Chapter Fifty-One
A month after the scene in his garden, Edward Temmis went on air with Jordan Callintree sitting opposite him in the studio.
Wendy Wrigley had been picked up in Scotland. She was facing a second investigation for her role in the death of her husband. But Devon Police were now making progress ‘at pace’ in the Toppings case.
‘So Acting Chief Constable Callintree, what can you tell our listeners about that?’
‘We believe lethal ampoules were being delivered to addresses around Devon to people desperate to end their lives. They were being charged more than ten thousand pounds to receive a single delivery. It is likely that Lev Malnyk had no idea what he was carrying or how dangerous it was.’
‘Who was behind this?’ asked Edward, the next in his list of agreed questions.
‘Ms Wrigley is a key suspect. But there were also the twins who died in Ladram Bay – they were the link with Mr Malnyk, the motorbike rider, whom Hubert Hearst first met when Malnyk needed treatment for a long-standing kidney condition.’
‘Has Wendy Wrigley been charged?’
‘She has been charged with being an accomplice in the shooting of her husband. At the moment we are working on a file for the Crown Prosecution Service in the other matter.’
‘Thank you for your time, Acting Chief Constable Callintree.’
Edward played some adverts. The two men stood up and shook hands.
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ said Jordan Callintree. ‘I seem to have a chance at the top job now.’
‘You’ll be brilliant at it.’
‘But I’m going to say no,’ said the young cop. ‘I’d rather be investigating. I don’t want to have to leave it to you three.’
Edward looked left towards the control room. Aspinall was standing, beaming, and started clapping when their eyes met.
Jordan Callintree said to Edward, ‘One last thing. You were asking about the white suit. How would you get a guy to put a white suit on to go on a walk? I found this. Sad, really. Cheers, Edward.’ He handed over a magazine cutting and turned for the studio door.
The article was scissored from an edition of GP Quarterly, printed eight years ago.
Underneath a photo of a young, fit-looking man in a bright white suit was a caption: DR JONATHAN WRIGLEY MOVES TO DEVON FOR QUALITY OF LIFE.
The text quoted him. ‘Once a year I wear this suit in memory of my mum. She died giving birth to me, and it’s what brought me into medicine. I wear white because she’s with the angels.’
So there was no Huntington’s in the family. And they had killed him on an anniversary of his mother’s death. Perhaps they had even planned it that way.
His stomach churned: if he and Kim had gone over the cliff at the end of his garden, no one would ever have found out the truth of the Toppings crash at all. Much less the death of Dr Wrigley.
Oh, but they would, he realized, correcting himself. Stevie would have heard it all. Stevie would have been the witness.
He could not sleuth without Kim. Neither would have lived without Stevie. They would stand or fall as three.
And now he was certain.
They would investigate again.