Chapters (117)
The toxins began to work almost immediately, numbing his face and his mouth, slowing the muscles of his heart, triggering respiratory paralysis. He slid down the tree, his breathing labored, and closed his eyes.
A cry leaked from Wildeve.
She threw herself at him, pumping his chest, willing him to live, the anguish splitting her face almost too painful for her colleagues to witness.
On her hands and knees, she leaned into him, so desperate for him to survive that her judgment was clouded, but Mac was by her side, wrestling her off. “Don’t be stupid, Wildeve,” he said. “Not mouth-to-mouth.”
By the time the paramedics arrived, Cooper Clifton was dead.
105
105
One week later, 11:31 A.M.
Southside Hospital, Essex
“A conitum napellus or monkshood, also known as devil’s helmet, wolfsbane and the queen of poisons,” said pathologist Mathilda Hudson.
She looked over her glasses at DS Wildeve Stanton and DCI Roger Sampson. “Fun fact: its deadly toxins were once painted onto arrowheads and used to kill wolves. All parts of the plant are poisonous, especially the seeds and root. Principal toxic alkaloid is aconitine. Causes a numb, burning mouth, hypotension, cardiac arrhythmia and muscle paralysis, although”—she grimaced—“the brain is still conscious at the end. Invisible in toxicology tests, unless you’re looking for it.” She sighed. “I’m not justifying myself, though. The signs were there. If only I’d known what they meant.”
Sampson cleared his throat. “There’s no blame here, Mathilda. We got the bastard. I’m just relieved he’s not around to do it again.” He glanced at Wildeve. “And we got a result for Adam.”
Wildeve tried to smile. But in truth, she felt cheated. Cooper Clifton was dead. No justice for her or the families. No court case. No victim impact statements. No prison sentence to darken the twilight of his life. No Adam. The future stretched ahead of her, an empty tunnel.
And still so many unanswered questions.
Cooper Clifton had been cultivating the plants in his greenhouse, using his expertise as a gardener. His poor wife had shown them the pots of seedlings, so toxic that even brushing against the leaves with a cut finger could cause harm, and the mature plants by the fence.
“I had no idea,” she said. “I just thought they were pretty flowers.”
Poor Audrina Clifton. Along with his suicide, she’d had to cope with the knowledge that her mild-mannered and loving husband was a serial killer who had beaten their son and his mother-in-law to death.
The police had found a handwritten note in his trouser pocket, confessing to seven other murders: Bridget Sawyer; Joby Clifton; Natalie Tiernan; Will Proudfoot; Esther Farnworth; Elijah Outhwaite and Adam Stanton.
Adam had been killed because his suspicions about the disappearances of Joby Clifton and Bridget Sawyer had led him to Cooper.