Gospel (56 page)

Bishop considered him then, and David knew he was finally about to ask the question that had been bothering him since David – Professor Stuart Montgomery's defence attorney – first stated his temporary CIA status on his chilly floodlit doorstep at 11pm last night. David was able to tell Bishop the basics but, under Ryan's instruction, could not elaborate regarding the extent of the Gospel Four's objectives.

‘This linked to Bradshaw?' James asked at last. ‘These criminals got something to do with his death?'

David started to formulate a lie – or at least considered attempting to nullify James' questions with a series of elusive ambiguities – but in the end he decided James was the sort of man who would see through the subterfuge and, more importantly, given what he and his son had sacrificed, deserved to know the truth.

‘Yes,' said David simply.

And then James Bishop nodded and looked David directly in the eye. ‘All right then.'

‘Funny,' said Eleanor Caspian as she sipped an English Breakfast tea in Joe Mannix's cluttered but orderly kitchen, ‘how life deals you these strange diversions. It seems nothing has been as I expected since Oliver's death – not that I am sure what I expected.'

‘You're doing great, Mom,' said Kate Caspian Cole, nodding a thank you as she accepted another tea from Nora.

There were six of them at the Mannix ‘safehouse' now – Arthur, Nora, the newly arrived Detective Sam Croker with his charge Nancy Doyle, along with the two Caspian women who had stayed the night at the Regency Park before being dropped at the Mannix home by one of Leo King's ‘buddies' just over half an hour ago. The three women were now in the Mannix kitchen enjoying cups of tea and coffee, Doyle having completed her statement, the Caspian women about to commence telling their part of the story with a member of a recognised law enforcement agency, Croker from the LAPD, and practising attorney, Arthur, present.

‘At least your husband died of natural causes,' said Nancy Doyle who was on her third cup of black and her umpteenth cigarette. ‘These people cut my Robert's throat from ear to ear, left him to die like a stuck pig. Then they killed my son, his chest smashed, his heart pulverised in that massive impact with a God-damned tree. Those lily-livered, murdering bastards have taken everything from me.'

‘It's okay, Nancy,' said Sam Croker, aware that while he had become accustomed to Nancy's gutter talk over the past couple of months, the Caspian ladies might find it a little unsettling.

But he was wrong.

‘You are absolutely right,' said Eleanor Caspian, reaching across the red formica breakfast bar to cover Nancy's hand with her own. ‘We have all suffered a loss – all the more reason for us to stick together.'

‘You're all right, Elle,' said Nancy, blowing smoke out the corner of her mouth before covering the older Caspian woman's hand with her own sun-spotted, long finger-nailed counterpart. ‘Us widows are like strong, silent sisters in grief.'

Silent
, thought Croker.

‘But mess with us and we'll kick your butt. Am I right, Detective Sam?' Nancy turned to Croker, who truly had become her guardian angel over the past few months.

‘No argument here,' said the LA detective.

‘I'm sure of it,' said Eleanor Caspian.

They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their drinks and taking solace in this small moment of solidarity after what had been a rocky few days of anxiety and uncertainty.

‘Do you think Assistant Director Ramirez believed my story?' asked
Kate Caspian Cole, turning to Arthur. Caspian Cole was a tall, thin, graceful woman with fine dark hair and large grey eyes.

‘There is no real way of knowing,' answered Arthur. ‘But it was plausible and hopefully, in the very least, bought us some much needed time.'

Kate was referring to a phone call she had made to Ramirez from the Conrad Brussels Hotel, under Leo King's instructions, on Thursday morning Brussels time. King had told her to apologise for missing their rendezvous with Ramirez's ‘
man
', claiming her mother had taken ill and, she feared, was on the brink of some sort of physical and emotional breakdown. She also told him her mother had, in a symbolic emotional gesture, ‘
taken it into her own hands to destroy the only link she had left to that painful time in her life
'. ‘
She has burned the prescription repeat
,' Caspian Cole had said. ‘
I found the remnants of it in the kitchen sink and . . . I wholeheartedly apologise for the loss of what I assume may have been an important piece of evidence
.'

