Chapter 43
‘KaneHunt isn’t dead, my dear,’ Karen Royal-Cross said. ‘That man’s the grandmaster of the publicity stunt and you could see his chest going up and down when he pretended to fall off his chair.’
‘But he didn’t die onThe Morgan Soames Hour, Karen Royal-Cross,’ Bradshaw said. ‘He died in hospital three days later.’
‘And I’m sure that’s what you believe.’
‘You’re a very silly woman.’
Karen Royal-Cross frowned. ‘Has anyone told you that you need to work on your people skills?’
‘Poe tells me almost every week,’ Bradshaw said. She moved her tablet so Karen Royal-Cross could see the screen. ‘Now, please, look at these photographs.’
‘And I thought Sergeant Poe was a stupid …’ She trailed off. ‘What the hell is that!’
Poe glanced over her shoulder. Kane Hunt was on the slab, rib-cage open. He didn’t look well.
‘That’s one of Kane Hunt’s post-mortem photographs, Karen Royal-Cross. The Botanist used hyoscine to murder him. I can assure you, it was not a publicity stunt.’
Karen Royal-Cross stared at the tablet in horror.
‘But I thought—’
‘Now, please look at this,’ Bradshaw said, clearly not giving a monkey’s what Karen Royal-Cross thought. ‘This is Harrison Cummings in the bath. I’ve pixelated out his penis, but as you can see, he’s dead. This time the Botanist used a neurotoxin found in the fugu pufferfish.’
‘And here’s the best bit,’ Poe added. ‘So far, we haven’t got a clue how he’s doing this …’
***
‘But why me?’ Karen Royal-Cross sobbed. ‘What have I ever done to anyone?’
Poe caught Bradshaw’s eye and shook his head. As tempting as it was, now wasn’t the time to list the myriad reasons people were queuing up to kill her.
‘We need that envelope,’ Poe urged. ‘The poem will tell us the poison he’s planning to use, and the envelope will confirm whether or not it’s a copycat.’
She had thrown the pressed flower away so the poem and envelope were all they had. Kew Gardens hadn’t yet identified the plant from the video clip she had posted.
‘I need you to think,’ Flynn said. ‘Where could you have put it?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Do you recycle, Karen Royal-Cross?’ Bradshaw asked.
‘Of course I don’t. Climate change is a global conspiracy started by the Chinese steel industry.’
‘Can we get a search team up here, boss?’ Poe said quickly. The last thing anyone wanted was a three-hour presentation from Bradshaw on how fast the icecaps were melting and why future generations might need gills. ‘If the envelope’s here, they’ll find it.’
Karen Royal-Cross’s eyes widened. ‘A search team?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Poe said, immediately knowing he was on to something. ‘I hope there’s nothing illegal in here.’
‘I’ve just remembered where I put it.’ She reached under the cushion she was sitting on and handed him the crumpled envelope. Poe put on a pair of forensic gloves and took it from her. He flipped the envelope and saw the scientific drawing. It was in black ink and was exquisitely detailed.
‘It’s him,’ he said. He showed Flynn the intricate picture. ‘Kew Gardens shouldn’t have any problems identifying what we’re dealing with now.’
‘I’ll email a photograph to Chief Superintendent Mathers,’ Flynn said, reaching for her phone.
Poe opened the envelope and carefully removed the poem. It was on expensive paper. Fourteen lines: