Dying to Sin

27

Later that morning, Cooper looked up the word ‘fey’ in a copy of the Collins English Dictionary. He’d borrowed the book a few weeks ago from his landlady, Mrs Shelley. She loved loaning him her books — she thought she was helping with his education, her tenant being an ignorant but well-meaning police constable and all.

He’d brought the dictionary to the office one day, and it had stayed in his desk drawer ever since. He really must remember to return it. He hated it when people borrowed his own books or CDs and never gave them back.

Yes, there was another meaning to ‘fey’. Fated to die, or doomed. From the Old English faege, marked for death. Tappy, in fact. Cooper nodded. Old Mrs Sutton had been tappy. And so had Derek Sutton. But who else at Pity Wood had been tappy or fey? Two young women, at least. Victim A and Victim B. They had certainly been fated to die.

This morning, E Division headquarters was the focus of activity. HOLMES staff had been arriving from Ripley and equipment was being set up. Detectives had been drafted in from other divisions and were being assigned their actions. Some teams were already out, chasing down associates of Tom Farnham’s, pursuing sightings of vehicles in the area at the time of his shooting, checking on the whereabouts of suspects in previous shootings. It had the look of a professional job, after all.

All the activity was making Cooper feel a bit left out. Even the identification of one of the bodies at Pity Wood Farm no longer appeared quite such a breakthrough as it had at the time. They knew who she was, but not how she’d died. No signs of major trauma — that’s what the postmortem said. Establishing how she’d met her fate was going to need a much bigger stroke of luck.

And they were still no nearer identifying any of the other migrant workers who’d been employed at Pity Wood Farm. Enquiries with agencies had drawn a complete blank. Gavin Murfin had just crossed the last one off the list this morning. Tom Farnham wasn’t going to be any further use — which left Fry’s trip to Ireland to interview Martin Rourke as the last hope, reluctant though she was to go.

‘Well, your nose might have been accurate, Ben,’ said Fry, striding into the office with a file and perching on the edge of a desk between his and Gavin’s. ‘According to the initial report from the chemist’s lab at the Forensic Science Service, there were a number of chemical traces found in the soil at Pity Wood Farm — and inside some of the buildings, too. Nothing out of the ordinary for a farm, so far as I can see.’

‘You have no idea what’s normal on a farm,’ protested Cooper.

Fry raised an eyebrow, but took it well. ‘Fair point. I’ve got a copy of the report here, so let’s run through the results, then. Gavin, are you listening?’

‘All ears,’ said Murfin, though, as far as Cooper could see, he was concentrating on a chocolate bar he’d found somewhere. Not one that had disappeared from the packed lunches the other day, was it?

‘First of all, hydrogen peroxide,’ said Fry. ‘That’s basically plain water with an extra oxygen atom, according to the chemist. I didn’t know that.’

‘Hair bleach?’

‘I’m thinking peroxide blondes,’ said Murfin. ‘Jean Harlow, Marilyn Monroe.’

‘Yes, back in the fifties and sixties, that was the popular way to dye your hair at home.’

‘Do people still use it?’ asked Cooper. ‘I heard it turns your hair orange.’

Fry gave him a challenging look. ‘How would I know, Ben?’

‘I’ve no idea. Sorry.’

‘Isn’t it used as a fuel, too?’ suggested Murfin. ‘I think it was leaking hydrogen peroxide that blew up that Russian submarine a few years ago.’

‘The Kursk, yes. How did you know that, Gavin?’

‘I’ve got a teenage lad. He’s interested in things like that, so I get lectured about them at the dinner table.’

‘The chemist’s report says that about half of hydrogen peroxide produced is used to bleach wood pulp or paper, as an alternative to chlorine-based bleaches. He also suggests mouthwash, contact-lens cleaning solutions, and dental-bleaching gels.’