Ramirez had said nothing – before assuring Caspian Cole that the loss was regrettable but the circumstances understandable given the stress her mother had been under. She had given him an ‘out' and he seemed more than happy to take it.

Just then, there was a knock on the door.

‘That will be Albert and Pippa Mahoney,' said Nora, getting up from her kitchen stool.

‘Will all of this information be enough to stop them, Mr Wright?' asked Eleanor Caspian.

‘We hope so, Mrs Caspian. Often with cases like these you have precedents to refer to, but unfortunately – or fortunately – this one has no such benchmark, at least not in recent history. That's why we have to make sure our evidence is iron clad. We are dealing with extremely clever criminals with an extensive knowledge of the law. If we provide them with any form of loophole, no matter how small, they'll find it and take advantage.'

With that Nora led an attractive elderly gentleman and his pretty, blonde-haired grand-daughter into the Mannix kitchen, making introductions all round. She took the Mahoneys' coats and showed them where to freshen up before heading back to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee.

‘There is one thing I do regret,' said Eleanor Caspian at last. ‘I feel so
terrible for Professor Montgomery – and for my thinking so ill of him, especially since he was so good to my husband. I always thought of him as a sort of Mr Darcy, he has that English aloofness which can sometimes disguise a kinder heart.'

‘I know what you mean,' said Nancy Doyle who had never read Jane Austen or any other English classic novelist in her entire life. ‘But Bridget Jones was no idiot. She saw through all that pompous crap, didn't she? And that's the real message, isn't it? That Hugh Grant was a prick and Colin Firth was the keeper. Some men are just for fucking, Eleanor, believe me I know, but that Mr Darcy was just like my Robert, a little lacking in the animal magnetism department but definitely a keeper . . .' A fresh set of what seemed to be a never-ending supply of tears now began rolling down her laser polished cheeks. ‘Definitely . . . a keeper.'

‘Are you sure?'
asked Ramirez, praying to God his operative was wrong.

‘Positive,' said the
‘cousin'
, and Ramirez could hear the shame in his voice. ‘It's her all right. I even checked with the front desk. She was booked in under the name of Nina Gilks, but rang down specifically to change it to Nancy Doyle just moments after she checked in. But I have no idea how, they told me she was dead.'

The ‘cousin' had seen her by chance, waiting at a boarding gate at LAX. He was booked on a flight to DC but at the last minute managed to grab a seat on the United Airlines flight to Boston so that he could be sure.

‘It's her,' he said again, giving no apology, obviously knowing he would be ‘dealt' with when he got back to DC. ‘I followed them from the airport. She's with her cop bodyguard. They went out soon after they checked in to the Regency Park but I didn't tail them. I have to be careful. She can make me. I figured you'd want me to stay put and await their return rather than risk . . .'

‘Fuck that,' said Ramirez. ‘I want to know where she is and what's she's doing here. Let me know as soon as she gets back to the hotel.'

‘Do you want me to . . . ?'

‘No. You've failed twice and there is no way I am giving you a third chance. Your lack of professionalism will be addressed, but for now I just want you to sit tight and call me the minute she returns.'

And then he hung up.

‘I
don't believe this,' said Boston Medical Examiner Gus Svenson falling back onto his grey laboratory stool. ‘This is . . .'

David had known Svenson a long time and seen him give evidence in many a case where the cause of death had been beyond shocking. But he had never seen him like this – his normally pink Nordic skin as white as alabaster.

‘Your Professor is intelligent, man. He was right. There was succinylcholine, but not in the blood.'

‘I don't understand,' said Sara, jumping up slightly to prop herself on top of one of the many laboratory benches, crossing her legs and bending forward.

‘Succinylcholine,' Svenson went on, ‘is a depolarising anaesthetic. It . . .'

‘We're novices, Gus,' David interrupted, pulling over his own stool and urging the sometimes technical Svenson to give it to them in layman's terms. ‘We need to understand every detail so take us through it in words we can understand.'

‘Yes,' said Svenson. ‘I'm sorry. Let me try to explain.'

