Dying to Sin bcadf-8 Page 29

  The first call came over the PA system for boarding Ryanair flight FR-1969. It was time to go. Fry grimaced, irritated by another detail that she wasn’t going to be able to pin down.

  Fumbling for her money, she took one last look at the ingredients on her purchases. Sudafed, Paracetamol and Lemsip. Well, that should sort out her cold, all right. In fact, you could get really high on that lot.

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  Fry froze at the counter, causing the assistant to stare at her as if she was mad. Then Fry turned and barged aside a queue of customers in her hurry to get out of the shop. She dragged her phone out of her bag as she ran and dialled a number. It was lucky she had it on speed dial, because her fingers were shaking with urgency. She tried to steady her voice, aware of her heart pounding in her chest and her breathing ragged with the surge of excitement and fear.

  DI Hitchens came on the phone just as the final call for boarding was made and the last few passengers began to trickle through the gate for Dublin.

  ‘Sir, it’s DS Fry. Listen — I don’t have much time. We need to get everyone clear of Pity Wood Farm immediately. Yes, all of them. I suggest we establish a safe perimeter and pull everything back. We’ve got to get them out of that place — now!’

  28

  Meth, speed, crystal, ice, glass, crank, tweak, yaba. Cooper knew it would have taken him longer than Fry to put the pieces together, but he might have managed it, given time. Everyone had heard the reports of an incident a few months ago, not many miles from here.

  ‘Muriatic acid, iodine tincture, hydrogen peroxide. It’s quite a list. Oh, God. And there was all that other stuff lying around,’ he said. ‘Plastic Coke bottles, tubing, aluminium foil, mason jars. There were even some coffee filters.’

  DI Hitchens nodded. ‘They weren’t just rubbish, as we all thought. They were the tools of the trade. Someone has been operating a crystal meth lab at Pity Wood Farm.’

  ‘It must have been the first of its kind in this area.’

  ‘But not the last, of course,’ said Hitchens with a sigh. ‘They’re much more professional operations now. This lot at Rakedale seem as though they might just have downloaded the instructions from the internet or something. It’s a wonder they didn’t have any major accidents.’

  All the officers and civilian staff who’d been at Pity Wood Farm during the last few days had been ordered to present themselves for health checks this afternoon. While Cooper waited for his turn, he read the intelligence reports that had been copied and distributed throughout the department since Fry’s conclusions had been confirmed.

  And the reports made disturbing reading. He hadn’t felt ill before, but Cooper was more than ready to be sick by the time he’d finished.

  Meth, speed, crystal, ice, glass, crank, tweak, yaba. Call it whatever you liked, methamphetamine was highly addictive, producing a high that could last from twelve hours to a few days. The latest assessments warned that it had the potential to rival crack cocaine as the most dangerous drug in the country.

  Only this year, methamphetamine had been upgraded from a Class B substance to Class A, which meant that anyone caught dealing it could receive a life sentence, and even possession got you seven years. On the street, it was generally found as an odourless, white, bitter-tasting powder, though it could also turn up in the form of pills, capsules and large crystals. Frequently snorted, but also used orally, smoked, and injected.

  Methamphetamine was being manufactured in Britain as well as imported by a Filipino criminal network. It had begun to spread throughout the UK and was thought to be available in almost every city, according to the intelligence. It was increasingly popular among clubbers, and had started to enter mainstream drug use within the last few years. Hence, a rising demand that created a lucrative industry for unscrupulous entrepreneurs with access to the right sort of location.

  Cooper watched Gavin Murfin dragging his heels towards the door as he was summoned to see the doctor. He wasn’t sure what order they were being called in. Reverse alphabetical, maybe. Or the oldest first. He’d have a while to wait yet, anyway.

  ‘Good luck, Gavin,’ he called.

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  The right sort of location. That was the heart of the matter. Cooper had speculated about the laundering of red diesel going on somewhere like Pity Wood Farm, but crystal meth production required a remote location, too. Clandestine labs were often run in rural places because noxious smells could dissipate unnoticed.

