Acid Lullaby (22 page)

Dexter hadn’t betrayed him. She had been more supportive of him than anyone, with the possible exception of Jack Harvey. Perhaps he had built an image of her in his mind that suited his own purposes. That Dexter was the flawless professional he had never been. That she had willingly plugged logic and electricity into his tired and scattered mind. That she looked up to him as some kind of patriarch. Maybe he had filled in the blanks in Dexter’s past to suit his own imagination; to make her into an idea he could control.

The realization made Underwood feel ashamed. He was tired of his imagination. It had driven him to the edge of madness. It had dropped him cruelly into an empty flat that he was frightened to decorate. It was now trying to twist Alison Dexter into a shape he could possess. Underwood remembered something Adam Miller had said to him: ‘reality is underrated.’ He didn’t need to make up anything about Alison.

He decided to risk a glass of whisky. His mind was a jumble. His conversation with McInally had distracted him from focusing on the murder investigation and the hunt for Jensen and Rowena Harvey. Mary Colson’s dream was beginning to tighten its grip on his thoughts. If, as Colson had suggested, there were potentially five or six victims awaiting
discovery, the inquiry was at risk of becoming trapped in minutiae. Underwood knew that forensic and post mortem evidence was critically important but he also had an uneasy sense that time was short. The priority had to be locating Jensen and Rowena Harvey. To do that, Underwood knew that they had to look for some kind of logic underpinning the killer’s actions.

Let’s
imagine
Mary
Colson
is
correct,
he
mused,
and
that
there
are
five
or
six
victims.
Let’s
also
assume
that
the
killer
has
removed
each
of
their
heads.
Why
would
someone
collect
heads?
What
did
the
heads
represent?
The
personalities
of
the
victims
possibly:
perhaps
taking
the
heads
was
a
kind
of
trophy
hunt,
a
control
trip,
predator
and
prey.
Then
there’s
the
drug
issue.
Did
he
inject
his
victims
with
drugs
to
elevate
their
minds
in
some
way?
To
change
their
perception?
Change
their
perception
of
him
maybe.
Was
the
killer
trying
to
rede
fine
himself
in
the
perception
of
his
victims?
It
seemed
to
be
almost
a
religious
…

Underwood’s train of thought suddenly derailed as he noticed that he had a message on his answerphone. He poured himself a small whisky and pressed play. His ex-wife’s voice, crackly and electronic, emerged from the machine:

‘Hello, John, it’s Julia here. It’s about ten o’clock. Just calling to see how you are. I saw the headlines in the paper about the killings in New Bolden. I wondered if you were involved in the investigation. I hope … well, I hope not to be honest. Things are going well for me. I’m set up now in Stevenage. Work is hard but I’m still enjoying it so that’s the main thing. The, er … the other reason I called was just to let you know that I hadn’t forgotten about tomorrow. I know it’s a difficult day for you. I’ll try and light a candle for your mother once I get back from work tomorrow. There’s a Catholic church near me. I just wanted you to know that I was going to do that. If you need to talk tomorrow, or any time really … well, I’d better go or I’ll use up your whole tape. Take care.’

Underwood downed his whisky in a single gulp. In his darkest moments through the previous year he had often
imagined placing a shotgun in his mouth: two sawn-off barrels. He had imagined biting down hard on the metal shaft and then blowing out all the frustration and anger out of the back of his brain. The image flashed back at him and he struggled to banish it. His ex-wife was lighting a candle for his dead mother. What was that supposed to mean? He was uncertain how to react. Should he be grateful? Why had she decided to tread on his brain now? Was she being spiteful or trying to confuse him?

His mind filled with questions like a sinking ship filling with water. He was angry. Underwood reached up and retrieved Julia’s photograph from the mantelpiece. After a moment’s consideration, he dropped it into the cardboard box by his television.

