, Noakes’s chronic inability to follow the politically correct playbook (or ‘woke bollocks’ as he called it) and habit of saying just what he thought making him decidedly persona non grata with his superiors.

  Personally, Markham relished his wingman’s lack of any filter, valuing this quality as being increasingly rare in an environment where people would do or say literally anything to climb the greasy pole. Noakes was an old-style copper with old-style values. ‘Scrotes’ and ‘lowlifes’ got zero sympathy, but there was a wellspring of tenderness for those who had no-one to fight for them, coupled with a ferocious tenacity in bringing malefactors to justice that matched Markham’s own. He also had a strain of poetic susceptibility in his makeup that was strongly at odds with his battered appearance and terrible dress sense, creating a mysterious psychic affinity with Markham whose troubled early life he had intuited without anything explicit ever passing between them on the subject. The DI had a feeling that the younger brother he had lost to drink and drugs would have liked Noakes.

  Certainly his partner Olivia Mullen found Noakes a ‘kindred spirit’, her roguish streak responding to the grizzled veteran’s honesty and subversive resistance to the fashionable shibboleths espoused by DCI Sidney. She and Noakes shared a visceral dislike of Slimy Sid, whom she had rechristened Judas Iscariot on account of his jealousy of Markham and tendency to hog the glory at every opportunity. For his part, Noakes responded to the pre-Raphaelite allure of Olivia’s flaming red hair, willowy grace and musical contralto with a reverence to equal that of any medieval troubadour at the Courts of Love.

  Noakes’s formidable wife Muriel was markedly less enamoured of Olivia, sighing gustily to fellow members of the local WI that ‘poor dear Gilbert Markham was so easily imposed upon,’ the implication being that her husband’s boss, whose old-world courtesy and handsome mien were very much to her taste, had fallen victim to unspeakable sexual wiles.

  Muriel and Noakes had met on the ballroom dance circuit, both being surprisingly proficient exponents of the art, with a chemistry which belied the prosaic reality of more than thirty years marriage.

  There had been a crisis during the notorious Bluebell investigation when Noakes discovered that he was not in fact Natalie’s biological father and nearly chucked away his career as a result. To this day, Markham remained ignorant of what had transpired between the DS and his wife behind closed doors. But the couple had somehow weathered the storm, and Markham detected that Muriel had softened around the edges, though Olivia still mocked the older woman’s social climbing and archly coquettish mannerisms.

  For all Noakes’s devotion to his bossy wife, she had signally failed in her endeavours to smarten him up – except for those occasions like church when he was ‘on parade’ – and his migraine-inducing wardrobe choices had passed into legend.

  At least Markham could count on DI Kate Burton to look the part.

  Earnest and politically correct where Noakes was outspoken and tactless, she had experienced strong family opposition when it came to her choice of the police as a career. But she made a triumphant success of it, progressing through the ranks as a fast-track psychology graduate who was clearly ‘going places’. The fact that she was now engaged to Professor Nathan Finlayson, a criminal profiler at Bromgrove University, failed to allay Olivia’s jealous fear that Burton had never ceased to carry a torch for Markham. And it was undoubtedly true that their bond had only strengthened over the years, with the result that Burton’s transfer to London had lasted a mere matter of months in the face of her professed desire to work with her former boss. Technically speaking, they were now the same rank, but she always deferred to him as her skipper. From time to time he wondered if his selfish enjoyment of such flattering hero-worship had impeded Burton’s professional development, but the pleasure of having such an intelligent and loyal subordinate made it easy to banish any lingering qualms.

  Noakes and Burton were initially highly suspicious of each other, since they were by temperament, upbringing and education as far apart as it was possible to be. But each had mellowed with the passage of time and shared the same dogged devotion to Markham, as well as an insatiable appetite for true crime documentaries. Noakes was always very sniffy about his colleague’s academic leanings – there was no danger of him dipping into her beloved Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders – but he enjoyed chewing the cud with Burton and Nathan Finlayson, hoovering up all that the latter could relate about the psychopathic personality. For his part, Finlayson had grown fond of CID’s resident curmudgeon, not even objecting when Noakes christened him ‘Shippers’ on account of his marked resemblance to the serial killer Harold Shipman.

