‘And what was it that Derek Sutton died from, did you say?’
‘Heart failure.’
‘That appears on so many death certificates. It’s what doctors write in when they can’t see any other cause of death but don’t want to put the family through the ordeal of a postmortem.’
‘Obviously, no one would have suspected potassium nitrate poisoning at the time, so there wouldn’t have been any toxicology done, even if there had been a PM,’ said Fry.
‘Well, it’s academic, since there wasn’t a postmortem,’ said Hitchens. ‘Derek Sutton was signed off, certificated and cremated within a week.’
‘It would be cremation, of course. So no chance of getting an exhumation order.’
‘You say that no one would have suspected potassium nitrate poisoning,’ said Cooper. ‘But his brother Raymond might have suspected it, if he knew what Derek was up to.’
Hitchens shook his head. ‘That old man? How would he have known the effects of potassium nitrate? Who knows what saltpetre is exactly? I didn’t, until just now.’
‘Even so, he must have wondered what was wrong. You don’t just drop suddenly without any other symptoms, do you?’
Hitchens checked the report. ‘Eye and skin irritations, sneezing and coughing, headaches, fatigue, dizziness, a blue colour to the skin and lips, trouble breathing.’
‘I found several sites on the internet where I could order food-grade saltpetre. Lots more where it’s listed as an ingredient in garden chemicals.’
‘OK.’
He’d also found a method for treating skin infections that had supposedly been passed from father to son over many generations in farming. If you got bitten or scratched and it looked as though the wound was getting infected, you should bathe the area in a solution of hot water and saltpetre. It inhibited the growth of organisms associated with skin infections. Clostridium, Streptococcus and Staphylococcus. It made sense. He was just surprised that he’d never heard of it in his own family. Father to son over generations? Maybe Matt used the treatment on the quiet.
‘Ben — this thing about a hand of glory,’ said Fry, interrupting his reading. ‘You don’t think you’re letting the superstition business get to you too much?’
‘Not me. I think it had got to Derek Sutton, though.’
‘You really think there’s a body without a hand somewhere?’
‘Yes.’
‘Prepared to bet on it?’
‘I’m not really a betting man,’ said Cooper.
‘Ha-ha.’
Potassium nitrate had a smell reminiscent of burnt gunpowder. That rang a bell with Cooper. For a while, supplies of fertilizer had been stored in a breeze-block extension to the main barn at Bridge End. The inside always had a heavy smell of potassium nitrate fertilizer. Burnt gunpowder was right — it had always made him think of Bonfire Night and firework displays.
He would probably never be able to go to a garden centre without being reminded of it these days. Not without being reminded of poor Derek Sutton, preparing his saltpetre recipe in the kitchen at Pity Wood.
Fry was seething quietly at her desk when Hitchens appeared at her side, his face creased with discomfort.
‘Diane, have you got a minute?’
‘Sir?’ said Fry, automatically responding to the tone of his voice. It was a management tone, the kind of voice people used when you were being summoned into their office for a reprimand. Or to get bad news. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Let’s just step into my office, shall we?’
They moved out of earshot of the team in the CID room and Hitchens shut the door of his office with a deliberate slam.
‘I shouldn’t be telling you this,’ he said. ‘But we’ve worked together for a while now, and I think you ought to know as soon as possible. Sit down, won’t you?’
Reluctantly, Fry sat. She preferred to stay on her feet when they were discussing an enquiry. Sitting in the chair across from his desk felt too much like a disciplinary interview, the recalcitrant pupil called to the headmaster’s room.
‘There was a meeting of the CID management team this morning,’ he said.
Fry nodded. Of course, everyone knew that. Word had gone round the CID room like the wind. DIs and above were in a meeting with the new superintendent. Something was afoot, they said. Changes were going to be made. The End of the World was nigh.
‘Detective Superintendent Branagh has been studying the department carefully before she takes up her new role,’ said Hitchens. ‘She’s gone into everything very thoroughly — detection rates, targets, staff records. As Mr Jepson said, she’s very thorough. Very thorough indeed.’
‘A ferociously efficient administrator. That’s what he called her.’
‘Oh, yes. Well, that was accurate, too.’
Hitchens seemed to be gathering his thoughts. A uniformed PC knocked on the door and stuck his head in, but Hitchens waved him away with an abrupt gesture.
‘Superintendent Branagh asked for copies of all the PDRs for everyone. All of us. Me, too. She doesn’t believe in people getting stale and falling into a routine. She says an officer who gets into a rut is an officer going nowhere.’
So perhaps the doom mongers were right. Fry pictured some of the older CID officers, such as Gavin Murfin or DS Rennie. A shake-up would come as a shock to some of them.
‘Has she got some changes in mind?’ she asked.
Hitchens nodded. ‘She’s going to produce a set of proposals for the department. But it’s safe to say that some moves are on the cards.’
‘Moves?’
‘Transfers. A few shifts in areas of responsibility. Maybe a promotion or two, Diane.’
He was trying hard to sound positive, but Fry could see through it. She wasn’t fooled by flannel, and her DI should know it by now.
‘I take it there was something specific about me?’ she said. ‘You were talking about me during this meeting?’
‘Well, you were mentioned,’ admitted Hitchens, his eyes flickering nervously like a guilty suspect in an interview room. He looked as though he was starting to regret sending the PC away, after all.
‘And what did Detective Superintendent Branagh make of my Personal Development Review? Has she got something in mind for my future? Will I actually be allowed to know what’s being said about me some time?’
‘There will be individual interviews, of course. Everything will be discussed with you fully. You’ll have an opportunity to have your say at that time.’
‘But …?’ said Fry.
‘It’s all still up in the air, Diane. There’s nothing absolutely definite …’
‘But …?’
Hitchens sighed. ‘Superintendent Branagh was asking — did I really think you fitted in here? She wondered if you might be more suited to another division. I’m sorry, Diane.’
Cooper consulted his notes, reminding himself of what he’d missed doing. Time seemed to be going by so fast, what with one thing and another.
He saw that he hadn’t suggested a search of the old caravan at Pity Wood Farm yet, as he’d meant to do. Maybe that wasn’t too urgent, because the forensics team probably wouldn’t get round to it for days anyway. He added a note to fit in a visit to the heritage centre some time, to see if they had anything on Pity Wood. Old photos could reveal such a lot.
Then Cooper noticed that he’d never spoken to anyone at the auctioneers, Pilkington’s, to ask them whether they’d been approached about a farm equipment sale. There must be something planned for the disposal of all that machinery and the other stuff at Pity Wood. It wouldn’t all fit into the skip.