3rd May

Dr Adam Miller had worked through the night at the Cambridge University Department of Botany. He had prepared a thorough analysis of both the Amanita Muscaria and Amanita Phalloides mushrooms including large photographs of both species that he had downloaded from the department’s database. He had found his discussion with Dexter and Underwood stimulating. Although his mycological research still held the same curious fascination for him that it always had, Miller felt that his life had been drifting into the abstract. Research papers and lectures were interesting enough but he enjoyed the challenge and human interaction of fieldwork. However, in the UK that invariably meant trudging through soggy marshes and forests in the pouring rain and fog with a group of half-interested natural science students in tow. Still, until his dream job appeared at a West Coast American University, he would have to content himself with Wellington boots, traffic jams and trudging across dank fens.

The challenge of applying his knowledge to a practical set of problems – and a murder hunt at that – was too good an opportunity to refuse. He knew that the police were mainly interested in the natural distribution of the two Amanita species that he had identified. However, he had resisted the immediate temptation to dive directly into the university’s distribution records. The methodical approach, he reasoned, would be to write brief profiles of the fungi in question first. That in itself could provide valuable insights into possible local distributions.

He was keen to keep the report as non-scientific and jargon free as possible. He also determined that he would attempt to
relate his analysis closely to the issues in question: why had the killer chosen the two species in question and where might possible sites for those species be?

He completed his report shortly after 7.30a.m. as sunlight began to find its way into his cluttered office on the second floor of the Department of Botany. As his printer began to spit out the pages of his report, Miller picked up one of the colour photographs he had downloaded of the Amanita Muscaria. Its deep red cap and white crusts made it hypnotically beautiful to Miller. It was as physically beautiful as its chemical signature was complex. Miller had only ingested Amanita Muscaria himself on one occasion: a drunken, youthful visit to Amsterdam. A night of anxiety and distortion had ensued as he watched his body slowly dissolve into a wash of unfamiliar colours and sounds. He had then endured an unfortunate gastro-intestinal reaction and spent a day being treated in a Dutch hospital for chronic diarrhoea and stomach muscle spasms. It was not an experience that he wished to repeat. However, the strange mushroom had fascinated him and he had concentrated his post-graduate research on the chemistry of toxic fungi.

Once the report was fully printed he placed it into a plastic folder for his own records. He then emailed the report in its entirety to Inspector Alison Dexter’s address at New Bolden Police station. After a brief phone call to ensure the document had arrived and to offer further help should it be required, Miller left the department and walked through Cambridge to his favourite café for a large and unhealthy breakfast.

Alison Dexter called Underwood into her office and handed him a photocopy of Miller’s report.

‘I haven’t read it yet. I need to speak with Harrison first,’ she had told him. ‘We’ve got one of county’s helicopters
today. He’s taking it over to the crash site and then checking out some of the locations you gave him yesterday.’

‘Based on Mary Colson’s dream?’

‘Yep. As you said, we’ve got sod all else to go on. Help yourself to the office until I get back. You can walk me through the report.’

‘Thanks,’ Underwood replied without obvious emotion.

As she left the room, Dexter realized that Underwood had steadfastly refused to look her in the eye during the exchange.

Sitting at Dexter’s desk, Underwood noticed the date on Dexter’s calendar. It had been ten years to the day since his mother’s death. Ten years had flashed through his fingers. He would give himself a quiet moment later. He picked up Miller’s report and sipping a coffee, began to read:

Catchy title, Underwood mused.

Underwood wondered how the extraordinarily high doses would have disrupted the victim’s brain functions. He thought especially of Jack Harvey whose clarifying logic and humour had hauled Underwood back from the brink of suicide. He hated to think of Jack’s last thoughts being scrambled and meaningless. He read on, underlining sections of Miller’s report which he found particularly interesting:

Underwood looked at the photograph that Miller had provided and confirmed the details before moving on:

Underwood flipped forward a couple of pages. There were more pictures of the two mushrooms from various angles and some complex details relating to how the mushrooms reproduce. He was looking for possible distribution patterns and was pleased to see that Miller had not disappointed him:

Underwood blessed Adam Miller. The information might not ultimately prove to be useful but it had given them a solid line of inquiry at last. Miller had identified the toxins that had been present in Ian Stark and Jack Harvey. He had identified the specific mushrooms that matched the toxicology profile and now even given a possible local source for those mushrooms. When Dexter eventually returned to the office Underwood paraphrased Miller’s report for her benefit.