  Where Burton went, DS Doyle followed, the ginger-haired young detective having early hitched his star to hers. Armed with his newly minted criminal law degree, Doyle was undoubtedly another highflyer, but there was nothing obsequious or servile about him and he had remained devoted to his mentor Noakes, displaying a loyalty that showed he was his own man. Markham suspected he had never truly acclimatised to Southampton Row, secretly pining for Bromgrove, Noakes and the distinction of belonging to what station wits had designated Markham’s ‘Gang of Four’.

  Well, the ‘gang’ was together again, and he had no doubt Sidney would agree to its deployment.

  Provided, of course, that he got results.

  The cold clear day was bracing, and Markham was reluctant to exchange it for the fug of CID.

  But he forced himself up from the bench, causing a squirrel to whisk out of sight behind a neighbouring tombstone.

  Even though covered by snow, he knew the lines inscribed on it by heart:

  Man is a single pilgrim, fighting unarmed amongst a thousand soldiers,

  Therefore enlist ye under the banner of thy God.

  A misappropriation of Victorian doggerel, according to Olivia, but somehow the words resonated with him, like an irresistible call to arms or a regimental quick march.

 Dimples had said that poison was a coward’s choice.

  In that moment, he vowed he would force this hidden enemy to take the field.

                                             ----------------------------------------------

CID was very quiet as Markham headed for his poky office with its unrivalled view of the station carpark.

  Somebody – probably one of the civilian staff – had sorted a smattering of Christmas decorations, though he didn’t give much for the chances of the little fibre optic tree, streamers and garlands making it unscathed through the festive period. The sprightlier members of the department would most likely use the tree for target practice, he thought with an amused shrug.

  On the other hand, god help anyone who made off with those chocolate santas he spied dangling from the lowest branches, Noakes regarding anything of the kind as his personal prerequisite.

  The DS was notably keen on ‘Crimbo’, and his boss had literally seen the cogs turning as Noakes calculated the domestic brownie points to be earned from a cull of ‘posh smellies’ at the Old Carton Artisan Centre. It was also useful to the investigation that daughter Natalie, in her capacity of upwardly mobile freelance beautician, would automatically have an entrée to the centre’s various homeopathic and cosmetic outlets. Something of a man-eater in her salad days, Natalie was no longer the doyenne of Bromgrove’s nightclubs, being respectably affianced to the son of a local entrepreneur who had briefly come under suspicion in a previous investigation. However, like her mother, she was well disposed towards her father’s handsome boss, which meant she would be highly amenable to the prospect of a role as unofficial intel-gatherer. The DI knew he would have to play his cards carefully, given Natalie’s brush with danger during the Bluebell case and Noakes’s protectiveness, but he suspected her nose for gossip was second to none.

  Markham was amused to note that the door of Kate Burton’s minuscule glassed-in domain – ‘office’ was stretching it for what was little more than a cubicle – featured a tasteful natural wreath (no tinsel, in keeping with her eco credentials) with a robin redbreast centrepiece. Was it his imagination, or was the bird cocking a wary eye at Noakes’s frowsy desk nearby? If so, there was nothing to fear, the DS thoroughly approving of robins as being ‘nice an’ proper’, reserving his wrath for politically correct ‘winter festival BS where it could be anyone’s birthday’ and Christ was conspicuous by his absence. ‘Like Hamlet without the prince,’ Olivia chuckled at Noakes’s perennial gripe, but Markham guessed his wingman – indelibly marked by a Sunday School Methodist upbringing – was genuinely outraged. ‘Same with Easter,’ the DS groused. ‘That’s why you’ve got kids who think it’s all about some freaking Bunny.’

  Needless to say, Muriel Noakes’s eminently tasteful Christmas card had already been delivered to CID by her proud spouse. Reflecting the good lady’s recent flirtation with Catholicism, it depicted Our Lady Undoer of Knots, with a sweet-faced Madonna whom Markham privately considered a vast improvement on some of the whey-faced precocious she-hypocrites and pasty Infants of previous years. Perhaps Muriel’s choice of painting could even be considered a favourable omen in light of the decidedly knotty conundrum posed by this latest murder.