‘More to the point,’ said Cooper, ‘it’s added to animal feed sometimes, to help fibre digestion. And it’s in some fertilizers, too. I think you can even use hydrogen peroxide in septic tank systems. It oxidizes the slime.’

‘Lovely. So no surprise to find it on a farm, then?’

‘What else is there in the report?’ persisted Cooper.

Fry sighed. ‘Dilute hydrochloric acid, also known as muriatic acid. Bricklayers use it to clean mortar off bricks, because the acid dissolves the lime in mortar. It’s used for cleaning concrete, too. It doesn’t take a big leap of the imagination to figure out where that came from. The builders have been at Pity Wood Farm for weeks.’

‘Isn’t hydrochloric acid dangerous?’ said Murfin. ‘It sounds dangerous.’

‘In the concentrated form, yes — you’d get a pretty severe burn without protective gear. But this is a commercial solution, and less dangerous. I’d still wear gloves and a face mask, though, if I were you.’

‘Next?’ asked Cooper.

‘Potassium hydroxide, also known as lye.’

‘Drain cleaner.’

‘Problems with the drains at Pity Wood? I should say so. What about you, Ben?’

‘OK.’

Fry turned to the second page of the report. ‘Iodine tincture.’

Cooper had used that himself many times, spraying it on to the umbilical cords of new-born lambs and calves as a disinfectant. There were always cans of iodine aerosol standing around at home.

Fry looked up for a comment, but got none. She was smiling now, feeling that she’d been proved right. She was on the home stretch if Cooper wasn’t even commenting.

‘Methanol,’ she said. ‘Even I know that’s antifreeze. Everyone has it, if they own a car. I’ve got some myself.’ There was a continued silence, and she pressed on quickly. ‘Last couple now. Propan-2-ol. Isopropyl alcohol. Any takers?’

‘Rubbing alcohol,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s an antiseptic and cleaner.’

‘And in everyone’s first-aid box,’ said Fry cheerfully. ‘Even farmers who cut themselves use it, I bet.’

‘Unless they drink the stuff,’ said Murfin.

‘Really?’

‘Well, just something I’ve heard.’

Fry shook her head, but didn’t seem downhearted. ‘And finally … something called pseudoephedrine.’ She stumbled over the last word and tried again, shifting the emphasis on the syllables. ‘Pseudoephedrine.’

‘What the heck is that?’

‘It says here it’s the active ingredient in proprietary decongestants, such as Sudafed. But there seems to be an awful lot of it.’

‘Someone had sinus problems at Pity Wood,’ suggested Murfin. ‘I’m not surprised. I reckon you’d be permanently bunged up with a cold, if you lived there. I was sneezing myself when I was up at the farm yesterday.’

Fry stared at him for a moment, as if horrified at the idea of Murfin with a head cold. Cooper could practically see her mind working, pieces falling into place in that efficient, clockwork way her brain had. There were no leaps of intuition with Fry, just the logical adding of one item of information with another, to come up with a final answer, already checked and validated.

At that moment, DI Hitchens entered the CID room with an envelope in his hand. He handed it to Fry with a slightly sheepish look.

‘Diane, here are your tickets for Dublin. I hope you’ve got your passport.’ Fry put the chemist’s report down. ‘I’m ready, sir.’

‘Good. Your flight leaves at one twenty-five.’

* * *

They’d booked her on a cheap Ryanair flight, of course. The fare to Dublin was less than it would have cost her to catch a bus to Sheffield and back. Robin Hood Airport, too — which meant she had to drive right over to Doncaster to catch her flight.

Fry checked in, went through security, and decided to have a drink at the airside bar. And then she had to sit and wait. An hour’s flight to Dublin, and an hour twiddling her thumbs. She watched her fellow passengers waiting patiently near the gate for boarding. Most of them seemed to have books or magazines, mindless stuff to while away the time. If only she could sit still and turn her brain off for an hour, the way these people were able to do.

