EXTRACT DEADLY REUNION

Chapter One

‘Poisoned? Are you sure? Detective Inspector Joseph Rafferty regretted his rash query as soon as it left his mouth. For Dr Sam Dally let him have it with both barrels.
                    ‘Of course I’m sure. Would I be telling you the man was poisoned if I wasn’t? I never question your professional judgement’ – which was an out and out lie – ‘so I’d thank you not to question mine. Conium Maculatum was what killed him. Or, to your uneducated ear, hemlock.’
                   ‘Hemlock?’
                   ‘That’s right. A very old-fashioned poison. Goes back to the classical Greeks, so I believe. Maybe even further back. Now, is there anything else you’d like to question while you’re at it?’
                   ‘All right, Sam. Keep your hair on,’ said Rafferty. Which – given Sam’s rapidly balding pate, was another unfortunate slip of the tongue. But this time it brought nothing more than the testy,
                  ‘Well? Is there anything else you’d like to question my judgement about?
                   Rafferty felt – given his mounting foot-in-mouth episode – that a simple ‘no’ would suffice.
                  ‘Hmph.’ Dally sounded disappointed as if he was just in the right frame of mind to have another go. ‘Ainsley had been dead between fourteen and sixteen hours before he was discovered. The first symptoms would have started after around half an hour. He’d have experienced a gradual weakening of muscles, then extreme pain and paralysis from the coniine in hemlock, the effects of which are much like curare. It’s probable he went blind, but his mind would have remained clear till the end.’
                    ‘Christ. What a horrible way to go.’
                  ‘Yes. Death would be several hours later from paralysis of the heart.’
‘Is the poison likely to be self-inflicted?’
‘’Well, it wouldn’t be my choice.’
Nor mine, thought Rafferty. He couldn’t believe that a sportsman like Adam Ainsley would choose such a way to go.
                   ‘But figuring that out’s your job, Rafferty. I suggest you get on with it.’
Bang went the phone. Or it would have done but for the frustrations caused by modern technology, which didn’t allow anything so satisfying.
                   ‘Sam and Mary must have had a domestic this morning,’ Rafferty said to Sergeant Dafyd Llewellyn as he leaned back in the now shabby executive chair that Superintendent Bradley had decreed was the appropriate seating for his detectives. ‘He just bawled me out something chronic.’
                   Llewellyn, who had never been known to make an ill-advised remark, gave a gentle sigh. ‘Dr Dally has never appreciated having his professional conclusions questioned.’ It was a gentle reproof, but a reproof nonetheless. ‘You were talking about the body found in the woods, I presume?’
                   Rafferty nodded. Adam Ainsley had been found in Elmhurst’s Dedman Wood around eight in the morning two days ago by a local woman walking her dog. There had been no visible signs of injury and it had been assumed the man had had a heart attack while out for a too energetic run; the track suit and trainers had suggested the possibility. Ainsworth had been attending a reunion at Griffin School, an exclusive, fee-paying establishment for eleven to eighteen year olds situated two miles outside the Essex market town of Elmhurst, where Rafferty’s station was located.
                     ‘Did I hear you mention Hemlock.
                     Rafferty nodded. ‘I thought that would make you prick up your ears. That’s what Sam reckons killed him. Said it goes back to your pals, the ancient Greeks.’
                    ‘Yes. According to Plato it’s what Socrates used to kill himself after he was sentenced to death. He drained the cup containing the poison and walked about until his legs felt heavy. Then he lay down and, after a while, the drug had numbed his whole body, creeping up until it had reached his heart.’
                    ‘Yeah, Sam said it was paralysis of the heart muscle that would have killed him. Sounds like hanging would have been quicker, even without an Albert Pierrepoint to work out the drop required. Anyway, enough of this classical Greek morbidity. We’d better get over to the school,’ said Rafferty. ‘Can you get some uniforms organized, Dafyd? I’ll go and tell Long-Pockets what Sam said and meet you downstairs.’
                    ‘Long-Pockets’, otherwise known as Superintendent Bradley, was obsessed with the budget, in Rafferty’s opinion, hence the nickname. As far as he was concerned, crimes took what they took, in time, money and manpower.

