Close Ranks Read online

  ‘I know,’ West said, ‘and we wouldn’t bother you so soon if it weren’t important.’

  ‘Do you know how many times in the course of one day I hear that sentence, Sergeant West,’ he replied, his lips narrowed in annoyance. ‘Everyone thinks their case is more important than anyone else’s. Well, I’ll tell you what I tell them. Every case is important to us. Every single one. That’s the way we approach our work.’

  Tense silence ensued. Then all three men began to speak at the same time, apologies, justifications, more apologies before Keane gave a rueful laugh and said, ‘I’m sorry, really. It has been the shittiest day imaginable. And I do mean shitty.’

  ‘We too are sorry,’ West said. ‘And really, we wouldn’t come barging in demanding results if it weren’t for the circumstances. If the one manihot esculenta that Gerard Roberts ate was the cause of his death we may have nine more.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Keane said, rubbing his rough hand over the grey stubble that covered his head, making a sandpaper sound that was loud in the quiet corridor.

  West explained, his voice grim. ‘The shop where our victim shopped had ten of these exotic vegetables. They sold one to Roberts and nine to an unknown lady. If the one he bought killed Gerard Roberts and this unknown lady uses the other nine to feed family, friends, whoever... He broke off as he saw the scientist nod.

  Keane nodded again and rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘I get the picture and I think that qualifies as very important, Sergeant. Maybe even important enough to bump you to the top of the long list.’ He pointed down to the end of the corridor, ‘Follow me.’

  They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing. Pushing open a door at the very end, Keane motioned the two men inside and indicated a window at the other side of the large, well-lit room. They moved closer. The window had a view of a neat, square laboratory a mop capped, white coated woman standing in front of a counter that seemed to be completely covered in petri-dishes.

  ‘That’s Nora,’ Sean Keane said, ‘she’s been identifying and labelling the stomach contents sent over from Dr Kennedy.’ They watched for a few moments and then, when the woman finished labelling an item, Sean used an intercom to speak to her. ‘I’ve two gardai here,’ he said, not bothering with names. He filled her in with a précis of their predicament. ‘So we really need to find out if the cause of death is here among the contents.’

  ‘Ok,’ Nora replied slowly. ‘I’ve started, as you can see,’ she said indicating the array of labelled items beside her on the table.

  West and Andrews stared through the window, fascinated at the smorgasbord of petri-dishes. As with most work, the technician had started with the easier options and she pointed out dishes labelled as carrots, broccoli, onions, mushrooms, green beans and bean sprouts.

  Nora indicated two unlabeled dishes, ‘I’ve separated the rest into two items that I’ve yet to identify.’

  Only two unidentified. West and Andrews stared at one another. Maybe they’d get lucky. Identifying two vegetables couldn’t take too long.

  ‘They think one of them may be a vegetable called manihot esculenta, Nora. Plus we found the peeling of what Samir identified at the scene as Cassava. We’ll have to do some research to see if they are one and the same.’ Keane looked at the two detectives, ‘I assume you checked on the internet?’

  There was an embarrassed silence as both West and Andrews looked first at one another and then at Keane. West, knowing the blame was his, held his hands up. ‘It never crossed my mind, I do apologise.’

  Keane shrugged, ‘No worries. We can do it here. I’ll leave what I was working on and give Nora a hand. There’s coffee percolating over there,’ he said, nodding to the far wall of the room. ‘Help yourselves. This could take a while,’

  Moments later, West and Andrews saw the Sean appear the other side of the window, mop capped, white coated, masked. A total transformation. He gave the two men a wave and then proceeded to ignore them.

  For a while both men stood watching, hoping any moment for one of those eureka moments that would give them the information they wanted. But like their work, forensic work seemed to be plod plod plod. Sean and Nora moved from one piece of high tech equipment to the other, staring into each with more patience than either detective possessed, even on a good day. It quickly became boring to watch.

  ‘It’s a long way from the microscope I had when I was a child,’ Andrews murmured, turning away and heading to the percolator, hoping it held better coffee than the one at the station. He poured two mugs, found sugar and milk that was just this side of turning and handing one to West, sat with the other to wait.

