To Make a Killing Read online

  Keane looked at the dead man’s face for the first time. He had rugged, coarse features, a thick neck, a high forehead and dark hair with a receding hairline. The bags below his deep blue eyes were quite puffy. Distinctive though his features were, as far as Keane was concerned, the man could have been anyone. Hayes looked over Keane’s shoulder and expressed what Keane was thinking. “Never seen him before. You think he’s a cricketer?”

  “Well, I have seen him before. Just don’t ask me where or when.” answered Alex.

  “Boomerang” repeated Keane. He was familiar with Alex’s penchant for leaving a trail of primitive crossword clues. “Why do you think he is Australian?”

  He answered by removing the sheet from the man’s right forearm to reveal a blatant tattoo, roughly 3 inches in diameter:

  It was an image of a coat of arms with a kangaroo to the left, an ostrich (or perhaps an emu) to the right, a rising sun above, all in gold on a green background, and then the clincher: a red scroll beneath bearing the single word, “Australia”.

  “Alright. I’ll grant you the tattoo, the tan, the rugged features and whatever other prejudice we can come up with, but this is not hard evidence.” Morgan glanced at Alex’s persistent smirk. “You’ve got more, haven’t you!”

  Alex pushed his thin, silver rimmed glasses back up his nose for the umpteenth time. “I spy with my x-ray eyes, something peculiar with these thumbs. Not being Superman, you wouldn’t notice it of course, but this man’s thumbs are connected by screws.”

  “So he got on the wrong side of the Australian mafia, that doesn’t make him a cricketer.” derided Hayes.

  Alex’s smirk stiffened. “I suppose the mafia are also responsible for the ‘recurrent collateral ligament damage leading to degeneration of the DIP joints of the index and little finger’. Injuries found almost exclusively in professional cricketers!” stated Alex petulantly, to put Hayes firmly in his place.

  “This is excellent, Alex.” praised Keane, and then he turned to Hayes, “Ian . . . (he only ever addressed Hayes by his first name, when he wanted him to do something without resistance) . . . get these photos off to the Australian Embassy right now. If Alex is right, they ought to be able to identify him at the drop of a cork hat. But listen, they must keep a lid on this. Whoever he is, he is not officially dead. I don’t want any next-of-kin contacted until we know if there are any, and we know what their alibi is.”

  “But what about the poison, and, and . . . my witness statements?

  “Did anybody see or hear anything?”

  “No, but . . . “

  “Right, I’ll fill you in on the rest of the report, when you’re back, and then we’ll work out our strategy, ok?”

  Reluctantly, Hayes agreed and left.

  “Right, Alex. You’ve done a tremendous job here, but I’m going to have to ask you to cut to the chase now.”

  Alex picked up his report, disgruntled, but not deterred. He still had one more item, which he knew would please Keane. He read aloud, interspersing the text with his own speculations:

  “The deceased was approximately 40 years old, 5’10”, 14 st. 6 lbs – or 177 cm and 93 kilos if you prefer; could well have been a professional cricket player (in all likelihood a wicket keeper), etc., etc.. Virtually deaf in his left ear as a result of an infection sustained to the ear drum, and yet did not wear a hearing aid. Wore contact lenses and was quite near-sighted. Death occurred at approximately 20:37 from a lethal injection of batrachotoxin injected into the lingual vein beneath the tongue. Prior to this, the deceased had been paralyzed by a pellet shot into the brain through the left ear, at point blank range.” Alex lowered his notes to conclude with another opinion, “The killer probably used an airgun of some kind – any normal gun would have blasted a hole in the other side of his head at that range”.

  “Batrachotoxin?”

  “Are you familiar with Phyllobates bicolor or Phyllobates terribilis?” Alex waited for an answer he knew was not forthcoming. He continued, “Better known as poison dart frogs, native to the Colombia region of South America?”

  “Go on.”

  “Batrachotoxin is a steroidal alkaloid secreted from the frog’s skin glands. It blocks neuromuscular transmission, resulting in muscle and respiratory paralysis and death. The lethal dosage for a 200 pound man (our man) would be, approximately 180 micrograms. This minute amount would be roughly equivalent to two or three grains of ordinary table salt.”

  “I know you aren’t paid to have an opinion, Alex, but I’d like to hear if you do have one”, said Keane.

  “Well, if I were you, Morgan, I’d be wondering about a number of things, including:

  - Who chooses to kill using an airgun, followed by a poisonous injection when a hammer would suffice?

  - Who has access to this particular poison?

  I assume the killer was a professional. If Hayes noticed the mask, then the killer surely would have noticed it when he opened the mouth to inject the poison.”

  “Perhaps he had too little time to notice?”

  “You have to stay cool to hit that vein that accurately in those circumstances. I’m sure he would have felt something wrong with the texture and temperature of the skin.”

  “Even if he was wearing gloves?”

  Alex nodded.

  “So you think he disregarded the mask, because he knew his victim?”

  “Yes. Or no. Perhaps he didn’t care who he was killing.”

  “So why didn’t he just bash him over the head with a hammer?”

