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Chapter 18

‘Thisis a whole new thing now,’ Poe said.

Chief Superintendent Stewart grunted.

Poe could tell he was relieved that Cummings had died under the protection of Parliamentary and Diplomatic Protection, rather than under the protection of South Yorkshire Constabulary. Poe didn’t blame him. People would lose their jobs over this. Cummings was universally despised but, in these polarised times, being despised by the population was an occupational hazard for politicians. They would all be feeling a little less safe right now.

They were in a small incident room in South Yorkshire’s Operations Complex. Bradshaw hadn’t bothered setting it up as it wasn’t clear if they’d be staying. There was a conference table, chairs, a flask of coffee, and a monitor on one of the walls.

Flynn opened the door and walked in.

‘Anything, boss?’ Poe said, getting up and filling her a mug.

‘Toxicology will have the blood tests back soon, but that’s just semantics,’ she said. ‘He was under twenty-four-hour protection and someone got in nonetheless. The A&E consultant admitted it could have been a neurotoxin that killed him.’

‘So itwasfugu poison?’

‘Looks that way.’

‘What happened?’

‘We don’t know much,’ Flynn said. ‘Only that he’d thrown a tantrum when he wasn’t allowed to go to his club for lunch. Decided to have a bath instead. After an hour’s silence one of Protection Command thought he’d better check on him. Found him dead.’

‘Who else was in his house—’

‘The walk-through video’s just arrived,’ Bradshaw cut in. ‘I’m sending it to the big monitor.’

The screen on the wall flickered into life. The crime scene manager introduced himself then walked and talked his way through Cummings’s flat. He started at the front door then methodically went through every room. He described what he was seeing in a clear, measured voice but offered no opinions. It wasn’t his job – a video walk-through was about facts.

The flat was large and lavish, the furniture over the top and ostentatious. Oil paintings hung from the wall and intricately weaved rugs covered the floor. No one needed to ask what Cummings had been spending his money on. This was a man who had liked the finer things in life.

The crime scene manager eventually made his way into the bathroom. It was wall-to-wall marble and enormous. There was a toilet, a bidet and an overhead rainfall showerhead with six body-massaging jets. The bath was deep and sunken with ornate gold taps.

The crime scene manager focused on the corpse of Harrison Cummings. He was on his back in the cold water, his pubic hair floating like a patch of seaweed. Dry vomit covered his chin and upper torso. It stopped at the waterline. His face was in rictus – he had died in agony.

The bathwater had a brownish tinge.

‘The accompanying report says that the faeces in the water doesn’t appear to be the usual post-mortem relaxation of the sphincter muscle,’ Bradshaw said. ‘Mr Cummings lost control of his bowels while he was alive.’

‘Whatever it was, it came on quick then,’ Poe said. ‘He didn’t even have time to get to the toilet before he spewed and had diarrhoea. Does that fit with what we know of fugu poison?’

‘If it was a massive dose I’d say it’s exactly what I’d expect,’ Bradshaw replied. ‘There’d be paralysis and extreme abdominal pain. Even if he’d been able to cry out for help – which I doubt – he’d have been dead before the paramedics arrived.’

‘Poor sod.’ Poe’s eyes remained fixed to the monitor. The video moved away from the corpse. ‘What’s that?’

Bradshaw pressed pause. ‘It’s an empty wine glass, Poe,’ she said.

‘And there’s the bottle,’ he agreed. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘I think we are. Because hot baths open blood vessels and increase body temperature, and because alcohol does the same, combining the two doubles the risk of heat exhaustion, strokes, even heart attacks. Only an idiot would drink wine in the bath.’

‘Yes, that. And also because fugu poison works so quickly, the poison could have been in the wine.’

‘I’ll make sure it’s seized,’ Flynn said, getting out her phone.

‘Done,’ Flynn said. ‘They’ve secured the wine, the glass and everything else in the bathroom. Samples are on their way to the lab. Protection Command have handed the investigation over to the Met and they’re waiting for us in Cummings’s flat.’

Poe’s own phone rang. It was a withheld number. He pressed the green icon and said, ‘Poe.’ He listened for a few seconds then said, ‘I’m on my way.’

‘What is it, Poe?’ Bradshaw said.

‘It’s Estelle – they’ve charged her with murder.’

‘Go on then,’ Flynn said. ‘Catch up with us later.’