  West sipped his coffee, still staring through the window. As the minutes ticked by, he had to bite his tongue to stop snapping out a for God’s sake what’s taking so long! He knew they had to be precise. He knew their results had to stand up to scrutiny but really...it was two vegetables.

  As if he could hear his thoughts, Sean Keane raised his head and glanced toward him. West couldn’t see his lips move behind the mask but his eyes were stern and then his voice came through the intercom, firm and decisive, said, ‘Honestly, we can’t do this any quicker. You want results that will stand up, indisputable results. That’s what we’ll get you.’

  There wasn’t anything to say to that so West wisely kept quiet. He sat beside Andrews for a minute and then, checking his watch with an impatient tut, returned to his place by the window.

  He was just about to sit again when he saw a change in the two scientists, their movements suddenly energised, a certain something in their eyes.

  They both straightened and stood muttering for a moment, speaking too quietly for West to hear. But he heard the tone of their voices, knew they had made some kind of breakthrough. Sean moved to make a phone call, avoiding the window and West’s quizzically raised eyebrows. West watched him speak into the phone for a few minutes, saw his frown deepen as he listened to the reply to whatever it was he had asked.

  ‘Something’s happening,’ West threw back to Andrews without taking his eyes from what was happening in the lab.

  ‘Results?’ Andrews asked, joining him.

  West shrugged. ‘Something. They’ll let us know I suppose. Eventually.’

  Just when the two detectives were at the tearing-your-hair-out point, Sean and Nora walked to the window, a grim expression on both faces.

  ‘My results are irrefutable. I have checked, double checked and the conclusion is the same,’ Sean stated firmly. ‘Firstly, manihot esculenta is the correct name for cassava. Cassava is generally divided into two basic types called, for ease of use, sweet and bitter. Sweet cassava has a concentration of cyanogenic glycoside less than fifty milligrams per kilogram which requires basic cooking to render non-toxic. Bitter cassava, on the other hand, has a concentration greater than fifty milligrams. To render bitter cassava safe to eat, it needs to be grated; the gratings are then soaked for a period of days, with the water being discarded several times during this period, then it is safe to cook well and eat.’

  ‘Which did Gerard Roberts eat?’ West asked.

  ‘I tested the cassava from the stomach and also the rind, from the cassava we collected from the Roberts’ house. Both have a concentration of sixty-five milligrams of cyanogenic glycoside. It appears that the concentration is often affected by weather conditions where it is grown. Periods of drought, it appears, concentrate the levels.’

  He returned to the desk where the petri-dishes sat, his voice fading slightly as he moved away. ‘You mentioned that the victim bought one cassava root. Are you certain it was only one?’

  ‘Yes, pretty sure. We spoke to the man who served him in the shop. He said one. Why?’

  ‘We found the chewed remnants of approximately one small, cooked cassava root, which gels with what you say he bought,’ Nora explained, ‘Even badly prepared, as it was, it wouldn’t have killed him. He may have been extremely unwell, may have had some neuropathy following its ingestion but it wouldn’t
have killed him.’ She picked up a dish and held it up to the window. ‘This is the chewed cassava.’

  West and Andrews peered at it, said nothing.

  Nora put the dish down, picked up another, came back and held it up to the window.

  ‘See the difference?’ she asked the two detectives.

  ‘That looks smoother,’ West offered.

  Nora nodded. ‘This is raw bitter cassava. It appears to have been finely grated, maybe even liquidised, rather than chopped like the cooked one We found quite a lot of this in Gerard Roberts’ stomach.’

  ‘How much, do you think?’ West asked grimly.

  ‘Using the weight of the one cooked root we can extrapolate that there were – and this is a rough approximate because we are comparing cooked with non-cooked – somewhere between six and maybe eight roots.’

  West and Andrews exchanged glances. ‘Or maybe nine?’ West asked.

  Sean Keane looked at Nora and shrugged before returning his gaze to the window. ‘Could be, Sergeant. We could be talking about nine small roots or five big ones. We’ve no way of knowing exactly.’