  “Now you’re trying to get me to do your job, Morgan!” They both smiled.

  “Thanks, Alex. If you dig anything else up, let me know.”

  “Will do.”

  And with that Keane returned to his office to find a very excited young man waiting for him.

  “His name is Brett Russell!” burst out Hayes. “The receptionist at the Embassy recognized him right away from the image we faxed to her. And we’ve had it confirmed officially now by the embassy. Professional cricketer, wicket-keeper. 6 caps for Australia never played against England, though. Divorced about 7 years ago, no idea if he’s re-married, don’t think there are any kids.”

  “Wait a minute, where are you getting all this from?”

  “The receptionist. You want any Australian gossip, you ask Sheila.”

  Keane gave Hayes a look that made it clear, that if he liked, he could also pull “the one with bells on”.

  “Straight up, Cobber. Sheila’s her name.” Although Hayes only dabbled with amateur theatre, he was an exceptionally good mimic, and his ‘Oz’ accent was spot on.

  “Look. Can you tell me what you definitely have confirmation on? Was he here to play cricket, for example?”

  “Well, Sheila said he retired years ago, but I’ve asked the embassy to give us information on his current job situation. They said they would get back to us later today.”

  “Alright. Did you make sure that ‘Sheila’ understands, that we have not even contacted the next-of-kin yet, and that she will be obstructing the police with their enquiries, if she let’s anything slip out?”

  “Don’t worry, I put the wind up her.”

  “Good. Now tell me who did you interview in Kensington?”

  “Everyone who has a flat with a view to the scene of the crime. I talked to a couple of the local Bobbies. I’ve called all the local taxi companies to see if they had any drops there between 6 and 8:30 pm yesterday evening. And I got nothing. If you ask me, it’s as if the killer politely asked everyone to vacate the area for half an hour, so he could do his job without being disturbed.” Hayes paused. “So how did he die?”

  Keane filled Hayes in on the details he had missed.

  “So, let’s get this into some kind of shape”, said Keane, moving over to a large whiteboard, then writing as he spoke: “There can only be three possibilities:

  1. The deceased was the actual target

  2. The deceased was mistaken for another man whom the mask r
esembled

  3. It was a random killing

  We’ll have to park the first line of enquiry, until we get more facts about Russell.

  The second line . . . Good God!”

  “What?” asked Hayes.

  “You know, I’ve not yet really taken this theory seriously, but I think we have to now. I just realized that if this is the case, the killer will at some point realize his mistake, and somebody out there is in grave danger! But in that case, who is the real target?”

  “You really think the killer could have made a mistake? Everything points to him being a pro.”

  “I know, but we have no choice. We are obliged to follow this line, too. This is going to take some manpower. Get Jenkins, Connolly, Parker and Hassan. Check every visual media for the last 6 months for anyone who looks like Russell’s mask. Check wanted files; get Interpol in on the act. Check missing persons. Check notables from society, the business world, celebrities, clergymen, sports and TV stars. Leave out no-one. Check the morgues – this might not have been the killer’s first attempt. Oh, and check every hotel in a ten-mile radius to see if anyone had a Brett Russell registered there.”

  “Alright, but you can’t run the rest of the investigation single-handedly.”

  “As soon as they are up and running, put Jenkins in charge and I’ll brief you on my progress. Don’t worry, I’ll drag you in here as soon as I get anything worthwhile.”

  “And what about the third possibility? A random victim?”

  “I’ll search our files and get Interpol to check theirs, to see if they have anything on record with a similar MO. I really don’t see a serial killer using an airgun and batrachotoxin. Do you?”

  “No. Someone was out to get Russell. Someone who’d never forgiven him for getting stumped!”

  “Well, I’ve heard of thinner excuses than that. Right, if you don’t hear from me before, I’ll see you back here tomorrow morning.”

  Hayes departed and Keane wondered where he should start. If anyone’s heard of this kind of thing before, it’ll be Blinky, he thought.

  Gerald “Blinky” Blenkinsop was a renowned, almost an elite garden designer, advising virtually exclusively the aristocracy of Europe throughout his long and now concluded career. Of course many of his original customers had been relatives, as he was indirectly related to a baron.

  Blinky also had a photographic and a seemingly limitless memory. This coupled with his fervent patriotism meant he had been made privy to much of MI5’s data, with MI5 in turn regularly drawing upon him, when all other sources of information were exhausted. Now it was Keane’s turn to pick the memory of his old friend.

  He had hundreds of phone numbers in his head, and although he hadn’t spoken with Blinky in donkey’s ages, he dialled the number without pause for thought.

  *********

  This is the life I want, when I retire, thought Keane to himself.

  The sound was that of gravel giving way to tyres as he gradually made his way up the drive towards the mansion. He could have driven faster, but then he would miss some of the fascinating intricacies of Blinky’s unique gardens. He would only have picked up a fraction of the innumerable scents borne to him on one gentle Indian summer breeze after another. He’d miss out on some of the devastatingly beautiful colour cascades that were Blinky’s speciality. He had wanted to leave the car at the entrance, and stroll up through the gardens, but then he would have deprived Blinky of his “favourite” opener.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t “My favourite Morgan”! And out of it steps my least favourite!”

