Blood is Thicker Than Water (7 page)

Ryan Jordan’s American accent became more noticeable when he was excited.

“Warfarin?”

“Uh-uh. Better than that—rat poison.”

“Of course.” Warren felt like a fool. It was hardly a secret that warfarin was the key ingredient in rodenticides. In fact his grandmother had joked that as much as she disliked taking the little pills each day, at least she knew that any four-legged visitors would have to nibble on Granddad Jack, since she was toxic to them. “Clever bastard. I guess they figured that if we tested his blood we’d just find warfarin and write it off as an unexpected reaction to his medication.”

Jordan had clearly caught the self-recrimination in Warren’s voice. “Well they weren’t that clever. Warfarin hasn’t been used in rat poison for years, ever since the rats started becoming resistant to it. These days they use new, improved compounds nicknamed ‘superwarfarins’. They have the same effect as warfarin in stopping the blood from clotting, but are much more potent.”

“And we can distinguish these compounds from real warfarin in the blood?”

“Yep. I’ll spare you the chemistry, but suffice to say that brodifacoum is easily differentiated from classic warfarin by mass spectrometry.”

“Thanks, Professor. This may be just what we need.”

“I’ve had another thought as well, but it doesn’t really fit with what we’ve just discovered.”

“Well run it by me.”

“You remember I said that Mr Michaelson had a couple of shaving nicks?”

“Sure. Not entirely surprising, I suppose. His kids used to wet shave him occasionally. I guess it’s a bit fiddly.”

“Well here’s the thing. The first nick was a couple of weeks old. Pretty much healed. The second was much newer, just a couple of days. Well what if they weren’t accidents?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if the person shaving him was testing him to see how much he bled?”

“To see if he was at risk of serious bleeding?”

“Maybe. If he bled for a long time after such a minor cut, it might indicate that he was in danger of significant haemorrhaging from a relatively minor knock or bump. It could all have been part of the plan.”

Warren mulled it over. “It certainly seems plausible. Why aren’t you convinced?”

Jordan sounded slightly frustrated. “The thing is, brodifacoum is really toxic. It will have taken effect within a few days of it being administered, which makes sense with the second cut but doesn’t explain the first, unless that was just a coincidence.”

Regardless of Jordan’s doubts, Warren was starting to feel excited again. Finishing the call he immediately called CSM Andy Harrison.

* * *

It had been a bit much to hope that there would be an empty box of rat poison in Charles Michaelson’s dustbin, and unfortunately the refuse collectors had been before anyone had thought to secure the rubbish from either of his children’s homes. Nevertheless, Warren had a feeling that the clues to what had taken place in the early hours of Tuesday morning were just waiting to be found.

The white plastic bin liner sat on a paper-covered table in the work area next to the main forensics storeroom, its contents carefully laid out.

“Nothing particularly interesting, as far as we can tell. It’s mostly wrappings for ready meals, a few food scraps and a bit of junk mail. The deceased wasn’t a great one for recycling it seems.”

Warren tried to hide his disappointment as he poked through the letters, a motley collection of fast-food flyers and missives from the local council, including a letter on recycling he noted with some irony.

A booklet of Tesco Clubcard vouchers with most of the coupons missing was covered in what looked like tomato sauce. Warren remembered that Mr Michaelson had insisted that his children used his Clubcard when shopping to accrue points and special offers. He flicked through the remaining vouchers, before stopping dead. “Andy, do you get Clubcard vouchers?”

Harrison shrugged. “Yeah, of course. Mind you I never remember to spend them.”

“What sort of things do you get offers for?”

“Stuff we buy regularly. If I was more organised we could probably save a few quid on the next grocery shop.”

“What about things you don’t buy?”

“Not usually. I occasionally get suggestions for new product lines, but mostly its things we buy week in, week out.”

“That’s what I thought.” Warren had his phone out scrolling rapidly through his emails until he found the list of diet recommendations for warfarin users from Addenbrooke’s anticoagulation service—the one that Karen Hardwick had forwarded to him.

