Steven Dunne - The Disciple

‘It’s procedure. We have to explore all possibilities until we can rule them out,’ added Hudson. ‘I mean, there was no note with his clothing so the chances are it’s an accidental drowning. He goes for an early morning jog, works up a sweat and fancies a swim. Something goes wrong, he gets into difficulties …’

‘Did he have any health problems at all? Maybe a bad heart?’ Grant spoke softly, probing gently as all the grief counsellors had advised.

‘Nothing like that. He played rugby, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Okay,’ murmured Grant. ‘And you can’t think of anyone he might have been staying with near the spot where we found his running gear?’

This time it was Terri who answered. ‘We’ve told you, we don’t know anyone who lives near there.’

‘Okay, Miss Harvey-Ellis, I think that’s all for now. Take your mother home,’ said Hudson.

‘Brook. My name is Terri Brook. Tony was my stepfather.’

‘So you weren’t blood relations?’ asked Grant.

‘Can I take my mother home now?’

‘How old are you, Terri?’ asked Grant.

Terri Brook looked at her, a puzzled frown creasing her forehead. Even Hudson raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m seventeen, whatever that’s got to do with anything.’

‘Just for the records,’ nodded Grant, taking a note.

‘Now can we go home?’

Hudson turned to Amy. ‘One more thing, Mrs Harvey-Ellis — how did your husband travel up to London?’

Jason Wallis stood and accepted the hand offered by the grey-haired priest, whose intense blue eyes fixed Jason as they shook hands.

‘Cheers for our talks, Father Donetti. They were a big help.’

‘A pleasure, my son. And I hope you’ll remember what we said. No more shoplifting. I don’t want to see you back in here.’

Jason smiled. ‘No probs. And I’ll try to go to church every Sunday, Father.’

The priest laughed. ‘No, you won’t, lad. But the Almighty is everywhere. Just ask him for help wherever you are. He’ll answer you.’

Jason picked up his bag and turned to the large doors that would lead him to the drive and the gates beyond.

He walked down the drive, enjoying the crunch of the gravel underfoot. As he walked he could feel eyes on him, watching his progress. Without stopping, he turned to look. He couldn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean some of his new acquaintances weren’t following his exit, wishing they were in his place. He looked back at the buildings with something approaching affection. The dreams had stopped for a while. But now being spat out back into the world that had chewed him up, the dreams had started again.

He reached the gates, hoping there’d be no one there to greet him. He’d told his aunt not to bother — it was a long traipse with a toddler. He turned one last time to face the buildings that had offered him sanctuary these past months and then stepped outside the gates.

‘Yo! Jace! MoFo. Over here, blood.’ Three young men standing beside a cream-coloured stretch limo shouted in unison at him from across the highway. All were dressed for sport — baseball caps, sweatshirts, trainers. Only the jeans would betray them on the field of dreams, slung low as they were to flaunt grubby Calvins. The Stella cans they all carried were drained, crushed and discarded on the pavement with a sly look at the limo driver, in the hope of catching an expression of disgust.

Jason tried to look pleased to see them but the old fear started gnawing at him. He’d been warned by Brook.

Grass up his crew or face The Reaper.

He now adjusted his posture and his walk, showing he was dangerous, aggressive, best avoided. He shook out a cigarette and lit it with a macho pull. To finish his repertoire, he spat on the ground as if he hadn’t a care in the world and rolled over to knuckle-tap his crew, a battle-hardened grimace glued to his face.

‘Grets, Banger, Stinger. Gimme some skin. S’guarnin, blood?’

‘Same old, same old. Smokin’ the peng, dodgin’ the leng. How was it?’

Jason grinned, taking in another massive drag of tobacco. ‘Piece of piss, fam. I can do the time standin’ on mi head.’

‘Fucking holiday camp, yeah?’ grinned Banger.

‘We was gonna bring you a squeeze in case you’d turned fag,’ said Grets, laughing.

‘You keep your booty zipped, man?’ joked Banger.

‘What you chattin’?’ laughed Jason in mock outrage. ‘I only saw one guy who was blatant fag,’ he shouted. ‘He tries to gimme a tea-bagging and I tear him a new one.’

‘’Cept he probly enjoy it,’ cackled Stinger. ‘You shoulda sun-flowered his ass, blood. That’d learn him.’

‘I hear that.’

The telephoto lens gazed steadily from the bushes a few hundred yards down the road, whirring rhythmically as the posse’s likenesses were stored. It was lowered once the boys had ducked into the stretch, Jason bobbing in after a final nervous look around as if he expected someone else to be there.

‘Poisoned? Are you sure, Doc?’

‘There’s no mistake,’ said Dr Hubbard, sitting back in his cramped office and contemplating Grant and Hudson with his hands behind his head.

‘So he was dead before he went in the water?’

‘No, he wasn’t. That’s the clever bit. His lungs were full of water. He drowned. Without a post-mortem it looks like an accidental death. But I’ll be telling the coroner murder.’

‘We’re listening,’ said DS Grant.

‘Scopolamine.’ The doctor beamed at them as though expecting Hudson and Grant to slap their foreheads in recognition. ‘Also called hyoscine. Dr Crippen was a big fan. Killed his wife with it.’ When their expressions remained vacant, he ploughed on. ‘It’s in the Pharmacopoeia. It’s a cerebral sedative which was used to treat epilepsy and other manias — I’m talking over a hundred years ago. Then around 1900 it was combined with morphine to create an anaesthetic which was used in the Great War. It brings on a condition called “Twilight Sleep” in which the patient is conscious but effectively paralysed and has no response to, or memory of pain. Very dodgy stuff though.’

‘And was there morphine in Harvey-Ellis as well?’

‘There was, Sergeant.’ The doctor pulled a photograph from a pile on his disorganised desk. ‘This is the victim’s neck.’ They peered at the picture. ‘You see that pinprick? That’s a puncture wound. He was injected.’

‘Injected?’ asked Hudson.

‘Could it have been self-administered?’ ventured Grant.

‘Good lord, no. Even if he’d had the pharmaceutical knowledge, which is unlikely in his line of work, it’s the angle. Somebody stuck a hypodermic into him, as though standing above him. Like this.’ The doctor demonstrated the angle of the injection.

‘So Harvey-Ellis may have been sitting on a bench on the seafront when he was attacked?’ mused Hudson.

‘Perhaps.’

‘If he was out jogging he could have been tying a shoelace or getting his breath back, guv,’ added Grant.

‘Also possible,’ nodded Hubbard. ‘And the effects would have been very fast acting, particularly with his pulse and heart rate elevated. Harvey-Ellis would have begun to feel groggy almost immediately. Depending on dosage, he might even have been hallucinatory. Either way he’s easily handled physically and mentally. It wouldn’t take much to lead him down to the water and help him off with his clothes.’

‘And in the unlikely event there are other people around at that time of day, the killer can make it look like they’re a couple of drunks, guv.’

Hudson eyed Hubbard. ‘So we’re looking for a medical man between the ages of 130 and 160 years old?’

Dr Hubbard stared back at Hudson in blank incomprehension. A sudden explosion startled the two officers as Hubbard guffawed and nodded with genuine appreciation.