Sick to Death

by Douglas Clark

  Masters thanked him. The tea was brought in by a W.P.C. who poured out before leaving. As Hook stirred his tea—Masters noted he did it widdershins—he said, ‘Donald Bowker’s pretty well britched. He farms in a biggish way and runs a light-engineering works. Makes agricultural machinery, mostly. You can see it standing outside his factory all orange and blue.’

  Masters said, ‘I must interrupt you, sir, because there’s a point I’m not quite clear about. If her father is still alive …’

  ‘Mother, too. Nice-looking woman.’

  ‘Quite. Then why had Miss Bowker a bachelor flat? A girl who needed frequent medical attention would surely have been better living with her people, who could have given her help and cared for her. Especially if they live close by.’

  ‘Ah! Well, that’s it, you see. They don’t live close by any more. You came in from the east, didn’t you? Yes? In that case you probably saw signposts for places called Brockworth and Hucclecote—on your right as you come in. Gloucester’s beginning to sprawl, like everywhere else. Housing estates and shopping centres. All going up in these places outside. And roads, too. Motorways and feed roads. A few hundred yards north, and parallel to the road you used, they’ve built another great racing-track of a thing, cutting straight across good grazing and agricultural land. Donald Bowker used to farm there. Dairy farm. But some years ago, as I told you, he’d opened up his light-engineering business over near Evesham. When these roads started coming, carving up his land and running past his doorstep, he decided to sell up here and take another farm near his works. So he’s been gone the best part of three years now.’

  ‘Leaving his daughter behind.’

  Hook nodded and sipped his tea. ‘She was a visualizer or designer or whatever they call themselves these days. Sally and another two young lasses had a bit of a bright idea. They found it wasn’t so easy getting jobs, because there seem to be more of these so-called artists sculling around these days than there are places for them to fill. So they decided to set up their own little firm and concentrate on window dressing.’

  ‘On what?’ Green asked. ‘D’you mean to say that shops pay outsiders to put goods in windows?’

  ‘Apparently,’ Hook said. ‘And not only shops. There’s a raft of exhibitions taking place all the time, and people who don’t employ their own exhibition managers but who want to take a stand have to get somebody to tart things up for them. But by and large it was shop windows. You know the sort of thing. Spring fashions with banks of plastic daffodils. Winter coats with polystyrene snowmen. Sandals on pebble beaches and highly coloured price tickets stuck on the windows.’

  ‘We see it often enough in London,’ Masters said. ‘Girls wearing slacks and paddling about in their stocking feet putting model dresses on dummies. But in Gloucester …’

  ‘There’s enough big shops in Gloucester and Cheltenham to keep all the window dressers in the world busy. Take a look while you’re in these parts. Walk down Cheltenham Promenade sometime.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Masters was not a shopping man—unless visits to his tailor and frequent calls on his tobacconist counted.

  Hook went on. ‘These girls set out to provide a real service. They didn’t only dress windows, they designed the displays, and one of them actually used to make and paint the bits and bobs they used. The people who engaged them used to leave the whole thing to them. It took a month or two to get the job off the ground, but I think Donald Bowker chipped in to see they didn’t starve. And once the idea caught on! Well, I reckon you could see those girls’ handiwork in scores of shops. Not only the really big ones, either. Some of the middling-sized places, too. There’s one baby-wear shop not far from here that Sally and her friends did in the middle of last week. It’d do your heart good to see it. They’ve laid out a whole house and garden with every room showing the effect a baby has on each. They’ve even got nappies on a line with a concealed fan to blow them about. Wonderful!’

  Masters relit his pipe. ‘So Miss Bowker stayed in Gloucester in a bachelor flat. In the same block as her business colleagues?’

  ‘No. The other two live in Cheltenham. Sally used to be there, too, until she became engaged to Brian Dent. He lives here, in Gloucester, with his parents, so she moved to be near him. I don’t think that was the only reason, though. She was, basically, a Gloucester girl, and the flat she shared with the other two in Cheltenham wasn’t really big enough for three. So when these bachelor flats went up in Gloucester, she took one. She told me some time ago it was a good arrangement. She was on the spot for the work at this end, while the other two did Cheltenham and looked after the studio which they’d been able to set up in the flat there after she moved out.’

  ‘What’s the name of her firm? And her partners’ names, too, please?’

  ‘They call themselves Show Off. The other girls are Winifred Bracegirdle and Clara Breese. They were known around about as the three Bs.’

  ‘Good. Now, sir. Miss Bowker was diabetic, she was engaged …’

  ‘Wait a bit. She wasn’t diabetic when she first got engaged to young Dent.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. She’s only been diabetic six or eight months. She was engaged a year ago.’

  Masters looked thoughtful. ‘There was no question of breaking off the engagement?’

  Hook was very definite. ‘None whatever. The wedding was postponed a bit, perhaps. That I don’t really know. I heard she was originally to be married this month, but be that as it may, it was definitely arranged for this September. Preparations were well in hand.’

  ‘Thank you. Now just one or two minor points. Who and what is Brian Dent?’

  ‘He’s the son of Harry Dent of Dent and Blackett. They’re architects, surveyors, auctioneers, house agents, insurance agents, and everything you can think of. They sell farms, animals, houses … the lot.’

  ‘Wealthy?’

  Hook grimaced. ‘Did you ever know one in that line that wasn’t? And they’re in a big way. The biggest for miles around.’

  ‘And what is Brian?’

