figured that if we tested his blood we’d just find warfarin and write it off as an unexpected reaction to his medication.”
Jordan had clearly caught the self-recrimination in Warren’s voice. “Well they weren’t that clever. Warfarin hasn’t been used in rat poison for years, ever since the rats started becoming resistant to it. These days they use new, improved compounds nicknamed ‘superwarfarins’. They have the same effect as warfarin in stopping the blood from clotting, but are much more potent.”
“And we can distinguish these compounds from real warfarin in the blood?”
“Yep. I’ll spare you the chemistry, but suffice to say that brodifacoum is easily differentiated from classic warfarin by mass spectrometry.”
“Thanks, Professor. This may be just what we need.”
“I’ve had another thought as well, but it doesn’t really fit with what we’ve just discovered.”
“Well run it by me.”
“You remember I said that Mr Michaelson had a couple of shaving nicks?”
“Sure. Not entirely surprising, I suppose. His kids used to wet shave him occasionally. I guess it’s a bit fiddly.”
“Well here’s the thing. The first nick was a couple of weeks old. Pretty much healed. The second was much newer, just a couple of days. Well what if they weren’t accidents?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if the person shaving him was testing him to see how much he bled?”
“To see if he was at risk of serious bleeding?”
“Maybe. If he bled for a long time after such a minor cut, it might indicate that he was in danger of significant haemorrhaging from a relatively minor knock or bump. It could all have been part of the plan.”
Warren mulled it over. “It certainly seems plausible. Why aren’t you convinced?”
Jordan sounded slightly frustrated. “The thing is, brodifacoum is really toxic. It will have taken effect within a few days of it being administered, which makes sense with the second cut but doesn’t explain the first, unless that was just a coincidence.”
Regardless of Jordan’s doubts, Warren was starting to feel excited again. Finishing the call he immediately called CSM Andy Harrison.
* * *
It had been a bit much to hope that there would be an empty box of rat poison in Charles Michaelson’s dustbin, and unfortunately the refuse collectors had been before anyone had thought to secure the rubbish from either of his children’s homes. Nevertheless, Warren had a feeling that the clues to what had taken place in the early hours of Tuesday morning were just waiting to be found.
The white plastic bin liner sat on a paper-covered table in the work area next to the main forensics storeroom, its contents carefully laid out.
“Nothing particularly interesting, as far as we can tell. It’s mostly wrappings for ready meals, a few food scraps and a bit of junk mail. The deceased wasn’t a great one for recycling it seems.”
Warren tried to hide his disappointment as he poked through the letters, a motley collection of fast-food flyers and missives from the local council, including a letter on recycling he noted with some irony.
A booklet of Tesco Clubcard vouchers with most of the coupons missing was covered in what looked like tomato sauce. Warren remembered that Mr Michaelson had insisted that his children used his Clubcard when shopping to accrue points and special offers. He flicked through the remaining vouchers, before stopping dead. “Andy, do you get Clubcard vouchers?”
Harrison shrugged. “Yeah, of course. Mind you I never remember to spend them.”
“What sort of things do you get offers for?”
“Stuff we buy regularly. If I was more organised we could probably save a few quid on the next grocery shop.”
“What about things you don’t buy?”
“Not usually. I occasionally get suggestions for new product lines, but mostly its things we buy week in, week out.”
“That’s what I thought.” Warren had his phone out scrolling rapidly through his
Jordan had clearly caught the self-recrimination in Warren’s voice. “Well they weren’t that clever. Warfarin hasn’t been used in rat poison for years, ever since the rats started becoming resistant to it. These days they use new, improved compounds nicknamed ‘superwarfarins’. They have the same effect as warfarin in stopping the blood from clotting, but are much more potent.”
“And we can distinguish these compounds from real warfarin in the blood?”
“Yep. I’ll spare you the chemistry, but suffice to say that brodifacoum is easily differentiated from classic warfarin by mass spectrometry.”
“Thanks, Professor. This may be just what we need.”
“I’ve had another thought as well, but it doesn’t really fit with what we’ve just discovered.”
“Well run it by me.”
“You remember I said that Mr Michaelson had a couple of shaving nicks?”
“Sure. Not entirely surprising, I suppose. His kids used to wet shave him occasionally. I guess it’s a bit fiddly.”
“Well here’s the thing. The first nick was a couple of weeks old. Pretty much healed. The second was much newer, just a couple of days. Well what if they weren’t accidents?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if the person shaving him was testing him to see how much he bled?”
“To see if he was at risk of serious bleeding?”
“Maybe. If he bled for a long time after such a minor cut, it might indicate that he was in danger of significant haemorrhaging from a relatively minor knock or bump. It could all have been part of the plan.”
Warren mulled it over. “It certainly seems plausible. Why aren’t you convinced?”
Jordan sounded slightly frustrated. “The thing is, brodifacoum is really toxic. It will have taken effect within a few days of it being administered, which makes sense with the second cut but doesn’t explain the first, unless that was just a coincidence.”
Regardless of Jordan’s doubts, Warren was starting to feel excited again. Finishing the call he immediately called CSM Andy Harrison.
* * *
It had been a bit much to hope that there would be an empty box of rat poison in Charles Michaelson’s dustbin, and unfortunately the refuse collectors had been before anyone had thought to secure the rubbish from either of his children’s homes. Nevertheless, Warren had a feeling that the clues to what had taken place in the early hours of Tuesday morning were just waiting to be found.
The white plastic bin liner sat on a paper-covered table in the work area next to the main forensics storeroom, its contents carefully laid out.
“Nothing particularly interesting, as far as we can tell. It’s mostly wrappings for ready meals, a few food scraps and a bit of junk mail. The deceased wasn’t a great one for recycling it seems.”
Warren tried to hide his disappointment as he poked through the letters, a motley collection of fast-food flyers and missives from the local council, including a letter on recycling he noted with some irony.
A booklet of Tesco Clubcard vouchers with most of the coupons missing was covered in what looked like tomato sauce. Warren remembered that Mr Michaelson had insisted that his children used his Clubcard when shopping to accrue points and special offers. He flicked through the remaining vouchers, before stopping dead. “Andy, do you get Clubcard vouchers?”
Harrison shrugged. “Yeah, of course. Mind you I never remember to spend them.”
“What sort of things do you get offers for?”
“Stuff we buy regularly. If I was more organised we could probably save a few quid on the next grocery shop.”
“What about things you don’t buy?”
“Not usually. I occasionally get suggestions for new product lines, but mostly its things we buy week in, week out.”
“That’s what I thought.” Warren had his phone out scrolling rapidly through his
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