was to be no opportunity for Patrick and I to discuss anything in private for that evening Paul Rogers was poisoned.
Chapter 9
At first no one realised how serious it was. But after a while, when he was still ceaselessly vomiting, my blood ran cold. It had started with horrible suddenness. One moment he had been joking with Terry; the next doubled over with agonising stomach cramps, his dinner splattered widely across the floor. McAlister and Terry had half carried him to a downstairs cloakroom where he had continued to be devastatingly ill.
I found Patrick with Mark in the basement, interrupting concentration during a deadly pas de deux to the extent of being responsible for Patrick being upended ignominiously into a settee.
“Sorry,” I said in response to his glower, “but Paul’s been taken terribly ill.”
“Have you called the doctor?” he asked when I had given him a few details.
“Margaret’s doing it now. I told her that I thought an ambulance would be more appropriate but she said that he’s prone to violent bilious attacks.”
Hands on hips, slightly out of breath, Patrick said, “What is your diagnosis?” He was not being sarcastic. All D12 operatives are trained to recognise the symptoms of many illnesses.
“I think he’s been poisoned,” I said.
These five words were sufficient to put into operation one of our rehearsed routines. I didn’t have to be told, it was enough to see him unhook his gun harness from the antlers of a stuffed moose head and strap it on. We mounted the stairs to the ground floor, I to close all outside windows, lock all exterior doors and locate a powerful flash lamp that I knew was kept in the kitchen. This was in case the power supply was cut off deliberately from outside. It is not unknown for a diversion such as a poisoning to be created within a household before armed men break in.
Emma, with a bucket of hot soapy water and a cloth, was down on her knees on her precious polished floor, frantically mopping and half crying with misery and disgust. “Where’s David?” she called when she saw me.
“At the boat.”
“I know he’s at the boat,” she wailed. “Surely someone’s rung the marina by now and left a message that he’s to come home?”
Not surprisingly no one had, so to keep her quiet I did, at the same time making a mental note to tell Patrick that Hartland would shortly be banging on his own front door.
Paul had by now collapsed, barely conscious, complaining that his face and hands were going numb. Between them McAlister and Terry had removed his soiled outer clothing and wrapped him in a blanket. I called the doctor’s number again and spoke to her partner who agreed that the case sounded sufficiently grave to warrant an ambulance.
It made a strange tableau, the blanket-wrapped man lying on the rug in the entrance hall, Patrick crouched by him, gun drawn, the DARE staff back in their hideaway under the stairs sitting on the floor, Terry behind the front door, also with gun ready. Emma stood looking over the bannisters from the living area above, her floor washing completed. She did not seem to have noticed the splashes of vomit on the tiles in the cloakroom.
Patrick’s gun trained quickly when Mark ran in from the dining room, causing him to come to a dead stop.
“Walk — don’t run,” said Patrick softly.
“What did he throw up?” enquired Mark.
“Everything, I should imagine,” Patrick said coldly.
Paul groaned and writhed, twisting himself partially out of the blanket. I went to him and covered him again. He didn’t seem aware of my presence.
“Oh, come on! Come on!” cried Emma, beating her clenched fists on the bannister rail, but whether she was referring to her husband or the ambulance I was not sure.
Mark had gone into the cloakroom and now came out, rather pale. “Clams,” he said. “It was clams. You can see it was.”
“Mark! Must you?” Emma shrieked at him.
But Mark ignored her, staring
Chapter 9
At first no one realised how serious it was. But after a while, when he was still ceaselessly vomiting, my blood ran cold. It had started with horrible suddenness. One moment he had been joking with Terry; the next doubled over with agonising stomach cramps, his dinner splattered widely across the floor. McAlister and Terry had half carried him to a downstairs cloakroom where he had continued to be devastatingly ill.
I found Patrick with Mark in the basement, interrupting concentration during a deadly pas de deux to the extent of being responsible for Patrick being upended ignominiously into a settee.
“Sorry,” I said in response to his glower, “but Paul’s been taken terribly ill.”
“Have you called the doctor?” he asked when I had given him a few details.
“Margaret’s doing it now. I told her that I thought an ambulance would be more appropriate but she said that he’s prone to violent bilious attacks.”
Hands on hips, slightly out of breath, Patrick said, “What is your diagnosis?” He was not being sarcastic. All D12 operatives are trained to recognise the symptoms of many illnesses.
“I think he’s been poisoned,” I said.
These five words were sufficient to put into operation one of our rehearsed routines. I didn’t have to be told, it was enough to see him unhook his gun harness from the antlers of a stuffed moose head and strap it on. We mounted the stairs to the ground floor, I to close all outside windows, lock all exterior doors and locate a powerful flash lamp that I knew was kept in the kitchen. This was in case the power supply was cut off deliberately from outside. It is not unknown for a diversion such as a poisoning to be created within a household before armed men break in.
Emma, with a bucket of hot soapy water and a cloth, was down on her knees on her precious polished floor, frantically mopping and half crying with misery and disgust. “Where’s David?” she called when she saw me.
“At the boat.”
“I know he’s at the boat,” she wailed. “Surely someone’s rung the marina by now and left a message that he’s to come home?”
Not surprisingly no one had, so to keep her quiet I did, at the same time making a mental note to tell Patrick that Hartland would shortly be banging on his own front door.
Paul had by now collapsed, barely conscious, complaining that his face and hands were going numb. Between them McAlister and Terry had removed his soiled outer clothing and wrapped him in a blanket. I called the doctor’s number again and spoke to her partner who agreed that the case sounded sufficiently grave to warrant an ambulance.
It made a strange tableau, the blanket-wrapped man lying on the rug in the entrance hall, Patrick crouched by him, gun drawn, the DARE staff back in their hideaway under the stairs sitting on the floor, Terry behind the front door, also with gun ready. Emma stood looking over the bannisters from the living area above, her floor washing completed. She did not seem to have noticed the splashes of vomit on the tiles in the cloakroom.
Patrick’s gun trained quickly when Mark ran in from the dining room, causing him to come to a dead stop.
“Walk — don’t run,” said Patrick softly.
“What did he throw up?” enquired Mark.
“Everything, I should imagine,” Patrick said coldly.
Paul groaned and writhed, twisting himself partially out of the blanket. I went to him and covered him again. He didn’t seem aware of my presence.
“Oh, come on! Come on!” cried Emma, beating her clenched fists on the bannister rail, but whether she was referring to her husband or the ambulance I was not sure.
Mark had gone into the cloakroom and now came out, rather pale. “Clams,” he said. “It was clams. You can see it was.”
“Mark! Must you?” Emma shrieked at him.
But Mark ignored her, staring
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