Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  ‘I’ve said that this process has a great future, gentlemen—not only for the dry storage and easier handling of materials, but also for control of release in aqueous or other media.’

  ‘I don’t understand that last bit, Mr Sprott,’ Green objected.

  ‘Control of release? O.K., Inspector, just what was it about those perfume strips that interested you? The fact that they can be made to release their perfume at will? Am I right?’

  Green nodded.

  ‘That’s one form of control of release. There are others, depending on what release mechanisms are used. With the perfume it’s pressure rupture—manual pressure or friction. But there can be heat rupture—either melting or cracking, solubility rupture in water or other liquids, and various other forms of release now under research.’

  Masters said: ‘Mr Sprott, I want to read you a quotation from your sales pamphlet, so that everybody can hear it.’

  ‘Sure. Go ahead.’

  ‘“The bitter taste of any drug so encapsulated is completely masked. Particles can be chewed without the taste becoming apparent because the particles can be made at below sixty mesh, at which size they will not break on chewing.” Would you like to explain that, Mr Sprott, please?’

  ‘Certainly. The coatings themselves are tasteless, so the coated particles become tasteless, no matter how bitter the taste of whatever the substance they come from. But just in case somebody might want to chew the particles, they can be made so small—like wheat flour or dried milk—that they are too fine for the teeth to rupture.’

  Masters said: ‘In other words, Mr Sprott, it is possible, using your process, to make a soluble, bitter substance, absolutely tasteless, without endangering its solubility characteristics?’

  ‘Quite correct, sir. When immersed in liquid the substance would be released as I’ve described.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sprott.’ Masters turned to Mundy. ‘So now we have what the Meeths said was virtually impossible. A tasteless but easily soluble drug. We have the means of making it invisible, the means of administering it unbeknown to the victim, the time and opportunity and the motive. The only thing outstanding is the type of drug. And here, no doubt, Mr Sprott will help us again by confirming whether or not his headache powder—Sprotamol—is, in fact, micro-encapsulated paracetamol. A very ordinary and widely used mild analgesic.’

  ‘That’s quite right, Mr Masters. Paracetamol is reckoned to be the safest mild analgesic known to man at this moment.’

  ‘In small, therapeutic doses, Mr Sprott.’

  ‘Sure, Chief Inspector. Like all drugs, if taken to excess it becomes dangerous.’

  ‘And did you, Mr Sprott, in fact, give a sample of Sprotamol to Mr Compton?’

  ‘Sure, I did. The poor guy was always suffering from headaches.’

  ‘How much was there in the sample?’

  ‘Twenty-seven and a half grams.’

  ‘How much would that be in normal tablets?’

  ‘Just fifty. It was done up in fifty separate little folds of paper. Ordinary paracetamol tablets contain half a gram. The extra two and a half grams in my sample are accounted for by the encapsulating material.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sprott.’

  ‘Wait a bit, Chief Inspector. Do you mean to tell me that my Sprotamol killed that lady?’

  ‘Please don’t distress or blame yourself, Mr Sprott. You made a generous gesture by giving to a man who suffers from headaches a much smaller amount of paracetamol than he could go and buy openly at any chemist’s shop. Sales are unlimited, you know. Your generosity was sparked by the knowledge that what you were giving to this man was pleasant to take and—one thing you forgot to mention—likely to be more efficacious because, due to the coating on the grains, the release is slower and the beneficial effect, therefore, prolonged. You were not to know that your gift would be used for murder.’

  ‘I guess not. But how the hell did Compton know it could be used as a weapon?’

  ‘It is common knowledge these days that all drugs, as you so rightly said, are dangerous.’ Masters looked across at Hill. ‘Can I have the box you found in his flat?’

  Sprott said: ‘Surely he wasn’t damn fool enough to keep the box?’

  ‘Why not? You’d given it to him. He didn’t expect us to stumble on to the method.’

  Hill handed over a small white plastic carton. Masters said: ‘By law you were forced to print certain details on the wrapping. To say that the contents were paracetamol: instructions for use: and the dosage equivalent to normal tablets. So Compton knew you had given him fifty tablets. A week or two ago there was a report of a suicide with thirty-two tablets of paracetamol—in the local paper. Dr Thurso attended the case, but he doesn’t read the local paper and so had no knowledge of the report. But the Meeths remembered it when given the hint. I believe Compton read it, too. And he seized his opportunity. Your gift had probably been left untouched. Probably he thought he wouldn’t get on as well with powders as he did with conventional tablets. Whatever happened, he had in his possession a white, tasteless drug, in a lethal amount, capable of being incorporated into peppermint creams which his intended victim doted on . . .’

  ‘Peppermint creams? Candy?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Sprott. Made on the premises. What are peppermint creams? Little more than icing sugar and flavouring. What is twenty-seven and a half grams in ounces? Less than an ounce by my reckoning. So for a pound of lethal peppermint creams take fifteen ounces of icing sugar, one ounce of tasteless paracetamol powder, a dash of flavouring, bind with the white of an egg or what-have you, mix, shape up and then insert into new cardboard carton labelled “Devonshire Peppermint Dessert Creams. All our products are guaranteed to be manufactured from the finest ingredients available”. Carry it safely away. Put the victim’s name on it. At the right time call for any lady wearing . . .’

  ‘Steady on, there,’ Green said gruffly. ‘Steady. Here, have a drink. You take these things too personal.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Masters answered wearily. ‘Please forgive me. I hate murder.’

  ‘And yet you’re a cop?’

  ‘That’s why he’s a cop,’ Green said.

  Masters said to the American: ‘The Sprotamol wouldn’t be detectable by the eater in those circumstances, would it?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘So she ate them. And bit off pieces and threw them to her dogs. There were, incidentally, no signs of chocolate drops for the dogs, but Syme says she was always feeding them, so I feel it safe to presume she shared her own sweets with them. And her fate. She guzzled all Friday morning. Soon after lunch she vomited. For the next three days there were no recognizable signs of toxicity. On the fourth day she became comatose and died. When I told the Meeths I suspected the headache powders they did a lot of digging into reports of analgesic overdoses. Up till then everybody had been thinking of toxic substances, not relatively safe, mild, family medicines. But given the hint, and the vet’s findings of renal distal tubular necrosis and cerebral oedema besides massive liver necrosis, they were eventually able to work out the classic pattern of death from a paracetamol overdose. Anything over thirty tablets can produce the results we’ve become familiar with. Sickness to begin with. Then the drug is eliminated from the body, leaving behind the lethal symptons which doctors find some difficulty in diagnosing just off the cuff.’

  There was a long silence. Then Mundy said quietly: ‘It’s nearly one o’clock. The revelries will soon be over in Throscum House. I’ll be able to take him then without any fuss.’

  Masters said: ‘If you please, sir. You’ll find Sergeant Brant keeping an eye on him.’

  *

  After arranging to meet Masters later in the day, Mundy left them. Sprott said to Masters: ‘I really can’t tell you how sorry I am to have been the instrument . . .’

  Masters said: ‘Forget it, Cyrus. And don’t tell Emmy. You don’t want to spoil her holiday at Throscum, do you?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t.’
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  ‘Then stay and help those of us who are left to see this drink off. Brant will be along shortly so it shouldn’t be a hard job.’

  *

  Masters met the Thoresbys and Honinghams by appointment the next day at eleven o’clock. He said: ‘You’ve got to forget what’s happened. It shouldn’t really touch you in the long run, even though it’s a bit of a shock just now. Fay was nothing to you, and although Henry Compton was a sort of adopted uncle he wasn’t your flesh and blood.’

  Lorna said: ‘What will happen to him?’

  Masters shrugged. ‘He had those permanent headaches.’

  ‘You mean they will act in his favour?’

  ‘Maybe. We can hope.’

  Honingham said: ‘Lorna’s going to run this place.’

  ‘With Bill’s help,’ Lorna said.

  Masters looked at Thoresby. ‘It’s a going concern. In good nick. You’ll have to be in good nick, too, to follow Compton. Don’t act the fool. And get expert help when you need it.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘Good. Because if I hear this place isn’t prospering I’ll come down here and bite your ears off.’

  ‘You wouldn’t get the chance,’ Becky Honingham said. ‘I’d beat you to it. But it’s nice to know we’ve got somewhere to bring the kids in the holidays.’

  ‘You’ll be all right.’ Masters turned to Thoresby. ‘Won’t you?’

  Thoresby was looking more cheerful. ‘I shall send you a balance sheet every year.’

  ‘Good idea. See you do.’

  He left them and wandered over to the swimming pool. It was crowded with bathers. Green and Meg Meeth were sitting on towels. Meg was in a pure white bikini which set off her dark skin and hair admirably. Green was too engrossed in his companion to notice Masters, who decided not to break up the party. He went off to look for the sergeants. He failed to find them, either, so despite her weak protests he cajoled Cathy York out of her box and took her into the bar for a drink.

  ‘To think that Mr Compton was a man like that. It makes me go all goose-pimply at the thought of working with a murderer.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something, Cathy. Mr Compton wouldn’t have hurt a hair on the head of you or anybody else but Mrs Partridge.’

  She said thoughtfully: ‘I think you’re right. Your sergeants say you usually are.’

  SICK TO DEATH

  For Jim Hotchen,

  whose knowledge of drugs—

  like his willingness to help—

  is apparently limitless.

  Table of Contents

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  1 |

  Detective Chief Inspector Masters and Detective Inspector Green were not on speaking terms. They rarely were. The pleasure that each one took in his job was soured by the knowledge that in all major cases it was now accepted that they were paired to work in tandem. Paradoxically, they were a successful team. Know-alls, speculating on their success, attributed it to the fact that each set out to beat the other at every turn. Inevitably, it was said, they were both kept so much on their toes by this exercise that they exerted maximum effort at all times: the basic ingredient of success.

  The lovely June morning had not made either of them better disposed towards the other. When the Chief Superintendent had given Masters the warning order for a murder investigation, Masters had not, himself, alerted Green. He had told Sergeant Hill to do it. When Green arrived at Masters’ office, the Chief Inspector had already gone for his briefing, while Hill was absent, helping Sergeant Brant to load the Vauxhall with the bags: the travelling laboratory, photographic and other impedimenta of a murder inquiry. So Green was unwelcomed and alone. Left to savour the bitter taste of being summoned by a younger man to a more palatial office than his own to receive orders. He didn’t like it. And he didn’t like Masters. He wandered around. Sneered inwardly at the cream alpaca jacket Masters kept for hot weather wear but which was now hanging, immaculately ironed, on the coat stand, neighboured by Masters’ hand-made showerproof with a removable, bright red, half-lining. Green judged a policeman’s efficiency by the length of time he’d worn regulation boots; and for Masters, that time had been short. The minimum. Green’s opinion of Masters’ ability was similarly curtailed.

  Green stopped by the desk. Masters’ chair was the biggest the Ministry could provide. And because it was bigger, it was more opulent. Green felt a twinge of envy. Masters, he thought, could get away with anything. Uncharitably, Green supposed that was what happened when a copper had his name printed on his shoe soles.

  Green picked up a journal from the desk. Masters’ professional background reading. He glanced at an article that said unsolved crime was on the increase because the police were not making enough use of forensic facilities. Green snorted and flung the book down. To him, police routine was all-important. The expert witness was anathema. Somebody who’d go into court and swear black was Bombay tartan if the fee was big enough. He’d no time for semantics—or, as he put it, word-juggling—in court, either. He’d been rattled more than once by defence counsel: made to lose his discreet control by some clever Q.C. who, lacking a case, had wanted to make the police look like lying humbugs. It made Green feel sick with life. For him, once a very happy policeman, his lot since teaming up with Masters was becoming distinctly unhappy. He decided he really would apply for his transfer to a division.

