What pissed off Yousef more than almost anything else was the way he was treated by people he’d known for years. He’d go into a factory or a warehouse where he’d been buying or selling for the seven years since he’d started working for his dad. And now, instead of the locals greeting him by name and having a laugh with him about the football or the cricket or whatever, their eyes slid away from him like he was slick with oil. Either that or they did that false, bright thing that made him feel patronized, like they were only being nice so they could preface their remarks in the pub with, ‘Of course, some of my best mates are Muslims …’
Today, though, he bit back his anger. It wasn’t like this was going to be for ever. As if to confirm the thought, his mobile rang just as he was pulling in to the car park behind Howard Edelstein’s factory. He recognized the ring tone and smiled, putting the phone to his ear. ‘How’s it going?’ the voice on the other end said.
‘All according to plan. It’s great to hear from you, I wasn’t expecting you to call this morning.’
‘Cancelled meeting. I thought I’d give you a quick bell, just to make sure everything was on track.’
‘You know you can rely on me,’ Yousef said. ‘When I say I’ll do something, it’s as good as done. Don’t worry about me bottling out.’
‘That’s the one thing I’m not worried about. You know we’re doing the right thing.’
‘I do. And I tell you, days like these make me glad we decided to do it this way.’
‘You having a bad one?’ The voice was sympathetic, warm.
‘The kind of arse-licking I hate. But I won’t be doing this for much longer.’
A chuckle at the other end of the phone. ‘That’s for sure. This time next week, the world will feel like a very different place.’
Before Yousef could respond, the familiar figure of Howard Edelstein himself loomed up beside his driver’s door, sketching a little wave and gesturing with his thumb towards the building. ‘I gotta go,’ Yousef said. ‘I’ll see you.’
‘Count on it.’
Yousef thumbed the phone shut, jumping out of the car with a smile on his face. Edelstein nodded at him, unsmiling. ‘Let’s get sorted, then,’ he said, leading the way indoors without waiting to see if Yousef was following.
This time next week, Yousef thought. This time next week, you bastard.
Carol stared at Thomas Denby, taking in the image. Prematurely silver hair swept back from his forehead, a single lock falling loose over one eyebrow. Greenish blue eyes, pink skin. A beautifully cut charcoal pinstripe suit, jacket thrown open to reveal a flamboyant scarlet lining. He could have sat for a portrait of the archetype of the successful young consultant. What he absolutely didn’t look like was someone whose idea of a good time was to wind up a senior police officer. ‘So let me get this straight. You’re reporting a murder that hasn’t happened yet?’ She wasn’t in the mood to be messed around, and keeping her waiting for the best part of fifteen minutes hadn’t been the best way to get things started.
Denby shook his head. ‘Murder is your word, not mine. What I am saying is that Robbie Bishop is going to die, probably within the next twenty-four hours. The reason he is going to die is that he has ricin in his system. There is no antidote. There’s nothing we can do for him except to limit his pain as much as possible.’
‘You’re sure about this?’
‘I know it sounds bizarre. Like some James Bond film. But yes, we’re sure. We’ve done the tests. He’s dying from ricin poisoning.’
‘Could it be suicide?’
Denby looked bemused. ‘I shouldn’t think so for a moment.’
‘But could it? In theory?’
He looked faintly annoyed. Carol thought he probably wasn’t accustomed to having his views questioned. He lined up his pen with the edge of the file in front of him. ‘I’ve been reading up on ricin since my SHO proposed it as the possible cause of Robbie Bishop’s symptoms. Ricin works by invading the cells of a person’s body and inhibiting the cells from synthesizing the proteins they need. Without the proteins, cells die. The respiratory system fails, the heart stops. I haven’t seen any suggestion in the literature that it’s ever been used for suicide. Against it, you’d have to say it’s far from readily available. You’d have to have some skills as a chemist to manufacture it, even supposing you could get your hands on the raw material. Either that or you’d have to have connections to a terrorist organization – they allegedly found it stockpiled in the Al-Quaeda caves in Afghanistan. The other aspect militating against it is that it’s a long-drawn-out and very painful way to go. I can’t imagine why anyone would choose it as a means of suicide.’ He spread his hands and raised his shoulders to emphasize his point.
Carol made a note on her pad. ‘So we could also rule out accident, by the sounds of it?’
‘Unless Mr Bishop was in the habit of hanging around castor oil factories, I would say so,’ Denby said brusquely.
‘So how did it get into his system?’
‘He probably inhaled it. We’ve examined him thoroughly and we can’t find any puncture wounds.’ Denby leaned forward. ‘I don’t know if you remember the case of the Bulgarian defector Georgi Markov in the late seventies? He was assassinated with a pellet of ricin fired from a doctored umbrella. Once we knew ricin was involved here, I had our ICU team make a thorough examination of Mr Bishop’s skin. No sign of any foreign body being injected.’
Carol felt bemused. ‘It’s hard to believe,’ she said. ‘It’s not the sort of thing that happens in Bradfield.’
‘No,’ Denby said. ‘That’s why it took us a couple of days to figure it out. I suppose it was the same for the doctors at UCH who treated Alexander Litvinenko. The last thing they expected to confront was radiation poisoning. But it happened.’
‘How could he be poisoned without realizing it?’
‘Quite easily,’ Denby said. ‘The data we have on ricin tell us that, if injected, as little as 500 micrograms could be enough to kill an adult. There’s animal research that indicates that inhaling or ingesting similar amounts could be lethal. A 500 microgram dose of ricin would be about the size of the head of a pin. Not hard to slip into a drink or into some food. In those quantities, it would be tasteless.’
‘So we’re looking for someone who had access to his food or drink?’
Denby nodded. ‘That’s the most likely route.’ He fiddled with his pen. ‘It might also be infiltrated into a recreational drug such as cocaine or amphetamine, something snorted. Again, one would not notice any taste or smell.’
‘Do you have blood and urine samples that you can test for recreational drugs?’
Denby nodded. ‘I’ll see that it’s done.’
‘How did you figure it out?’
‘My SHO, Dr Blessing. I think you or one of your colleagues spoke to her in the first instance?’
‘Yes, I know Dr Blessing contacted us. But what alerted her?’
Denby gave a little smirk. Carol liked him even less. ‘I don’t want to sound vain, but Dr Blessing reckoned that if I couldn’t work out what was wrong with Mr Bishop, then it must be something quite a long way out of the ordinary. She checked out the symptoms in our online database and ricin poisoning was the single thing that fit the bill. She brought her conclusions to me, and I ordered the standard test. It came back strongly positive. There really is no room for doubt, Chief Inspector.’
Carol closed her notebook.