“So if Clubcard vouchers reflect the buying habits of the user, why would the person doing Mr Michaelson’s shopping be buying cranberry juice, the thing at the top of the list of items that warfarin users should never consume?”

* * *

The head of the anticoagulation service was as helpful as before. “The advice is a bit contradictory. There have been some unverified reports of patients having dangerously increased rates of bleeding after drinking large amounts of cranberry juice, whilst there are some studies that suggest the risk is hugely overstated. We take a precautionary approach and advise patients to avoid regularly consuming cranberry products, but the occasional small glass or a bit of cranberry jelly with the Christmas turkey is probably harmless.”

“What sort of effect would drinking significant amounts of it have on a patient’s INR and risk of bleeding?”

The consultant let out a puff of air. “Hard to say, Chief Inspector. I don’t know if those studies have been done. I would imagine one might see a small increase in INR with a similarly small risk of increased bleeding.”

“Would it be enough to increase the INR of a previously stable patient from, say, two point five to fifteen or more?”

The slight change in pitch of the woman’s voice suggested she was shaking her head at the end of the line. “Almost certainly not. I can’t imagine how cranberry juice could have such an effect.”

Warren thanked the woman and hung up, satisfied. The picture was coming together and the story of what happened that night was starting to emerge. Now they just needed the final pieces of the puzzle and the full tale of what happened to Charles Michaelson would become clear.

* * *

“The records are here, boss.” Pete Kent handed over a sheaf of printouts to Warren.

Warren split the pile of Clubcard purchases in two and handed half back to Kent. “Separate out the shopping trips where the buyer bought cranberry juice or cranberry products, use the list of product abbreviations to help you.”

“My pleasure.” Pete Kent was never at his most enthusiastic thirty minutes before his shift was due to end and there was football on the TV. Nevertheless, splitting the job in two meant it was completed in just a few minutes.

Warren looked at the two piles and smiled in satisfaction.

“Gotcha.”

* * *

Warren led the team of uniformed officers to the quiet cul-de-sac. Everyone wore stab-proof vests and utility belts with batons, CS spray and handcuffs. Eleven p.m. and the estate was quiet. Warren had decided that a surprise arrest was the best way, opting to use his own car for the final approach rather than a police vehicle. However, marked cars, lights off, had moved to block the entrance to the street. The flat was on the fourth floor with only one entry point and Warren was confident that there was no way their target could escape via a window without serious injury. Even so, an ambulance crew were on standby just in case.

Gaining entry to the apartment block was accomplished by the use of a key code supplied by the building management company, and Warren led the team silently up the stairs, eschewing the lift.

Flat forty-six had a wooden door that, whilst solid, would pose no serious impediment to the forced entry team’s battering ram. As Warren tried to control his breathing after the long climb, he noticed with some dismay that the small, squat sergeant who’d single-handedly lugged the metal ram up four flights of stairs hadn’t even broken a sweat. Yet again he vowed to start visiting the gym with Susan more regularly.

The lead officer of the entry team removed his stethoscope from the door and gave a thumbs-up, indicating that the flat was occupied and that the sounds of a TV and chink of light through the spyhole weren’t just for effect.

The goal was a quick entry and arrest with no time for the target to prepare. The nature of Michaelson’s killing suggested that his attacker favoured brains over brawn, but Warren wasn’t taking any chances. Who knew what a desperate person might do if cornered? Nevertheless they would only force entry if necessary.

A series of quick nods confirmed the team’s readiness. Taking a deep breath Warren stepped forward and rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles. “Police. Open up.”

* * *

The arrest was almost an anticlimax. Their target had all but packed a suitcase in anticipation of their visit and the speed with which the solicitor arrived at the station after processing made Warren wonder if she had been tipped off in advance that an arrest was imminent.

Regardless, the tape was running and the person in front of Warren and Sutton had been repeating “no comment” from the moment Warren had finished reading the rights. The solicitor sat impassively, her face stony.

“I believe that you took it in turns to buy Mr Michaelson’s shopping?”

“No comment.”