  The advice said that one of the more obvious signs of a methamphetamine production lab in operation was an odour similar to that of cat urine. Well, yes — the smell had been obvious. But he’d been too stupid to think of anything apart from the presence of cats.

  Cooper’s blood ran cold when he read the next paragraph. Meth labs also gave off other noxious fumes, such as phosphine gas, mercury vapours, lead, solvent fumes such as chloroform, iodine vapours and white phosphorus.

  The back of his throat constricted at the thought. Cooper wondered about the fate of the forensics teams who had been digging up the yard for several days, sifting through the rubbish and searching the contents of the kitchen. He thought about Liz, and prayed she was safe.

  And then there was the toxic waste. For every pound of meth manufactured, five or six pounds of toxic waste were produced, and it was usually disposed of in the yard or surrounding area. The toxic waste and fumes produced can seep into ground water as well as run off into fields. Anyone living near where meth manufacturing had occurred could suffer serious illnesses related to chemical toxicity. Chemicals permeated into the water, ground, carpeting, walls in the home, and into the air.

  And the really bad news for Aaron Goodwin, the Manchester solicitor, was that once a home had been exposed to the toxic chemicals from methamphetamine production, it had to be condemned, and the clean-up costs were tremendous. Mr Goodwin would need deeper pockets than he’d imagined, if he was ever going to be able to live his rural dream, with horses in the paddock and a swimming pool in the yard.

  So what about the workers? Users of methamphetamine put themselves at enough of a risk, but tweaking crystal meth was as dangerous as manufacturing it in the first place. Makeshift laboratories put their operators at risk of death or injury from explosions and the poisonous fumes produced during the cooking process.

  The list of ingredients was totally horrifying. The chemicals used to make methamphetamine included iodine, drain cleaner, paint thinner, battery acid, anti-freeze, and cat litter. Some of those substances were akin to nerve agents. And not forgetting one of the vital elements in the recipe — pseudoephedrine, the active ingredient from several over-the-counter cold remedies.

  Today, specialists were being sent in to Pity Wood Farm wearing protective clothing and breathing apparatus. Officers in white coveralls, green gloves and overshoes, carrying oxygen tanks had replaced the SOCOs and the anthropology team, not to mention the CID officers protected by nothing more than a pair of latex gloves. Warnings had been set up that the site was extremely hazardous. Exposure to some of the volatile toxic chemicals that had been found could have carcinogenic effects.

  And DI Hitchens was right — like everything else, the instructions for methamphetamine production were readily available on the internet.

  The meth factory at Pity Wood had already closed before the drug had been re-classified to a Class A substance. Not that the threat of a life sentence was much of a deterrent to the people who ran meth factories. They relied on not getting caught, and the amount of money they could make justified the risks — especially as the risk was mostly to other people, ignorant workers who just did as they were told. And, of course, they hadn’t been caught. Not yet.

  Cooper looked up and saw Hitchens pacing the room. Instead of retreating to his own office, the DI was fretting about every member of his team who might have been exposed to risk.

  ‘The women buried at Pity Wood Farm, sir?’ said Cooper. ‘Nadezda Halak, and the other woman wh
o died — how might they fit into the scenario?’

  ‘If their bodies had been found sooner, Ben, toxicology might have established whether they were crystal meth users. But at the moment, we can’t say one way or the other.’

  ‘They were most likely working there, don’t you think? Producing the methamphetamine.’

  ‘Slave labour of some kind, yes. The gangs who run these operations are ruthless.’

  ‘Are we talking about the same people who shot Tom Farnham, do you think, sir?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘Well, Ben, when these people have a dispute they don’t go to court. They have their own ways of sorting things out.’

  Cooper turned to the last page of the intelligence bulletin, which was headed ‘Common Side Effects’. Again, his brain could hardly take them all in. Diarrhoea, nausea, loss of appetite, insomnia, tremors, irritability, weight loss, depression. The list was endless. Why would you risk doing all these different kinds of damage to your body? An overdose could cause brain damage, hallucinations, paranoia, kidney damage and something called formication, described as the sensation of your flesh crawling with insects.