  Andrews frowned. ‘You said there was sixty-five milligrams of cyanogenic glycoside per kilo of cassava. Would he have eaten a kilo?’

  ‘Each cassava weighs a few grams so, in theory, yes.’ Nora said, ‘But I’m not saying he necessarily ate them, I can’t imagine why he would have; it would be the equivalent of you eating grated raw potato.’

  ‘But you found it in his stomach,’ Andrews said, puzzled.

  ‘Yes, but he may have drunk it rather than eaten it.’ Nora put the petri-dish down and crossed her arms. ‘It is very finely grated and could have been mixed into something. Or I suppose it could have been added to his food, like parmesan cheese for instance. I’ve no idea what raw cassava tastes like, whether it would be noticeable or not. We have no way of telling, I’m afraid. We’ve done the science bit, I’m afraid the why bit is your department.’

  If that was a dismissal, West wasn’t listening, he had one more question to ask, ‘But it was definitely enough to kill him, yes?’

  Nora looked directly at them. ‘Forty milligrams would kill a cow. At the least computation he ate almost a kilo containing sixty five milligrams per kilo. More than enough to kill him. We’ll get the exact concentration in his blood from the lab, probably tomorrow.’ With that, Nora gave a nod and disappeared out a door the other side of the lab.

  Sean raised an index finger. ‘Hang on there a sec.’ But it was slightly longer before he appeared back in the room where West and Andrews were discussing the latest information and where they would go with it. He’d shed his white coat and gloves but had forgotten to remove the mop cap, ‘Have we helped your dilemma or made it worse?’

  West smiled and shook his head. ‘Changed it almost completely, Sean. It looks like we have probably accounted for all the cassava that was bought, so at least we won’t have to issue an alert. But if Roberts bought one and the mystery lady bought nine, how did he end up with all ten in his stomach?’ He smiled, ‘As your colleague said so succinctly, Sean, it’s time we did our bit.’ Turning to leave he thought of something. ‘Was there a grater or liquidiser in the Roberts’ kitchen?’

  Keane moved to a nearby computer and moments later had an inventory of the Roberts’ kitchen in view. He hummed under his breath as he quickly scanned the data, scrolling through pages of items that had been recorded earlier. ‘Yes, both. One stainless steel box grater and one liquidiser. I would guess from where they were found though that Mr Roberts didn’t use them to prepare his meal this morning. Everything he used was either on the counter or in the sink; the grater was in the back of a cupboard, the liquidiser on a high shelf. However, I will have them both tested to make certain. Unfortunately, they’re not items we have looked at yet so it will have to be tomorrow, unless,’ he eyed the sergeant expectantly, ‘you are authorising overtime?’

  ‘It will keep, Sean. Let me know as soon as, ok.’

  ‘Sure.’ Keane looked thoughtful and added, ‘If you find a suspect, look for a grater and liquidiser. They’ll have washed them but people never wash these pieces of equipment properly. We may be able to find traces of cassava in the teeth or the mechanics. Keep that in mind.’

  With a nod of thanks both men left and headed back to the station where they sat and went over the series of events, looking at the limited information they had from every angle, identifying the gaps, planning a strategy for the following day.

  ‘How did Roberts end up with all the manioc esculenta?’ Andrews mused. ‘Pat said he cycled away as the woman came into the shop. It doesn’t make sense. And even if he did, somehow, end up with all of it, why would he have cooked one piece and eaten the rest raw?’

  West, sipping bitter coffee with a grimace, didn’t reply for a moment. He stood holding his mug and moved to the window where raindrops played follow the leader to a puddle on the flat roof outside. He turned with a frown. ‘He peeled, chopped and cooked the one he had bought himself. The rest of the manioc esculenta was grated and he took it raw. I don’t think he knew it was the same, Peter.’

  Andrews looked puzzled. ‘So where did he get it?’

  ‘The woman. It had to have been the woman. She bought the rest; she grated it and somehow she gave it to him.’ Something Mrs Roberts said during her interview came back to him. ‘Do you remember what Mrs Roberts said,’ he asked Andrews, ‘something about her husband taking longer for his cycle than usual. She said he was usually gone about an hour and this morning he was gone almost an hour and a half. Why?’