  Morgan laughed as he closed the door of his 1968 dark green Morgan Roadster. Not at the inevitable joke, but that Blinky could still find it amusing after all this time. He had a real soft spot for the old man. He had always looked upon him as his cosy old favourite-uncle, even though he was only 17 years younger than Blinky.

  Anyone seeing Blinky standing there, short and chubby, with his thin, uncombed white hair and wearing one of his many garish home-knitted pullovers, could be forgiven for underestimating him. Only his vital complexion and mercurial, intelligent, grey-blue eyes gave an inkling of his true capacity.

  “How are you, Blinky? Is that a new pullover?”

  Keane had never been able to explain why Blinky’s exceptional esthetical sense and imagination for combining colours, scents and shapes, did not carry over to his dress sense. It was almost as if his marvellous gift came from a pact with the Devil, and there was a price to pay.

  “You don’t want to know that”, smiled Blinky. He paused before sending the conversation off in a different direction, “I’d offer you a drink, but . . .” his voice became dramatically sinister, “I know why you are here, so let’s get on with it.”

  Keane had learnt never to take anything for granted with Blinky. Having played chess, backgammon, bridge and even poker with him, he knew that he could expect to be bluffed just as often as he could be stunned by his unexpected insight. Keane was not to be drawn, however. He smiled wryly, “You always could see through me, Blinky” he said, non-commitally.

  Blinky fixed his eyes on Keane to spot the slightest reaction to the words he was about to say, “You want to see my rose garden!”

  Nothing. The man was inscrutable. Nothing but the controlled, polite yet warm smile Keane always had at hand, to deflect any googly he would throw at him; and the blighter wasn’t even a cricketer! Blinky was not someone who suffered fools easily; conversely he could not help but admire men like Keane. Precious few had the wherewithal, the wit and strength of character to keep up with him, let alone match him. “Come along, you know the way.”

  They took the path around the west wing. The scent and beauty of roses were two of only a handful of things in life that could take Keane’s mind off his work. They ambled along, stopping every yard or so for Keane to sample the extravagance and uniqueness of each new rose, as if it were a fine wine. What a privilege to be able to indulge the senses, in fact almost to overwhelm them, in such a harmless way.

  “I knew when you called, it was just another lame excuse to avoid paying the entrance fee” teased Blinky.

  “I’m sorry, Blinky. You know roses are my Achilles heel.” Keane paused. “We have a murder, and it’s not exactly ‘run-of-the-mill’. A man – an Australian cricketer – has been found dead. He was wearing a mask. Not a Halloween mask, but a convincing life-like piece of make-up, which completely changed his appearance. He was apparently killed by an injection of poison into the lingual vein . . . below the tongue . . . but only after he had been shot through the ear with a pellet from an air gun. The coroner claims the poison is a batrachotoxin . . . “

  “. . . from the poisoned dart frog”

  “Yes. Obviously we don’t yet know if this was an assassination or a random killing, but the method is very unusual. Have you come across anything like this before?”

  “The South Americans are not the only ones to use that poison. It could have been chosen by, say, an Asian, to lead you astray . . . if it weren’t for the ear shot. That is a speciality of the Chilean Secret Service. Again someone could be trying to put you off the scent, but very few outside of South America even consider that method. It’s very rare that you have an opportunity to apply it, and you have to be very adept to miss hitting a bone in the ear. Furthermore, it does not always disable the victim instantly. Even the Chileans only used it for a brief period in the 80’s.”

  “Could it be a fluke? Someone with no training who just had a ‘bright idea’ they wanted to try out?”

  Blinky smiled at Keane. “I can speculate if you wish, but speculation is your strong suit, not mine.”

  Keane knew the information was inconclusive and ambiguous, but he knew he had to be grateful. He was tapping into a resource that was unavailable to any other detective. He was sure it would be of some use once his own investigation had progressed sufficiently.

  “Did we ever finish our last game of chess?” asked Keane, as he dragged himself awa
y from the final rose.

  “You know, you only ever say that when you remember the trouncing I gave you!”

  With that, they left the rose garden and sauntered over to the pavilion where the chess board and refreshments were waiting for them, and where the conversation turned to lighter matters.

  Keane returned to the office in the late afternoon. It could be put off no longer. It was now a matter of scouring files and databases to try and find anything that could be even remotely associated with the circumstances of this case.

  Over five hours of searching brought nothing at all, so he decided to call it a day. A new day would bring a fresh approach, and it would probably be a good idea to bring Hayes in again.

  He had mixed feelings driving home. Somewhere at the back of his mind he knew Blinky had given him a link. He knew it, and that brought optimism. At the same time, he was frustrated because no matter how he racked his memory, he could not see any link. He resigned himself to the impasse and tried to get the case out of his head. Instantly the joy and impressions of his visit to Blinky flooded in. He would sleep well tonight.