  A minor commotion outside his door signalled the arrival of the threesome who he had no doubt were avid to get their teeth into the Old Carton murder.

  Noakes certainly lived down to expectations in an eye-wateringly awful combo of chunky crimson bobble jumper, decorated with what looked like capering penguins, bottle green cords and the ubiquitous George boots (‘if it’s good enough for the Paras, it’s good enough for me’). Sidney would blow a gasket if he caught sight of this ensemble, Markham thought with an inward groan, though on the other hand Noakes might away with it if they pretended he was involved in a local Save Arctic Wildlife campaign…. On balance, it might just be safest to keep him well away from the higher-ups. If the worst came to the worst, he could always pacify Sidney by dangling the prospect of Noakes’s imminent retirement (without mentioning his plans to branch out as a gumshoe).

  DI Kate Burton, nut-brown hair swinging in its trademark bob, looked immaculate in a sharply tailored navy trouser suit, black roll-neck jumper and suede ankle boots. Her slightly squashed, tip-tilted features were redeemed from absolute plainness by the intelligence of the brown eyes which were magnified to the size of enormous lollipops whenever she whipped on her high-prescription reading glasses.

  DS Doyle, lanky but highly personable in his tweed jacket, slim-fit dark button-down and neat chinos, looked alert and eager. If he was a dog, he’d be wagging his tail, Markham thought indulgently as the trio arranged themselves on the other side of his desk.

  Seeing Noakes rummage in the big paper bag with McDonald’s logo, Markham resigned himself to the fragrance of his wingman’s usual grease-fest. And sure enough, out came the breakfast muffin, fries and coffee, causing Burton to wrinkle her nose fastidiously as her colleague proceeded to wolf down his supplies. Doyle merely grinned at this evidence of his mentor limbering up for the festive blowout. ‘You gotta pace yourself, lad,’ as the other invariably put it when it came to building stamina for the Main Event.

  The DI knew better than to interrupt his wingman’s fuelling up, but the latter made short work of the foodstuffs, enquiring with unmistakeable eagerness, ‘Are we in on this one then, guv?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got the three of you for the Old Carton Hall murder, Noakes.’ He frowned. ‘And I have to say, it looks like being our most challenging yet.’

  Seeing that Kate Burton had whisked notebook and glasses out of her brown leather conference folder, Markham swiftly marshalled his thoughts.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘The victim is Mr Charles Larrain, forty-five, perfumier from the Old Carton Artisan Centre and friend of Richard Twiss who’s the second son of Sir Simon and Lady Edith.’

 ‘As in “friend friend”?’ Doyle asked, looking awkward as well he might with Noakes leering knowingly at the enquiry.

  ‘We don’t know if Mr Larrain and Richard Twiss were romantically involved,’ the DI answered evenly. With a quelling glance at Noakes, he added, ‘However if that should turn out to be the case, we will approach the issue with due restraint and discretion.’ As opposed to anyone trampling all over local sensibilities with their size twelves.

  Burton nodded approvingly.

  ‘The Twisses have other children, isn’t that right sir?’ She invariably addressed Markham as her superior and he had long since given up pointing out that they were now equals in rank. Deep down, he knew he liked her all the more for this mark of respect. ‘That’s cos you’re her household god’ Olivia had commented waspishly, and he supposed there was truth in this but still refrained from correcting the misnomer, telling himself It is what it is.

  ‘That’s correct, Kate. Michael Twiss, the eldest son, is in line to inherit. Then there’s the youngest brother Philip Twiss who acts as the estate manager. And a sister, Margaret, who lectures part-time at the university.’

  Burton busily scribbled away while the other two exchanged eloquent glances across her glossy head.

  A university angle. God, she’ll be in clover if there’s a bunch of clever dicks involved.