The uniforms were quickly mobilized by the simple expedient of roistering those on refreshment breaks out of the canteen. After Rafferty had gone to see Bradley, he returned to his office and rung the school to let Jeremy Paxton, the headmaster, know the results of the toxicology tests and that they were on their way; that done, he went down to reception to meet up with Llewellyn and the woodentops and headed out to the car park.

The August day was gloriously fresh and bright, just as a summer day should be, with a light breeze, to stop it getting too hot, and a deep blue sky without a cloud in sight. Rafferty, Llewellyn and two of the constables, Timothy Smales and Lizzie Green, piled reluctantly into the car, which was as hot as Lucifer’s crotch as it had been standing in the sun. Rafferty, not a lover of air-conditioning, which, anyway, would barely have started to work by the time they got to the school, wound his window right down and stuck his head out to catch the breeze.
                     The run out to Griffin School was a pretty one, past lush farmland, via roads overhung with trees whose leaves formed a soft green bower over the tarmac. On days like this, it felt good to be alive, though this latest suspicious death lowered his spirits a little. Winter was a more fitting season for death.
                      Adam Ainsworth had been staying at Griffin for a school reunion. Unusually, the reunees had opted to get back together for an entire week rather than the more usual one evening and, conveniently for Rafferty, were still put up in the school’s dormitories. He wondered if they were regretting it now. Being cooped up beyond one’s desire with old enemies, as well as old friends, was a recipe for rising antagonisms that could be helpful to their investigation. There was nothing like spite for encouraging gossipy revelations.

Griffin House was an imposing building, dating back to the late 1500s. It had been recently featured in the local paper, the Elmhurst Echo, as part of a series on Essex’s historic houses and Rafferty, keen on history and old buildings, had kept a cutting.. The school was approached by a long, straight drive with mature trees and shrubberies either side of the road. It was built of red brick that had mellowed over the years to a deep rose and it had the tall, twisted chimneys so typical of the Elizabethan age. Like a lot of the houses of the period, it was constructed in the form of a letter E, in tribute to the virgin queen. It had once been the main home of the mad Carews, a family of aristocrats who had gambled and fought and wenched their fortune away. It had gone through various metamorphoses over the years, including being a bawdy house and the county lunatic asylum, but had been a private school since the 1880s.
                        They found the headmaster, Jeremy Paxton, waiting for them outside the huge grey oak door of the school’s main entrance. Paxton was a tall, gangly man who seemed to be all elbows and knees. The headmaster was a surprise to Rafferty. He’d expected an older, donnish type, with a gown and mortarboard in keeping with the school’s venerable status. But Paxton could be barely forty and seemed to have adopted an eccentric mode of dress comprised of a cream silk cravat and a scarlet waistcoat reminiscent of some regency rake. To Rafferty it seemed as if he was trying to mitigate for his youth by adopting the fashion popular during the Carew family’s last dying days.
                       Paxton led them to his study. Considering the school was a prestigious establishment with fees to match, the headmaster’s study was not even shabby-chic. Yes, he had the obligatory computer and other high-tech gadgetry on his desk, but the oak-panelled walls with their scabby varnish looked as if they had some unfortunate disease and the furniture appeared to have stood here since the school was founded in the late nineteenth century. And while the mahogany desk was large and inlaid, its leather surface was scuffed and stained with ink blotches. There were several ill-assorted heavy Victorian chairs in front of the desk and Paxton invited them to sit down.
                      Paxton had a foppish manner to go with his dandy clothing. He tended to wave his arms about a good deal and generally gave off an air of being like an escapee from a St Trinian’s farce. But in spite of the clothing and mannerisms, he must have been considered suitably qualified for the post. Perhaps the parents expected an eccentric character given some of the post’s past incumbents, one of whom had been a scientist in the mould of Dr Jekyll, who, instead of using himself, had used his pupils as guinea pigs for his outlandish experiments. If Rafferty remembered his local history correctly a couple of the pupils had died and the headmaster had been removed from his post and just escaped a murder charge.
                  Rafferty had explained about the situation with Ainsley over the phone and now Jeremy Paxton displayed an efficiency entirely at odds with the foppish appearance, He gave Rafferty a list of the school’s old boys and girls who were currently staying at the school as well as a detailed map showing the school’s sprawling buildings, which dated over several centuries.
