| Call Me Daddy
© Xeen PART 5 “Robbie Terndell has been an addict for the best part of his life,” Dr Morrow asserted. Dr Morrow was no more than 35 and keen to share information and methods. “My predecessor tried to ‘cure’ him of his addiction, as he would say, by locking him up for days, right here, in his study, behind the practice. He kept a camp bed there, and some blankets. Fortunately, these barbaric times are over!” the physician added, anger written all over his face. Dr Morrow was perfectly clear. Lynley and Buchanan acknowledged with a nod he did not condone his predecessor medical conduct. “I’m glad you came to me. There's no harm in finding out about drugs,” Dr Morrow continued. “The more people know about drugs, the better, that’s my motto. You would not imagine all the family problems not to mention drug related crimes that we encounter here in Cornwall, even in remote villages.” Lynley nodded quietly. Sometimes, it was best to let the witnesses talk of their own volition. “I tried to put Terndell on methadone and I believed that he stayed in the substitution programme for some time; however, after a few months, he started to sell his prescription drugs in exchange of crack cocaine; and he would supply clubbers and students with this crack to sustain his own abuse.” “His own abuse?” asked Lynley. “He was hooked on Methylamphetamine, but my guess would be that you commonly referred to it as d-methamphetamine.” “Ice?” asked Buchanan. “Yes, ice, or glass, Tina and Christine, yaba, crystal meth, you name it. Just when you thought that crack cocaine was your worst nightmare, there is meth. Not only it can be taken orally, injected but also smoked just like crack,” said Dr Morrow. “Your point?” asked Lynley. “It hits ten times harder than crack,” said Buchanan. “It’s highly addictive and its effects are real longer than crack. But the major point: it’s cheap.” “Exactly,” confirmed the physician. “Crystal methamphetamine typically has a higher purity level and produce longer-lasting and more intense physiological effects. The drug causes a rapid heart rate and a rise in blood pressure. The higher the dose, the greater these effects,” Morrow sighed. “If you overdose, you may suffer a stroke or lung, kidney and gastrointestinal damages can develop; then there’s coma, possibly death, and that’s for the medical aspect.” “On the other hand, you can add to the mix paranoia, delusion, increased libido, psychosis, violence, a pretty cocktail that can easily lead to act against the law,” concluded Buchanan. “Man, if that Terndell guy really snatched Barb, we better find him asap! He is a time bomb…” --- “OK. To sum it up, this Terndell guy is a drug addict, a thief and probably an arsonist; he likely makes some pocket money from gambling on horses, he’s a father of four and we damn well know he’s missing,” said Buchanan. Buchanan had been clearly disapproving the way of the Met and of the local police to beating around the bushes since the beginning. As far as he was concerned, Lynley did not mind his reaction. As a matter of fact, he did understand his American colleague’s anxiousness to get back to the field. However, he knew better: routines he was used to while investigating murders had proven to be quite efficient, more efficient indeed than losing sight of the final target by looking under every stone. The two men were back to the hotel. It was definitely quieter than the police station and far most comfortable. Piles of files were stacked on the tables around them. The restaurant was open on evenings only and they had the place all to themselves. “The question is: why would he need an armoured truck? He drove away from the gas station around nine yesterday morning. What for? Was he high? Is it drug related? Was he planning to go to the tracks?” “He won’t need a car to place a bet,” said the American. He sipped on his tea, sat his cup back on the table and added a teaspoon of sugar. “No, he won’t. But let’s see if anything unusual happened yesterday in this line of business.” --- “I’m not entirely sure it is related to your case, Inspector,” said the Commander Morris, a slight worry in his voice, “but your officer has been gone for almost 24 hours now, this lead seems as good as any at this point.” “I’m listening,” said Lynley. Lynley was in the Commander’s office with Buchanan for a routine check of their respective findings. He was facing a man in his late fifties, sporting an unusual yellow moustache and a bad toupee. “You understand there was a fire yesterday near Redruth,’ Morris explained. “Our firefighters miraculously saved two farms from annihilation but an old barn was burnt to the ground last night.” “You are obviously linking the arson to Terndell?” asked Lynley. “Indeed, I reckon you have issued a search warrant in the name of Robert Terndell. When I was only a young constable, years back, I recall he used to keep that barn handy to go get high with his mates or entertain some lady friends. He was in his twenties at the time.” Lynley did not move an inch but Buchanan rolled his eyes, took his mobile out of his pocket and ostensibly checked his text messages. “He was very popular on different accounts. We were told several times that he kept some merchandise there but we never found anything.” Even to Lynley, it was getting old. Morris let go of his files and addressed the two men directly. “Chief Fire Officer Dugan gave me some intel: they are pretty sure it was arson last night. Well at least someone started a fire and left it unattended and it could have been an accident,” the Commander pondered. “His men gathered a few crack pipes in the debris and evidence of a bonfire set up next to the barn.” “That’s a very thin piece of evidence,” Buchanan said icily. “I tend to agree,” Lynley added quietly. “… and they found that.” The Commander opened his left drawer and pushed a large sealed plastic bag across his desk. “It could be nothing, but I would like you to take a look at it.” Lynley nor Buchanan could let their eyes away from the piece of brown fabric. It was what was left of a sleeve and part of the upright neckband of a very familiar cheap coat. “As you may see, it’s from a woman’s raincoat,” asserted the Commander, “probably left there months ago,” he shrugged. Lynley opened his mouth then decided against adding a comment. “They found