  ‘Sir Simon’s brother Gerald Twiss and his wife Stella own Old Carton Farm,’ Markham continued. ‘Then there’s Miss Isobel Farquhar, Lady Edith’s sister, who lives in Old Carton Dower Cottage with her unmarried daughter Frances.’

  ‘Worse than Downton Abbey,’ Noakes grumbled, poking around in his McDonalds bag in the forlorn hope of finding stray fries to gobble.

  ‘What about staff at the Hall, sir?’ Doyle asked.

  ‘I’m not totally clear about the set-up as yet…. I gather there’s a Christopher Hassett who’s the assistant curator…. helps arrange exhibitions like this latest offering…. The Power of Poison.’

  Burton looked even more enthralled on hearing this.

  Noakes scowled. That’s all we need. Her going all misty-eyed over a load of medieval twaddle the lah-di-da lot have cooked up to get the punters in.

  Perfectly aware of his wingman’s malevolent inner monologue, Markham suppressed a smile.

  ‘I believe there’s also an events manager who divides her time between the Hall and the Artisan Centre…. name of Catherine Metcalfe. In terms of household staff, Sir Simon has a PA…. Mrs Irene Clark…. There’s also a housekeeper, Carmel Scarron, whose son Patrick acts as a sort of groundsman.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound all that lavish.’ Burton was clearly disappointed.

  ‘That’s the way with so many so-called stately homes these days, Kate. Pretty much run on a shoestring,’ Markham told her. ‘The family’s well embedded locally, so I imagine they get extra help from the village when they need it. They’re pretty thick with a clutch of local worthies – the vicar and his wife, churchwardens and so forth.’ He grinned, the austere features softening in a rare, charming smile. ‘I believe Mrs Sidney serves on Bromgrove’s Heritage Committee with Lady Twiss.’

  ‘Oh well,’ Noakes said with heavy sarcasm. ‘You can say bye-bye to fingering any of the poshos, guv.’ The DS stuck out his pinkie in a parody of teatime gentility. ‘Can’t be having any of the Downton Abbey brigade in the frame, dontcha know.’

  ‘Get that chip off your shoulder, Noakesy,’ Markham told him. ‘We’re going in with no preconceptions, and I think the DCI appreciates that.

  Noakes looked thunderous. Yeah, like chuff he does.

  Actually, Markham had seen another side to the DCI in recent investigations. A willingness to park his undoubted predilection for social standing and celebrity – the product of a difficult start in life – in favour of giving Markham a decent run. He couldn’t flatter himself that Sidney had suddenly conceived some sort of personal regard for him. Resentment of his Oxbridge credentials and meteoric rise in CID were too deeply ingrained for any such volte-face. But something had brought about a transformation, and Markham was simply grateful for the positive consequences. Maybe it was just that the instincts of a decent copper were not entirely crusted over with the corrosive effects of high office. Olivia scoffed at the notion of Markham’s boss having had any such Damascene conversion, but he felt nonetheless that it was so.

  ‘So, what’s next, sir?’ Burton asked simply.

  ‘A recce of the Hall this afternoon,’ the DI replied. ‘I want to get a feel for the family and staff while we’re waiting for Dimples to report

back about the toxicology.’

  Seeing that Burton regarded him expectantly, Markham explained the pathologist’s theories.

  His fellow DI thought hard. ‘He really thinks it’s cyanide and –’

  ‘Rat killer,’ Noakes interjected peremptorily.

  ‘Or possibly hydrobromide of hyoscine,’ Markham amended. ‘Either way, fatal poisons administered by means of Mr Larrain’s e-cigarette and hip flask.’

  ‘Sneaky,’ Noakes declared.

  ‘Indeed,’ Markham agreed. Repressing a shiver, he added, ‘There’s something devious and deliberate about the way in which Mr Larrain was dispatched.

  ‘A highly intelligent coward,’ Burton said solemnly, unconsciously echoing the pathologist.

  ‘An’ a freaking sadist.’ Noakes wanted no-one to be in any doubt about that.

  ‘Which is why we need to move fast,’ the DI told them.

  No need to add: Otherwise, we’ve got a serial on our hands.