                  ‘You said over the phone that Mr Ainsworth would have died within two or three hours of ingesting the poison. That being the case, I’ve taken the liberty of inviting those who shared his table at lunch that day to wait for you in the Senior Common Room.’ Paxton paused, then added, ‘You’ll need somewhere to interview the reunees, I imagine. There’s a room opposite the Senior Common Room which is empty and which has a desk, chairs and a phone. I hope it suits you.’
                  Rafferty thanked him. ‘You’ve been very through. If you could show us to the Senior Common Room, we’ll get started.’
                ‘Of course.’ Paxton stood up. ‘Please come with me.’
                 Rafferty and Llewellyn followed him along several dark, art-strewn corridors and up a flight of massive stairs to the first floor. Paxton opened the door of the Senior Common Room. It was large and surprisingly airy with an array of well worn mismatched settees, a large plasma TV and the usual technological gizmos deemed essential by today’s youth. The occupants of the room were as ill assorted as the settees; all seven looked to be in their early thirties, but that was where any similarity ended. They wore anything from ripped jeans to City suits and everything in between.
                  Paxton introduced them to the group and vice versa, then left them to it, saying he’d have coffee sent up to their new office across the way. The group comprised four men and three women, and while their hairstyles and clothing might be widely dissimilar, they all had a wary look in their eyes. Jeremy Paxton had told them that he had explained the situation to the reunees, who had all received the best education money and the county could provide, so would be under no illusion that – if, as seemed likely, given the dreadful symptoms the poison produced, the dead man had been murdered – they were all suspects.
                  That being the case, Rafferty had expected the group to call up their briefs, pronto, but there was no sign of any legal types in the room protesting their clients’ innocence and demanding they be allowed to leave immediately. One man seemed to have appointed himself spokesman of the group. He was one of the City ‘suits’ and, happily for Rafferty’s memory, repeated his name. Giles Harmsworth.
                  Everything about the man was just so, from his well-groomed brown hair to his well-polished black shoes. He had an extremely self-confident manner that Rafferty put down to a mix of an excellent education, plenty of money and possibly the cocaine that was endemic in the City. Sharp intelligence flashed in his eyes as soon as he spoke.
                   ‘You’ll want to interview us all individually, Inspector. Has Jeremy suggested that the room across the corridor should meet your needs perfectly?’
Rafferty nodded. Clearly, Harmsworth was an organizing type and Rafferty was happy to let him get on with it. It saved him the trouble.
                   The torn-be-jeaned one who sported a shock of fair hair a la Boris Johnson, London’s mayor, that looked, to Rafferty to have had assistance from the peroxide bottle, drawled from one of the settees from where he lay sprawled. ‘Still doing your Head Boy routine Harmsworth? Can’t you lay off and let the police organize themselves?’ Sebastian Kennedy cast a sneering glance in their direction and added, ‘I’m sure even the pigs are capable of doing that.’
‘Shut up, Kennedy. And if we’re all suspects as I assume, it might be a good idea to dispense with the rebellious teen routine for the duration. It’s about time you acted your age. I’d have thought the ripped jeans could have been left behind with the student demos when you reached thirty.’
                   Sebastian Kennedy’s only response to this was another sneer.
                   Harmsworth turned to Rafferty, who was pleased to note that, as he’d hoped, the reunion seemed to be fraying at the edges. It might just help his inquiries. ‘You must excuse Kennedy, Inspector. He’s the resident ‘bad boy’ and has always liked to cock a snook at authority. He doesn’t have the brains to realize that at his age, the rebellious youth act is extremely tiresome and had worn thin some years ago.’
                 ‘Authority?’ Kennedy drawled. ‘Who deputed you to be boss man, I’d like to know.’
                ‘Oh, put a sock in it, you two. You seem to have forgotten that poor Adam is dead, probably murdered. Can’t you stop your bickering for a moment?’ This was from a bespectacled young woman in a baggy grey jumper and faded jeans. Victoria Something, Rafferty thought.
                ‘Brains is quite right, Kennedy,’ said Harmsworth. ‘Can’t you behave yourself for once and lay off being the naughty boy? I don’t imagine the inspector’s impressed.’
                 Sebastian Kennedy’s full upper lip curled, but he said nothing more and simply resumed gulping the lager that he had been drinking since Rafferty and Llewellyn had entered the room. Rafferty took the intermission in skirmishes to get the ball rolling.