  But Cooper’s eyes were drawn to the most peculiar symptom of chronic methamphetamine use of them all. The report referred to a dry mouth, excessive thirst triggering frequent consumption of high-sugar drinks, tooth grinding and the decreased production of acid-fighting saliva. Together, they caused the symptoms of rapid tooth decay. Sometimes known as ‘meth mouth’.

  One way or another, methamphetamine had killed Nadezda Halak.

  Without her phone for about an hour and a half, Fry felt lost. She stared out of the window of the plane at the Irish Sea passing below. It looked grey, and very wet. She hoped that Ireland itself would be more welcoming. Break out the Guinness and the shamrock, we’ve got a visitor. Oh, yes, that’s how it would be.

  Well, it couldn’t be worse than Rakedale. If she’d been forced to spend another day in that place, she would probably have gone mad, even without the effects of the toxic chemicals on her body.

  For a moment, Fry wondered whether she could sue Derbyshire Constabulary for not providing her with proper protective equipment to do her job. Yes, probably. Health and Safety regulations called for a risk assessment, which hadn’t been carried out, so far as she was aware.

  But all she had was this damn cold to show for it. And no doubt she’d discover that the officer who ought to have carried out the risk assessment was her.

  But Rakedale was definitely her idea of one of the outer circles of Hell. The people who lived there were slightly less than human, dead to normal standards of civilized behaviour.

  Fry had once heard of a rare medical condition that destroyed the sense of touch. When you had the condition, it became impossible to tell sandpaper from silk, leather from stone, or water from oil. Impossible to feel anything at all.

  They said that touch was already present as a sense in the foetus. At eight weeks after conception, it started in the lips and spread to the rest of the body. So how was it possible to lose this sense, of all the senses? A man who talked about his condition described wanting to stroke the family dog, but not being able to feel it, unless the dog had been out in the sun and was warm, or had been caught in the rain and was cold. Beyond that, there seemed to be nothing for him to touch.

  She felt like that when she was in Rakedale. As a police officer, she’d learned to be sensitive to the smallest signals that people unconsciously gave out, the gestures and facial expressions that revealed their real thoughts, the body language and lack of eye contact that gave away a lie.

  But there, she was unable to detect any normal responses. Those people were recognizable only at the extremes of emotion. They were either hot or cold, but in between there was a gap where human emotions seemed to cease to exist. In that state, they were out of reach of her senses, beyond her ability to touch.

  As the plane began its descent towards Dublin Airport, Fry recalled David Palfreyman asking her whether she was able to tell when someone was a liar. Palfreyman’s mockery of modern techniques was in itself a classic distraction tactic. She decided to focus her techniques on Palfreyman next time she met him. She felt sure he would fail the body language test.

  Oh, don’t worry, Mr Palfreyman — DS Fry certainly had the training to spot a liar. There were ten major signs that someone was lying. And Fry had seen every one of them during her time in Rakedale.

  DCI Kessen was being interviewed on TV for the news bulletin. Cooper wondered if he would still have that job when Superintendent Branagh had settled in. It was high profile, and it didn’t suit everyone. Would Branagh be better in front of a TV camera than she was in the photographer’s studio?

  ‘The chemicals used in the production of this drug are volatile and dangerous if inhaled, so officers have to be extremely cautious during their examination of the premises at Rakedale,’ Kessen was saying. ‘We were initially concerned that some of the toxic chemicals used in the production of methamphetamine might have been dumped in the local woods, but we have checked the area and we believe it is safe.

  ‘This is likely to be a long investigation,’ he warned, ‘as we’re having to take great care not to put our officers or the public at unnecessary risk from these toxic chemicals. The production of methamphetamine can be very dangerous for anyone involved.’