a bloodied tissue as well, inside the barn. Why didn’t it burn, I fail to understand, if you ask me. Anyway, the sample has already been sent to the lab, we will probably hear from them very soon, just in case we can find a match with DS Havers’ blood.” Lynley nodded. Buchanan kept fidgeting with his phone, pale as a ghost. “The raincoat is definitely Havers’, Commander. And I can only assume that the blood on the tissue is hers as well. Anything else on Terndell?” asked Lynley, his voice toneless. “A horse breeder near Camborne reported that someone broke into his stud farm and tried to steal a foal by… let me find it,” Morris rummaged through the piles of papers on his desk, “sorry, lots of… here you are: the sire’s name is ‘Young Hank Clayton’.” Lynley could not help producing a shrill sound between his teeth. “I had no idea ‘Young Hank Clayton’ was bred here…” “Yes. I’m told he’s quite the champion,” said Morris. “The fact is that the description Mrs Martyn provided us for the truck matches the one stolen from Tregeagle’s. She did not have a good look at the man unfortunately.” “I imagine the foal is safe?” asked Lynley. “Yes, never got near the young. He was immediately hounded away by the dogs, a couple of magnificent Old English Mastiffs, if you ask me.” “I see… anything else?” hissed Buchanan who was fighting against the urge of leaving the place and having some space to think. “Well, nothing much after that. No sign of Terndell. Only that he was at some point on Saint Agnes road. But there’s something you must know about the fire. Chief Dugan’s men retrieved a body not far from the barn. Hardly identifiable though, almost burnt to charcoal.” Lynley stopped breathing and his chest ached fiercely for a second. No. It could not be. “Dr Loomis, our forensic pathologist, will still have to decide whether the body is male or female,” said Morris. “If she’s lucky, she will even get a partial dental match.” “Could it be Terndell?” asked Buchanan without a trace of expression. “It can be Santa Claus or Amelia Earhart, if you ask me. I haven’t seen the body, but from what I understand, how they managed to get it to the morgue in one piece is already an achievement in itself.” --- “She could have left her coat in the barn and walk away,” said Buchanan. “Just like that?” said Lynley. He was pacing in front of the local pub, his hands shoved deep inside his pockets, his coat floating behind him, his hair dishevelled. “You can do better,” he snapped. “I know, I know. I’m a disgrace to the force and a poor impression of a detective, but she’s my friend and last time I checked, she was yours as well. The local police prefer to tend their gardens and to go AWOL than helping us… if you ask me,” he added in a rather good impersonation of Morris. “Now you’re being unfair. Half the force is searching the area,” Lynley prompted. “That means less than 20 people and some unreliable volunteers.” Lynley sighed. “Please spare me the helpless self indulging scenario, Buchanan. She’s not dead. She cannot be, I would know,” he added quietly, more for his own benefit than for Buchanan’s. “She is out there, she is injured, she is cold and she needs m… us.” “Only if you suppose that it is our main suspect that has turned into barbecue material,” pushed Buchanan. He waved dismissively at Lynley. “We don’t have a clue of what’s happened to her and no solid lead. Seriously, what am I supposed to do? Wait for the forensic results?! No way, man!” Buchanan started pacing along with Lynley. “More canvassing?” he suggested. “Now that the missing person poster is everywhere, we’ll have some new leads?” “No. Too many wannabe witnesses. Soon enough, we will be flooded with reported sightings. We have to concentrate on current material at hands. Maybe it’s time to go and get our hands dirty.” “You want to inspect the barn again?” “I would say we shall work on events which happened before the barn. We are not even sure we can place her there. Maybe Terndell got rid of her on his way to the barn when he found out she is a cop.” “Maybe he took her to it exactly for that reason,” said Buchanan, “Listen. The way I see it, he was probably high when he took the van or he would not have. From what I understand, the local police keep him on very tight leash. Who would want to rob Mrs Martyn of a pony and to transport it in an armoured truck except someone in an altered state?” “Yes, you’re most likely right.” “Then there are the giant dogs…” “I understand that this breed is naturally protective of its home and family, and of horses in that matter,” Lynley smiled. “Yep, he was in for a treat by trying to get that foal away from their guard,” Buchanan chuckled. “But that most certainly is the reason why he was in an accident right after. He was disoriented because his… “horsenapping” failed and he just drove on from the farm to wherever. I totally believe there was nothing planned. When he rammed her car, he panicked. The car has left the road and there’s blood everywhere and…” “… he tried to help her?” “Why not?! Perhaps he wants to take her to the nearest hospital, or not,” he trailed, “anyway: he must have discovered she’s a detective when he puts her inside the van. At least, we can place Barb in the back of that van, we recovered her ID.” “Why not leave her at the site of the accident,” whispered Lynley for himself; he closed his eyes and clenched his fists, the epitome of despair. Buchanan turned to Tommy and took a deep breath. “We know he did not.” “In truth, I do not want to undervalue the outcome nor wrongly accuse Terndell of a blood crime. But I… Sorry, I did not mean to interrupt.” “I understand Tommy. I say we’ll catch up with the forensics later. We go back to the road, follow our leads up to the barn and see from there.” “If you’re up to it, we shall need detailed military maps.” “Nope, we won’t!” Buchanan sprinted to his car and fetched his bag. “Here you go,” he said, holding a small device in the air. “My very own GPS, complete with the latest updates on every single road or dirt trail of Europe and if I switch this…” he pushed on the side compartment to make the upper part slide and transform into a small keyboard, “hopefully a perfectly valid Internet connection.” “I’ll drive,” said Lynley. please: send me some feedback ;-) TBC |
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