                ‘As you said, Mr Harmsworth, we’d like to interview you all individually. Perhaps we can start with you? If you’d like to accompany us across the way ’
               Harmsworth nodded. He cast one last, ‘behave yourself’ look at the thirty-something naughty boy before he followed the two policemen out of the room.
              Rafferty paused long enough to station Lizzie Green just inside the door. Lizzies was one of his more intelligent officers. She knew what was required and would report on any unwise disclosures the reunees happened to make. He paused to inhale the scent of the old-fashioned lily of the valley talcum power she favoured, briefly closing his eyes before shutting the door.
              Sebastian Kennedy’s final riposte floated after them through the cracks in the warped oak door. ‘You’d better not go grassing anyone up, Harmsworth. We’ll all know it was you if you do. Old habits die hard.’
              Harmsworth acted as if he hadn’t heard and merely opened the door across the landing and gestured them inside, with a smile as if he was a host encouraging guests of the shy and retiring sort. Rafferty, playing up to his allotted role in the hope it would loosen any guard Harmsworth had on his tongue, hesitated for a few seconds, like a wallflower who couldn’t believe her luck at finally being chosen, before he, too, crossed the threshold.

‘Now, Mr Harmsworth,’ Rafferty began once they were settled in the small office that Jeremy Paxton had let them use. He was glad to see that the headmaster had already organized a pot of coffee. By the time he’d finished questioning the seven reunees who’d lunched with Adam Ainsley before he’d gone off on the run from which he had never returned, he’d be parched. ‘Perhaps you can begin by describing what happened on the day Mr Ainsley went missing? Start at your arrival at the school and go on till after lunch, when I believer Mr Ainsley set off alone for a run.’
                ‘It was a day much like the reunions have been in previous years. I come every year,’ he added. ‘I noticed Adam was quiet at lunch, as though he had something on his mind. But he’s always tended to be a bit moody, so I didn’t take any notice. He set off on his run straight after lunch and the rest of us just lounged around the common room getting reacquainted until lunch had been digested. I’d brought my laptop with me, so I was able to get on with some work. I think Victoria and Alice had a game of tennis around three and Gary – Asgar - Sadiq went swimming in the school’s pool. Kennedy seemed to be happy to just lounge around, listening to music and drinking that never-ending supply of lager he brought with him.’
‘Was there a lot of milling around during lunch?’
                    ‘Not during lunch, no.’ He smiled, showing perfect teeth. ‘It was the rule, when we were at school, that once we were seated, we stayed put, apart from the servers. And we all seemed to continue the tradition even though there’s no Mr Barmforth any more to glower and yell out ‘You, boy’!’ The gleaming smile faded. ‘I imagine that means that the only suspects for this crime are the seven of us that were seated at Adam’s table.
                    ‘If what you say is correct, yes, it would seem so. And nothing out of the ordinary happened? No arguments, for instance?’
                    Hamsworth smiled again. ‘I don’t know as I’d call arguments unusual, Inspector. I’ve had spats with Kennedy off and on since we got here. He always did like winding people up. But other than that, no, I can’t think of anything.’
                  ‘Can you tell me who used to be particular friends with the dead man and whether they’re still friends?’
                 ‘Adam had his own clique – the other sporty types. And they all attracted the girls. None of them have attended this year, though usually two or three come to the reunion. I suppose I could be called the school swot, along with Victoria, and Alice so we weren’t as popular with the opposite sex. I always thought Adam was very obvious, with his muscles and his fake tan, but it seemed to appeal to the girls. I recall that both Sophie and Alice had a crush on him at one time.’
                  Rafferty nodded. ‘And what about enemies? Did Mr Ainsley have any that you know of?’
                  Harmsworth frowned, then shrugged. ‘No one that I can recall. Certainly nothing serious. There were the usual spats at school and Adam had his share, but that’s all.’
                 And so it went on. The other six reunees said much the same as the late afternoon wore into evening and the remaining coffee went cold.

The call from Sam Dally had been the second unwelcome phone call of the afternoon for Rafferty. His ma had been on earlier and had told him to get one of his spare bedrooms ready.
                Rafferty had been expecting this. It had only been a matter of time, he told himself. His ma still liked to poke her nose into his life and since his June marriage to Abra, she must be consumed with curiosity to see for herself how wedded bliss was going; staying with them over several days was the only way to indulge this curiosity that would fully satisfy ma. Rafferty, facing what couldn’t be avoided, had given a tiny sigh and said, ‘That’s all right, Ma. When do you want to come and stay?’