Warren sighed theatrically. “Look, we have sworn statements attesting that the three of you shared that duty. You’ve even mentioned it yourself.”

The accused glanced towards the solicitor. As far as Warren could tell, her expression never changed but her client clearly read something in her eyes.

“Yes. We shared all of the domestic duties.”

Warren nodded. “OK.” He slid a see-through evidence bag across the table. “I am showing the suspect exhibit one: a number of Tesco Clubcard vouchers, made out in the name of Mr Charles Michaelson.

“Now my understanding was that you would buy Mr Michaelson his shopping, using his Clubcard, and he would pay you back to the exact amount?”

The suspect paused, clearly contemplating another “no comment”, before deciding that there was no point denying something that was obviously already part of the record.

“For the benefit of the tape, the suspect has nodded agreement.”

“Mr Michaelson had his stroke about ten years ago, I believe, and the three of you were his principal carers for all of that time?”

Another cautious nod.

“I would assume that you are aware of the guidelines issued by the anticoagulation service at Addenbrooke’s Hospital?”

This time the mumbled “yes” was barely audible.

“If that is the case, then could you explain why these Tesco Clubcard vouchers, awarded on the basis of purchasing habits, contain coupons for cranberry juice, something that is strongly advised against in patients taking warfarin?”

There was a long silence, before a break was requested.

Warren turned off the tape and left the room without a word.

* * *

The break in proceedings was just long enough for Warren to hold a hurried conference with DSI Grayson and Tony Sutton. When the custody sergeant signalled that the suspect and solicitor were ready to continue, Warren left his colleagues to their phone calls.

“My client wishes to make it clear that these Clubcard vouchers are not evidence that cranberry juice was purchased with any regularity. And my own reading of the subject on Tesco’s website indicates that they regularly recommend different products similar to those previously bought. For example, Mr Michaelson enjoyed both apple juice and orange juice.”

Warren nodded, as if to concede the point. “OK, just to clarify. Are you saying that no cranberry juice was ever bought using his Clubcard?”

There was a long pause, whilst the person chewing a thumbnail in front of Warren thought about their answer. “If there was, it wasn’t bought by me.”

“I’m now showing the suspect exhibit two, a listing of all purchases in the past few months made using the deceased’s Clubcard. Fourteen entries are highlighted showing the purchase of cranberry juice.”

The solicitor interjected. “I believe that my client has made it clear that any such purchases were made by somebody else.”

“I understand. However, the date and time at which these items were bought is clearly logged. Would you be willing to tell me who did Mr Michaelson’s shopping on these dates?”

The “no comment” overlapped with the solicitor’s protestation that the question was unfair.

“Some of these purchases go back weeks, DCI Jones. Surely you can’t expect my client to remember individual shopping visits?”

“No, that’s fair enough I suppose.”

The solicitor turned her eyes away. She wasn’t daft. She knew exactly what was going to happen next and was powerless to intervene.

“Fortunately, we don’t need to rely on your memory. Visa can help us.” Warren tapped the list of purchases with his pen. “Could you tell us who this debit card belongs to? The card used to pay on every occasion that the cranberry juice was bought?”

“Shit.”

They requested another break.

* * *

If anything, the man in front of Warren and Sutton looked relieved that everything was over. Warren doubted that he’d be feeling the same way over the next few months and years, but he was going to exploit his co-operation whilst he could.

The story was pretty much what Warren had surmised.

“I had the idea a few months ago after Kathy said how she’d cut him when she was shaving him. It had bled for ages and really gave her a fright. I knew that people on warfarin bleed more than normal and that they’re at risk of brain haemorrhages and stuff if they bang their heads.”

“So what did you do?” Warren had a good idea, but he wanted the full story in the man’s own words on the record.

“I remember reading on the warfarin information leaflet that eating cranberries or drinking their juice can increase the blood clotting time and so I started giving him a large glass whenever I could. I used to mix it with lemonade or orange juice—he loved the stuff.

“I thought there was a certain irony to him paying for the thing that would finally kill him. I guess I shouldn’t have bought it using his Clubcard.”