  ‘You think he met the woman and she gave him the grated manioc stuff?’ Andrews didn’t even try to hide the scepticism. ‘Why?’

  ‘Gerard Roberts ingested nearly a kilo of raw, grated manioc esculenta. She bought nine roots which would have weighed nearly a kilo. He had to have got it from her. He was talking to her outside the shop. Maybe they arranged to meet later.’

  ‘When she gave him the grated cassava?’ Andrews raised an eyebrow.

  ‘His wife said he was a fitness addict. Maybe she told him it was some kind of health food.’ Becoming more certain he was on the right track, he continued. ‘Maybe she told him he had to mix it with water and drink it, or sprinkle it on his lunch. Why would he have been suspicious?’

  Andrews, looking dubious, threw question after question at West’s theory. ‘Who was this woman then? Someone he knew? Why did she give it to him? Was it an accident or a deliberate act? Did she know it was poison? Wasn’t it all a bit far-fetched?

  West sat back into his chair and tilted it back on its back legs causing the chair to protest and Andrews to raise his eyes to heaven. No wonder his chair needed constant replacing, he thought.

  ‘Far-fetched? I suppose it is, but can you think of a better explanation?’ At Andrews’ shrug West continued. ‘Ok, you want facts. Gerard Roberts died from cyanide poisoning...Fact. He ate enough raw manioc esculenta to provide sufficient cyanide to kill him...Fact. He bought only one root...Fact. Yet more than one was found in his stomach contents...Fact. He was seen talking to a woman who bought nine roots...Fact. He took almost half an hour longer than usual on his cycle ride this morning...Fact.’ West nodded emphatically at each point. ‘Those are the facts, Peter, I think my theory fits quite well. We just need to find out who that woman is and why she wanted Gerard Roberts dead.’

  6

  There was nothing more to be achieved that night, no point in mulling over and over the few facts they had, and nothing to be gained from sitting there getting hungry and tired. It was almost dark when they left the station, autumn licking the final edges of summer away. Andrews stared glumly up at the darkened sky but said nothing and they walked to their cars in silence.

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Peter.’

  Andrews nodded. ‘I’ll be here, Mike, see you at seven.’

  West, who had refrained from stating his intention to start early, raised his eyes to heaven eliciting a smile from
Andrews who waved and drove from the car park with his customary speed, barely waiting for the barrier to rise before scraping under it. The sergeant shook his head, the smile lurking on his lips softening the hard lines that accumulated some days faster and deeper than others.

  Not for the first time, he thanked whatever gods there were that partnered him with Andrews. The mutual respect and rapport that had developed between them was, frequently, the only thing that kept him sane and he couldn’t believe he’d almost blown it with his careless offer earlier. He’d covered his tracks, he thought. Luckily.

  He drove at a more sedate pace from the car park and within a few minutes was parking in front of his house. He climbed wearily out, and breathed a sigh of relief to be home. Even if it was only for a few hours.

  He opened his front door expecting his usual greeting from the little Chihuahua who would normally pitter-patter across the tiled hallway to greet him. West hung his jacket on the coat-stand and opened the door into a large living room.

  It had been two smaller rooms divided by double doors when he had bought the house. Removing the door and knocking the walls down was the first thing West did, opening the rooms up to light from both ends. He had furnished it with a comfortable, eclectic mix of styles, colours and patterns, adding to the pieces he had brought with him from his apartment, pieces he picked up in local antique shops, car-boot sales, charity shops. He had a good eye and picked up the unusual, the odd, and it all fit. Wooden floors were strewn with a mix of old and new rugs of varying shades. A large but exceedingly comfortable sofa, bought for a song in auction rooms in Dublin because it was too big for most people and too worn for others, took up most of the space along one wall. On the other, fitting neatly under the window, sat a smaller, horrendously expensive sofa whose jewel-coloured tapestry glowed in fire-light.

  Tyler had chosen the older sofa to curl up on. Half buried under a cushion, his only response to West’s entry, was the cock of a small velvet ear.