When she’d finished her drink, Fry began to prowl the departure lounge, feeling restless and uneasy. She noted that ThomsonFly operated flights to Prague from this airport. That would have been handy for Nadezda Halak, she supposed, the Czech Republic being right next door to Slovakia. In fact, they used to be one country, didn’t they, before parts of Eastern Europe began to break up? But had Czechoslovakia separated before, or after, Nadezda arrived in the UK?

Fry found she had no idea. She couldn’t even guess. In fact, she knew nothing else about Slovakia, except that it was where the photocopier paper was made that they used in the office. It said so on the packaging.

She hated being so ignorant of important facts. And this could be an important one, since it made a difference to the nationality of the victim. Damn. It was an overlooked detail, and she didn’t like them. The wrong loose end could unravel a case completely.

She took her notebook out of her bag and jotted down a reminder to herself. She supposed she could call someone back in Edendale on her mobile, but she didn’t want to seem like a pest, some sad character who couldn’t leave her desk behind. Everyone else in the office seemed to be convinced that she was the lucky one to be flying to Ireland. A day off, they called it. A jaunt, a little jolly. She’d been conscious of envious glances, as if she was the teacher’s pet. ‘Don’t drink too much Guinness, Diane. And watch out for those leprechauns.’

Fry became aware that she was getting a headache. And she hadn’t brought her Lemsip capsules with her, so it was guaranteed that an hour in the recycled air of an economy class cabin would make her cold twice as bad. It had been lurking around for days now, barely suppressed by the medication, irritating her nose and throat. If she didn’t do something, she would arrive in Dublin with a sore throat, barely able to speak.

Well, she still had twenty minutes to spare before boarding, and there were some shops airside. No Boots the Chemist at a small regional airport like Robin Hood, but at least there was a World News. All the essentials for the happy traveller.

Keeping an ear out for announcements, Fry browsed the small range of pharmaceutical products on offer. She picked up a packet of Lemsip and some Paracetamol, then noticed the Sudafed. She wasn’t congested, not yet. But that was the worst symptom of a bad cold, and you couldn’t be too careful.

Out of habit, she turned each packet over to read the ingredients and contra-indications. She wasn’t a hypochondriac, but if she ever had an allergic reaction, she wanted to know exactly what she was allergic to.

Her eyes were drawn to the active ingredient in Sudafed. Pseudoephedrine. That word had been bothering her since she’d gone over the chemist’s report earlier in the day. There had been traces of the chemical found at Pity Wood Farm, scattered through the outbuildings and even in the soil surrounding them.

What else had there been on the list? Hydrogen peroxide, dilute hydrochloric acid, drain cleaner, iodine, anti-freeze, rubbing alcohol. And pseudoephedrine. A lot of pseudoephedrine. There was something she was missing, a loose end nagging at her here.

The first call came over the PA system for boarding Ryanair flight FR-1969. It was time to go. Fry grimaced, irritated by another detail that she wasn’t going to be able to pin down.

Fumbling for her money, she took one last look at the ingredients on her purchases. Sudafed, Paracetamol and Lemsip. Well, that should sort out her cold, all right. In fact, you could get really high on that lot.

‘Oh, my God.’

Fry froze at the counter, causing the assistant to stare at her as if she was mad. Then Fry turned and barged aside a queue of customers in her hurry to get out of the shop. She dragged her phone out of her bag as she ran and dialled a number. It was lucky she had it on speed dial, because her fingers were shaking with urgency. She tried to steady her voice, aware of her heart pounding in her chest and her breathing ragged with the surge of excitement and fear.

DI Hitchens came on the phone just as the final call for boarding was made and the last few passengers began to trickle through the gate for Dublin.

‘Sir, it’s DS Fry. Listen — I don’t have much time. We need to get everyone clear of Pity Wood Farm immediately. Yes, all of them. I suggest we establish a safe perimeter and pull everything back. We’ve got to get them out of that place — now!’