Svenson told them how the clear, colourless drug known as succinylcholine was a neuromuscular blocking agent which, once administered,
effectively prevented the naturally existing neurotransmitters from sending messages from the nerves to the muscles. He explained how the drug was effectively used under hospital supervision by doctors who needed to immobilise a patient so that a medical procedure, such as intubation, could be carried out.

‘The drug literally paralyses the patient,' he said. ‘The muscles will not obey the brain – which is 100 per cent functional by the way. The beauty of this drug is that it acts quickly. If given intravenously the patient is unable to move within a minute. If injected into a muscle, within two.'

‘Dear God,' said Sara.

‘Yes,' said Gus. ‘The effect only lasts for four to six minutes but in this time the patient is aware but cannot walk, talk, nothing. Torture is it, no? Like being a prisoner in your own body.'

‘So the Vice President was conscious, but unable to move while . . .' David began.

‘. . . while injected with the OxyContin, yes,' answered Gus, his face now whiter than ever. ‘But unassisted he could not have been awake for long – and this is what troubles me the most.'

‘How so?' asked David, drawing his stool even closer to the white-coated ME.

‘Well, the diaphragm is a muscle and it, like every other muscle in the body, is also affected by the succinylcholine. It too is paralysed and, without assistance, the patient becomes hypoxic – unable to breathe.'

‘So it was the succinylcholine that killed him?' said Sara. ‘
Not
the OxyContin. And the OxyContin was just a front.'

‘No,' said Gus shaking his head. ‘My original statement was correct. The Vice President died from an overdose of OxyContin, no question.'

‘Jesus, Gus,' said David, his frustration growing by the minute. ‘What in the hell are you talking about?'

Svenson explained that if the Vice President had been allowed to go into respiratory and then cardiac arrest under the influence of the succinylcholine, his body would never have circulated and absorbed the OxyContin that killed him.

The OxyContin was in his blood – successfully distributed throughout his body enabling it to shut down the brain and the respiratory and cardiac systems with it. In other words, according to Svenson, someone
must have kept Bradshaw alive long enough to kill him – again – with the preferred drug of choice.

‘Gus,' David began, not believing what he was hearing. ‘Are you saying someone injected him with the paralysing drug to render him immobile, and then gave him mouth to mouth resuscitation long enough to inject the OxyContin.'

‘Yes,' said Gus. ‘Or maybe used another portable breathing device like a Guedel airway, mask and bag or a small battery-operated ventilator.'

‘So that the OxyContin could be absorbed and recorded as the official cause of death?' David confirmed.

‘Yes,' Svenson said again.

They sat there for a moment, in the cool silence of the ME's pristine laboratory, the air strong with ammonia, the atmosphere sterile and cold.

‘Wait a minute,' said Sara. ‘Why the hell did they need the OxyContin at all? They could have claimed Montgomery had access to the succinylcholine. They could have framed him just as easily by . . .'

‘No,' said David. ‘They needed to show the Professor was setting it up as an overdose. Bradshaw was a recovering addict, the OxyContin made a whole lot more sense in their “Montgomery kills Bradshaw” scenario.'

‘I don't believe this,' said Sara. ‘They thought of everything, even the fact that we would never find the succinylcholine – unless we specifically went hunting for it. It is the perfect poison,' she went on. ‘For the perfect crime.'

‘But we did find it,' said David. ‘At least . . .' he paused there, the others waiting for him to continue. ‘Hold on a minute.'

‘What is it?' said Sara.

David looked at her, his brain working overtime before turning back to Svenson. ‘Gus, earlier you said you found the succinylcholine but not in Bradshaw's blood – then how did you . . . ?'

‘His urine.'

‘What?'

‘A urine sample was taken from the Vice President by the attending paramedics – standard procedure in drug-related deaths. The sample was frozen so I . . .'

‘You thawed it out and found the succinylcholine?'

‘No.'

‘
What?
'

‘No succinylcholine.'

‘Jesus, Gus.'

‘Sorry. No succinylcholine but plenty of its by-product – succinylmonocholine. This sometimes occurs in urine but not in such high quantities. I would have liked to test body tissue as well, as this is what most coroners prefer to do, but I work with what I have, and the urine test was conclusive.'