‘Sounds like we should get a team up to those sites,’ Dexter said after absorbing the details. ‘I’ll speak to the Suffolk plods and arrange it.’

‘It might be worthwhile to get Miller up there, too.’

‘You think that’s necessary?’

‘Could you tell one fungus from another?’

‘Fair point. I’ll call him. Sounds like he’s done us a favour.’

‘We still haven’t figured out why, though,’ Underwood said quietly. ‘Why inject people full of this crap when you are going to kill them anyway?’ His eyes moved quickly across Dexter’s body and down on to the photographs in front of him.

It was a clear, chilly morning. The dew clung to DS Harrison’s shoes as he crossed the grass lawn behind the county police headquarters in Huntingdon. He headed for the two police helicopters that were being prepared for take off about a hundred yards away. One was scheduled to fly down to coordinate the police response to a rush hour accident on the southbound M11 near Cambridge. The other had been assigned to him by County Headquarters to assist in the search for DC Jensen and Rowena Harvey.

The two pilots were deep in conversation and only noticed Harrison’s approach when he ducked instinctively under the rotor blades of Airborne A.

‘You don’t have to do that when they’re not moving!’ one of the pilots called out.

‘Force of habit,’ Harrison replied.

‘I’m Tony Payne, this is Gary Dennis. You must be DS Harrison.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You’re flying with me, mate,’ Payne continued. ‘Gary’s off to direct traffic.’

The other pilot smiled at the insult. ‘I hope you’ve packed a parachute, Sergeant Harrison.’

Payne grinned at Harrison as Gary Dennis climbed into the pilot’s seat of Airborne A. ‘He’s a mouthy git. You’ve flown in the chopper before?’

Harrison nodded. ‘A few times. Can’t say I’m a big fan.’

‘We’ll be fine. It’s a nice clear day. Not much of a breeze. Might be a bit foggy up in the fens but that should burn off. Might get a bit bouncy as I swoop in and out of telegraph cables. Only joking.’ They walked the short distance to Airborne B. It was a dark blue helicopter with yellow trim and markings. Payne opened the pilot’s door and withdrew a clipboard from his seat.

‘Fantastic looking machine,’ Harrison observed.

‘It’s a bit tasty,’ Payne agreed. ‘EC135. Mission Pod underneath
contains a video camera with downlink and a state-of-the-art thermal imaging camera. I guess that’s what you’re interested in?’

‘That’s right. I want us to start at the crash site beyond Thetford and then work back towards Huntingdon. I have a couple of possible sites for us to check out.’

Payne checked his flight plan. ‘First one between Burwell and Waterbeach, second one a couple of miles south east of Ely.’

‘That’s it. I want to use the thermal imaging equipment over those two sites.’

‘What we looking for?’

‘Bodies.’

Payne looked doubtful. ‘The infra-red is sensitive but if the bodies have been exposed for more than twenty-four hours the chances of us picking anything up are pretty small. It’s more effective for tracking live suspects.’

‘I understand that, but it can give us a snapshot of a wide area and that might help us narrow our search.’

‘True enough.’ Payne looked back towards the main building blocks. There was a slight figure jogging across the grass in a blue flight suit. ‘That’s Janet Stiles. She’ll be working the cameras for us.’

The helicopter rose above Huntingdon approximately fifteen minutes later. Harrison gripped the handholds next to his seat as Payne swung north-east and headed out across Cambridgeshire. The rotors were surprisingly quiet. Harrison leaned forward between the two front seats and spoke into his headset microphone.

‘I thought there’d be more noise.’

‘This is a surveillance platform,’ Stiles acknowledged. ‘It’s meant to be quiet.’

Payne pointed out of his side window. ‘We’re going to follow the A1123, then trace the A11 until we’re over Thetford. There’s airbases at Lakenheath and Mildenhall so we’ll keep south of those on our way up.’

Harrison watched as the strange patchwork of fields unfolded below him. Tiny uneven scraps and shapes: it was as
if someone had shattered the countryside into thousands of fragments and painted each a different shade of green. He suddenly felt remote. As the vast flatlands of Cambridgeshire opened out beneath him, scarred only by the clustered grey villages and snaking lines of tarmac, he began to understand the enormity of his task.