  Masters came in, carrying a postcard-size photograph. Without a word he handed it to Green. A girl in a tennis dress that looked as if it might be a Tinling model. Simply cut, the unembroidered purity of its line showed off the pretty figure so elegantly that though still girlish, it looked provocatively mature. Her legs were long and firm with erotically inviting thighs. She was smiling. Obviously happy. A few strands of fair hair had fallen across her eyes, but did nothing to diminish the youthful beauty and freshness of the face. Green studied it for a moment and then handed it back. ‘Murdered?’ he asked.

  ‘A lot of people seem to think so. Including a coroner, the Gloucester police and her doctor.’

  ‘Poor kid. How old? Twenty?’

  ‘Twenty-two. Sally Bowker.’

  The thought of the tragedy of this girl seemed to be opening up a channel of communication between them. ‘What did she die of?’ Green inquired.

  ‘A diabetic coma.’

  Green stared for a moment. Still faintly hostile. ‘You just said she was murdered. Diabetic coma’s … well, it’s natural causes.’

  ‘Not if it’s induced.’

  ‘And what does that mean exactly?’

  ‘Brought on unnaturally.’

  ‘How can they tell it was brought on?’

  ‘I’ll explain in the car,’ Masters said. ‘Hill and Brant had better hear.’

  ‘So we’re going to Gloucester?’

  Masters nodded and took back the photograph.

  ‘It’s just the time of year for a run in the country,’ Green said. Masters picked up his briefcase and showerproof and followed Green out. They went down, and out to the car in another period of silence. Masters let Green take the nearside back seat because that was where the Inspector felt safest. Brant was in the driving seat; Hill beside him.

  ‘Make for Reading,’ Masters instructed. ‘Then take the Wantage road. I want to see Streatley, Faringdon and Lechlade. We’ll lunch at the riverside pub near the bridge there. The Trout.’

  Brant manoeuvred them through London, staying north of the river till Hampton Court bridge. He made good time. The mid-morning traffic was fairly light after the turning up through Virginia Water. Green, by this time slightly less apprehensive than in heavy traffic, asked, ‘Now what about this diabetic coma?’

  ‘As I understand it,’ Masters said, ‘although Sally Bowker was diabetic, she was perfectly fit otherwise.’

  ‘That’s stretching it a bit. Permanently on the needle and perfectly fit.’
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br />   ‘She’s on insulin, remember. Not pot. You saw her photograph.’

  ‘I’ll admit what I saw looked O.K. Couldn’t wish for anything better. But all those injections two or three times a day! Even though they are only insulin.’

  ‘I can only repeat what I’ve been told. These days diabetics can be carefully balanced and controlled to keep their disability in check. And evidently when that’s achieved, they can live a pretty normal life. Sally Bowker’s doctor was so sure she was fit that when he was called to her flat on Monday night and found she’d died in a coma he immediately suspected something out of the ordinary.’

  ‘So he told the local police.’

  ‘And he had the bottle of insulin beside her bed checked.’

  ‘Ah! Hanky-panky?’

  Masters took out a brassy new tin of Warlock Flake before replying. As he broke the seal he said, ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘Meaning what? That somebody had changed the contents?’

  ‘Nobody is quite sure, but they think not.’

  ‘Slipped in a dollop of some foreign liquid? Water even? That would play havoc with a diabetic, wouldn’t it?’

  Masters rubbed a fill of Warlock Flake in the palm of one hand with the heel of the other. His empty pipe was gripped between his teeth as he spoke. ‘All we know is the insulin in that bottle was useless but not toxic. And that amounts to the same thing with a diabetic. But it was one of a fresh supply she got on prescription last Saturday morning.’

  ‘The chemist she got them from will have some explaining to do.’

  ‘He’s already done it. To the coroner yesterday afternoon. He supplied Sally Bowker with four ten mil phials, packed just as they came from the manufacturer. The other three he gave her have been tested, and so have the rest of his particular consignment. They’re all perfect. The manufacturers had a research man present at the inquest and he reported that the rest of the batch has been analysed and found to be in good condition.’