  Terrific. A long investigation. If that was true, Christmas was starting to look very unlikely. Perhaps they should cancel it altogether, and celebrate it in February instead.

  Kessen finished by deflecting the question that everyone was bound to be asking.

  ‘We’re not able to say at this stage whether the death of Mr Thomas Farnham in a shooting incident is related. But all possible lines of enquiry are being followed up.’

  Thinking of Christmas, Cooper remembered that Jack Elder was still in custody, and he would have to be either charged or released soon. Fry had left him her interview notes and her copy of the tape. Cooper went through to familiarize himself with Elder’s answers, then he called down to ask the custody sergeant to put Elder in an interview room.

  Elder’s long grey beard did make him look a little bit like Santa Claus, though a Santa who’d been down too many chimneys and drunk too much of the sherry.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll have this sorted out soon, sir,’ said Cooper, sitting across the interview-room table. ‘There are just a couple more questions I’d like to ask you. One or two things that we’re not clear about.’

  ‘What’s that, then?’ said Elder.

  ‘Well, for example, you said in your previous interview with DS Fry that you had never been to Pity Wood Farm. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. I was never at the place. I saw the Suttons in the pub, and that was all. I stayed away from their old farm.’

  ‘And my colleague put to you a statement from a witness who claims to have seen you going in and out of the farm many times with your lorry.’

  Elder shook his head. ‘Not me. They were wrong.’

  ‘You see,’ said Cooper, in his best kindly manner, ‘since we had to arrest you, Mr Elder, we took your fingerprints and a sample of your DNA when you arrived in custody, as you know. That’s standard procedure, and it’s not significant in itself. But it does mean that we can compare your prints, and your DNA profile, with any that we have on file. Those will include samples that have been collected from crime scenes over several decades.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s amazing what technology can do now. We’re clearing up an awful lot of old crimes, just by comparing DNA samples to the database.’

  ‘What has that got to do with me?’

  ‘Well, it’s like this,’ said Cooper. ‘How shall I explain it? If you told us you’d been at Pity Wood Farm, then there would be no problem. But since you’ve insisted twice now that you’ve never been there, it means that, should we happen to find your fingerprints, or some DNA evidence that does put you at the scene, then … well, we know you’ve been lying to
us. And that looks very suspicious, doesn’t it?’

  Elder licked his lips and twisted a finger in his beard. ‘Suspicious?’

  ‘We’d have to draw certain conclusions from the fact that you were lying. Especially since we’re engaged in a murder enquiry here. Probably a double murder, Mr Elder.’

  ‘Even if I was there, it doesn’t mean I was part of any murder,’ said Elder.

  ‘Surely it would have to be something as serious as a murder to make you sit here and lie about whether you’d visited Pity Wood,’ said Cooper reasonably. ‘I mean, what other reason would you have to do that?’

  He could see Elder was starting to get anxious. His fingers twisted tighter and tighter until they must have hurt. Cooper let him think about it for a few moments longer before he asked again.

  ‘So, what do you say? Shall we put your previous answers behind us, and I’ll give you a chance to answer again? Have you ever been to Pity Wood Farm, Mr Elder?’

  ‘’Course I bloody have,’ blurted Elder. ‘You know damn well I have, loads of times. You and your fingerprints and your DNA, trying to catch me out. If you find my blood at Pity Wood Farm, it’ll be because of that bastard Derek Sutton. Mad as a weasel, he was. He would have killed me, if his brother hadn’t pulled him off. And just because I had a bit of a joke with him.’

  ‘A joke?’

  ‘I used to do some vermin control when I was in farming. I still turn my hand to it now and again. That day, I’d been clearing some Larsen traps. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, they’re used to catch carrion crows.’

  ‘Aye. Well, I kept one bird in a trap, and I had it with me when I went up to Pity Wood. I slipped it into the cab of Derek’s Land Rover when he wasn’t looking. By God, he went berserk when he found it flapping around inside there, shitting on his seats.’

  ‘Hold on, who else was there when this happened?’