‘What is a poison garden?’
‘They’ve got one at Alnwick Castle,’ he said. ‘That’s a public one, where anybody can go and see all these killer plants. But there are stories and rumours of private ones. Individuals who specialize in growing deadly species of plants that have been seeing people off for as long as there have been people. Hemlock, that killed Socrates. Strychnine, that women used to kill off their husbands in the Middle Ages. Ricin, that killed Georgi Markov in the seventies. You can grow these plants in your back garden if you know your stuff. Wherever risk-averse Jack Anderson is hiding himself and hatching his careful plots, I think you’re going to find a poison garden.’
Carol rolled her eyes. ‘Every time we work together, there comes a point where you trot out some brilliant bloody insight that makes me go, “And how the
‘And what makes you really crazy is that once you work out how to use it, it turns out to be irritatingly useful,’ he said. ‘It’s what they pay me for.’
‘What? To be irritating?’
To be useful in a way that nobody else is expected to be. Go home now, and sleep on it. Chances are you’ll have figured it out by morning.’
‘You think?’
‘I know. The subconscious is a grafter. Does its best work when we’re asleep. Anyway, you’re going to need all the rest you can get so you can fetch me cups of coffee after a hard day’s crimefighting.’
Carol snorted. ‘Get yourself a thermos and a bit of string.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She kissed the top of his head. ‘And don’t interfere with my staff without talking to me first. OK?’
He smiled, pleased that they’d got past the anger. ‘I promise.’ And when he said it, he meant it.
He’d been wrong, Carol thought as she made for the shower, mug of coffee in hand, cat muttering at her ankles. The answer had not been there when she woke up. Possibly because Tony hadn’t factored a bottle of pinot grigio into the equation. She’d gone back to the office after her hospital visit, for all the good it had done her. Nothing that was happening there was calculated to improve her mood. Kevin had drawn a blank with the Canadians. Sam had found nothing suspicious in Yousef Aziz’s emails. Paula hadn’t found anyone in Temple Fields who recognized Jack Anderson apart from a woman who’d been at school with him and hadn’t seen him since they’d gone out together for three weeks when they were sixteen. Chris had been getting nowhere with Tom Cross’s phone records. And Stacey had found nothing of interest on any of the several hard drives she’d been fiddling with. All told, her team had spent the day racing up dead-end streets. By the time she got home, she was ready for the cul-de-sac of another wine bottle.
She turned the shower on and finished the coffee while she waited for the hot water to come through. She hung her dressing gown on the door and stepped into the extra-wide cubicle the builders had squeezed into a forgotten corner of the cellar when they’d done the conversion. She loved this flat, in spite or because of the fact that it occupied Tony’s basement. But the time was drawing near when she’d have to accept that she really was back in Bradfield for good. To convince herself that her return from London wasn’t temporary, she reckoned she’d probably have to get a proper place of her own.
Not that she wanted to abandon her proximity to him. That was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? Some way of bringing them closer? Except that occupying the same building hadn’t actually drawn them any closer, either emotionally or physically. Perhaps it was time to get some distance again, to see if that would force them to confront what lay between them.
Or maybe it was just too late.
The water cascaded over her, an external current that seemed to encourage an internal flow of thought. A poison garden would require space. Space and privacy. You didn’t want the neighbourhood kids smelling flowers or scrunching leaves or picking berries if you were cultivating poisonous plants.
It would take money too. She didn’t imagine these were generally to be found in the local garden centre. They’d have to come from specialist growers. They might even have to be imported, in which case there would be records. Somewhere, there would be Jack Anderson’s other alias.
And with that thought came the flash of memory. Pannal Castle. Where Tom Cross was supposed to be arranging the security for a fundraiser. The school knew nothing about it, according to Kevin, so the connection had to be via the killer. It was a risk, using the name of a venue if you didn’t know enough about it. And Tony had called him risk-averse, a careful plotter.
Barely taking time to rinse the shampoo from her hair, Carol hustled out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around her, she headed for the phone in the living room. Her control room gave her the number for the nearest police station to Pannal Castle, which came under the jurisdiction of the neighbouring force. Carol rang the number for Kirkby Pannal police office and waited impatiently for four rings. As soon as it was answered, she spoke. ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Carol Jordan from Bradfield Police. To whom am I speaking…? Good morning, Constable Brearley. I need the private number for Pannal Castle…Yes, I know it’s ex-directory. That’s why I’m calling you…No, I’m calling from home…Yes, I’ll hold.’ Carol drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. The boy on the other end of the line didn’t seem to grasp that checking with BMP that there really was a DCI Jordan meant that he was actually speaking to DCI Jordan. Still, she wasn’t about to waste time putting him right.
A couple of minutes later, he came back on the line and dutifully gave her the number. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ending the call and immediately calling Pannal Castle.
‘Hello?’ The voice on the other end sounded posh and cross. Carol introduced herself and apologized for calling so early. ‘No matter,’ the voice said. ‘Always happy to help the police. This is Lord Pannal speaking.’
Carol took a deep breath. This may seem a slightly strange question, Lord Pannal. But do you happen to have a poison garden?’
By half past nine, Tony was a free man. The nurse who had spent most time taking care of him walked him down to his taxi. ‘Don’t do too much,’ she cautioned him. ‘I mean it. You’ll pay for it later if you do.’
His house had never felt more of a home than it did today. Nothing was convenient as it had been in the hospital. But it was his little world. His books. His furniture. His bed, his duvet, his pillows.