                 But it seemed he’d misjudged his woman. His ma wasn’t requisitioning one of his bedrooms for herself after all, as she was quick to tell him.
                 Don’t be stupid, Joseph. Sure and why would I want to come and stay with you when I’ve got a perfectly good house of my own not half-a-mile away from you?’
               ‘What do you want it for then, Ma?’ he had asked in his innocence. ‘Do you want to store a pile of Bring and Buy stuff for Father Kelly?’ As long as it wasn’t his ma’s illicit ‘bargains’ she wanted him to give houseroom to. He’d draw the line at that.
                ‘No’. She paused and Rafferty wondered what was coming.
                For once, Ma seemed a trifle diffident. It was unlike her. Hs ma was nothing if not forthright.
              ‘The thing is son – you know I’ve got some long-lost cousins coming to stay?’
              ‘Yes.’ His ma had first mentioned this a month ago. But he couldn’t see that it would affect him. Beyond a courtesy meal out with them, it was unlikely, between his new wife and this new case, that he’d see much of them. But no, as his ma explained, he learned that this family reunion had snowballed. His ma had been on the internet – not so much a ‘silver surfer’ as a dyed brown one – and it turned out that she’d unearthed not only the known about Irish and American cousins and their wives or husbands, but also Canadian, Antipodean and South African ones, the Aussies, no doubt, being Raffertys, would have descended from family who had got there via an ‘assisted’ passage courtesy of the crown.
                Rafferty was dismayed as he guessed, rightly, what was coming. He hated having people to stay. He never felt his home was his own with others in the house. And the couple his ma wanted to foist on him – for all that they were family – were total strangers to him. The thought of sharing a bathroom with people whose habits were an unknown quantity was unnerving.
                  ‘Sure and most of them are pensioners like meself,’ she told him in wheedling tones. ‘Can’t afford fancy hotels.’
                  ‘They don’t have to be fancy, do they? Bed and breakfast would do, surely? Or the YMCA these days has nice rooms as cheap as you’ll find anywhere.’
                  ‘And haven’t I told you,’ a faintly cross tone entered his ma’s voice, ‘they haven’t the money for hotels of any description. The air fare’s enough for most of them. And then, they’ll need spending money. And they’re family, Joseph. Family I’ve not seen for a long time.’
                 'Can’t one of the girls put them up?’ This was a rearguard action and not one he expected to hold the tide. But he had a plentiful supply of siblings and he thought that, between them, his two brothers and three sisters should be able to accommodate several cousins, especially if they farmed their kids out at their friends’ houses.
                ‘The girls have no room, you know that. Besides, even if they were able to foist the kids on someone for the duration, Maggie and Neeve are in the middle of decorating.’
                His sisters could be as crafty as all their sex. Rafferty wished he was up to his eyelashes in magnolia emulsion. It would give him the excuse he needed. But once back from their honeymoon after their move to the semi from Rafferty’s flat, he’d delayed making a start on doing the place up and had made excuse after excuse to Abra when she’d suggested he pulled his finger out and got on with it. But he’d never suspected that his ma’s invitation to her American cousins would snowball to the extent of the fifty guests that she casually mentioned she was now expecting over for the family reunion party that had been born out of the small get together originally planned. How could he have anticipated that the casually stated and half-heard idea that his ma was expecting four guests would expand to fit his two spare rooms and more? Because he doubted that ma would stop at liberating just one of his spare bedrooms, even though there was only a bed in one of them. She’d find a bed for the other from somewhere and would then expect him and Mickey and Patrick Sean to lug it around to his house and up the stairs.
                    ‘It’s only for two weeks, son,’ she said, wheedingly. ‘You’ll hardly know they’re there.’
                   Two weeks! To Rafferty, it seemed like eternity stretching before him. He hadn’t inherited his Ma’s sociable gene and while he enjoyed a good craic as much as the rest of the family, he preferred to keep his home to himself. So he hadn’t said ‘yes’. But then, he hadn’t said ‘no’, either and that was all the encouragement ma needed. Still, he had consoled himself as he prepared to set off for Griffin School, this murder would keep him busy and out of the way and these cousins that his ma had saddled him with were likely to be out doing the sights for most of the time. Between his work and their sightseeing, it was unlikely their paths would cross much.
                   The Senior Common Room was at the front of the house and their borrowed office was at the back. From where he stood, Rafferty could see cricket and rugby pitches stretching to the middle distance. At the edge of his vision was what looked like tennis courts and Jeremy Paxton had mentioned they had a swimming pool in one of the outbuildings. All in all, they seemed to do very well for themselves.
                   They had interviewed all the reunees and they had all said much the same. Even the ever-rebellious pig-hater, Sebastian Kennedy hadn’t strayed from the general line, which was that nothing out of the ordinary had happened on the day that Adam Ainsley had gone for a run and never come back.
                   When questioned as to why nobody had commented on his absence at dinner, they had all claimed they had assumed the dead man had either gone to his room or decided to eat in the town. According to Giles Harmsworth – and the others had said the same.- Adam Ainsley had been in a funny mood all morning and – considering this was a reunion – had been pretty unsociable towards most of the group. And when Rafferty had commented on this, Harmsworth and the rest had claimed the dead man had never been any different.
                 ‘Always got in a humour on the slightest pretext’, had been Harmsworth’s take on this. ‘We thought nothing of it.’
                ‘So none of you went to see where he was when he didn’t show up for dinner that evening?’ Rafferty persisted.
                ‘No. We had no reason to.’
                The school’s dormitories, for the older pupils at least, were made up of two-bed rooms. The dead man had been sharing with Sebastian Kennedy, but as Kennedy had been steadily depleting the school’s wine cellars during the evening, he had – or so he claimed – failed to notice that Ainsley was still not in their room at midnight, which was the time Kennedy had finally staggered off to bed.
                ‘What do you think, Dafyd?’ Rafferty asked once they were finally alone. ‘Do you reckon they’re colluding for some reason?’
                 Llewellyn shook his thinly handsome face. ‘No. They’re too disparate a group. I can’t see that Giles Harmsworth or Victoria Watson would agree to conceal a crime.’
                ‘Unless they did it,’ Rafferty chipped in.
               ‘There’s always that possibility, of course. But we have no evidence as yet that this was anything other than a suicide.’
                ‘Come on! How likely is it that anyone of sound mind would choose such a method?’
                ‘We don’t know that he was of sound mind – we found anti-depressants in his room. And maybe he didn’t know what symptoms the poison would cause and thought he would just go to sleep. As I said, we’ve no evidence that he didn’t kill himself.’
                ‘We’ve no evidence that he did, either. And given that he must have been a well-educated man seeing as he attended Griffin School, would he really not have taken the trouble to find out what the poison did to the body before he did the business? And, taking that into consideration, if he did kill himself, Hemlock seems a particularly peculiar method to choose, given that it paralyzes the limbs and Ainsley used to be a professional sportsman. Why not just use pills and whiskey?’ Llewellyn gave a tiny shrug. Rafferty was pleased to see that, for once, his educated sergeant had no arguments against his theories. They had been through the dead man’s things and there had been nothing – apart from the anti-depressants – to indicate that suicide was a possibility, though he got Llewellyn to make a note to check with the dead man’s doctor. No one had said that he seemed other than they remembered him from the days when they had been cooped up together for weeks at a time and got to know one another intimately. No suicide note or suspicious substances had been found. Though, on the other hand, as Rafferty regretfully acknowledged, neither had there been anything to indicate that Ainsley felt he had reason to fear for his life from one of his fellow reunees, Why would he have attended the reunion if that was the case?
                   They had found nothing of any interest at all. Yet it must be one or the other as accidental death was surely out of the question. Adam Ainsley had, after a career as a professional rugby player, studied to become a sports coach and was now employed as a Physical Education teacher at another private school; this much he had learned from the other reunees. He had been twice divorced and at the time of his death had been single, with no known romantic entanglements. From the various comments from his former classmates, the dead man had been a popular boy with the girls at the school and had cut a swathe through most of them. His moody, Byronesque manner clearly finding favour with the fair sex. And given his sporting prowess, he had been equally popular with the boys.
                   To listen to the surviving reunees, the wonder was that anyone should have wanted to do away with such a popular young man. But someone had. Rafferty was convinced of that, in spite of Llewellyn’s mention of suicide. And he would find out which of them it was, no matter how many expensive legal types they conjured up between them.