  ‘He’s a qualified architect and surveyor. He took Blackett’s place when Blackett died. Harry Dent is the auctioneer of the business. A bit of a bluff old sinner. Better at knocking down furniture in the corn exchange than anything else. But not too bad if you can put up with old blowhards like him. Brian’s very different. A nice lad. Sally couldn’t have picked herself a better.’

  ‘Where do they live?’

  Hook gave Masters the address.

  ‘Now, sir, Miss Bowker’s doctor? Who’s he?’

  ‘Neville Sisson. He lives fairly close by here. Near the library and museum. Got a tumbledown old house. He’s youngish, but he’s good. Sally was in luck’s way with him because he knows a good deal about diabetes. I spoke to him about it once. He told me that the country’s pretty short of full time diabetitians—like most things—and so diabetic patients in many hospitals are the responsibility of the consultant physicians. Well, you know how they’re fixed. They have to offload a good deal of practical work on to their registrars. And that’s what Sisson was. A registrar before he entered practice. He used to run a diabetic clinic twice a week. He still helps at one of our hospitals here. So Sally was in experienced hands.’

  Masters said, ‘If it was Sisson who refused the death certificate, it shows he knew what he was about.’

  Hook helped himself to another cigarette. He dropped the match into the ash tray. ‘Aye. He knows. But I don’t. We haven’t even begun to sort it out. That’s why—after the coroner’s verdict yesterday—we sent for you and why I’m so glad to see you here. You’ve got a reputation, Chief Inspector …’ He looked round. ‘… and all of you. I hope you’ll live up to it.’ For a moment Masters thought Hook was growing moist about the eyes, but he went on talking. ‘You see, Sally Bowker used to call me Uncle Fred. I’m not strictly her uncle. Her mother’s only a distant relation of my wife’s. But I’ve already explained what I felt about her. A
nd I want whoever did it put behind bars for the rest of their natural.’

  Masters got to his feet after the little silence that followed this statement. ‘We’ll do our best, sir. But I take it you have no suspect in mind? No lead you’d like to pass on?’

  ‘Sorry. None. I just can’t help you. Everybody liked Sally.’

  ‘As far as you knew.’

  ‘As far as I knew. And as I said, we couldn’t begin to think of it as murder until yesterday afternoon, so we’ve done nothing at all.’ Hook heaved himself to his feet resignedly.

  ‘If I could have Miss Bowker’s keys?’ Masters asked.

  ‘You can with pleasure. And what little paper-work there is. But won’t you want to clock in at the Bristol?’

  ‘Yes. But after that I’d like a look around. There’s no need for you to bother, sir. Your desk sergeant can give Brant a street guide or directions. We’ll manage.’

  ‘Prefer to work alone, eh? Well, I don’t blame you. But call in and see me. I want to be kept abreast of progress.’

  Masters promised to keep Hook informed of developments, and they left him alone to sweat it out.

  ‘To the pub?’ Brant asked.

  ‘Not yet. I want to look at the flat.’

  ‘The locals will have been over it with a flea comb,’ Green said. ‘Can’t we use their notes?’

  ‘Hook just said they’d done nothing. All I’ve got is a post-mortem report and very little else. And in any case, can you visualize the layout of a building second hand?’

  ‘No. But I don’t have to. There wasn’t a break-in, was there? She wasn’t physically assaulted? There’ll be nothing missing.’

  ‘Somebody tampered with the contents of a bottle of insulin. How do you suggest they managed it?’

  Green’s jaw dropped slightly. ‘You mean you think somebody did go in? Somebody with a key that fitted?’

  ‘I’m keeping an open mind.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it. Locked flats! Bottles that have been tampered with without being opened! I reckon our chances of pulling this off are flimsier than a stripper’s knickers. I do, straight.’

  Masters didn’t reply. Brant had manoeuvred them slowly through a shopping centre and turned right along a road that curved past the railway station and then skirted a park. People were sitting and lying on the well-kept grass. Toddlers crawled and played beside their prams. Youngsters, fresh out of school, were swarming over the swings and roundabouts of the playground enclave. Flowers blazed vividly and old men dozed on benches. The car turned left along the Bristol road and then, having diverged from the railway embankment, left again into a modern compound, built haphazardly of rows of maisonettes and blocks of flats, with doors of varying colours and pocket handkerchief lawns. Brant pulled up outside a small block—Wye House—standing like an old-time castle keep inside an outer bastion of up-and-over white-doored garages. Masters got out. There was no greenery just here. No natural beauty. The sun beat down on reflecting concrete. A few geraniums in an unwatered window-box were wilting. He felt the shallow steps to the front door hot through his shoe soles. The contrast in the foyer was so great he had to pause a moment for his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light. An indicator board told him that flat number five was upstairs. He led the way.

  Sally Bowker’s little home was on the left at the back of the block. Just four rooms. A living-room with a tiny kitchen off, a bedroom, and a bathroom-cum-lavatory. As far as Masters could see, on each floor were four of these little flatlets, all L-shaped, to form a box round the central stairwell and landings. Sally’s front door gave on to an L-shaped corridor, on the inside of a similarly shaped arrangement of rooms. Directly opposite the front door were bathroom and kitchen, which together formed the shorter leg of the L. The doors to the living-room and bedroom were in the other leg. At the end of the passage outside the bathroom was an airing cupboard containing the hot-water tank. At the end of the other leg, outside the bedroom, was another, slightly larger, general utility cupboard. The bedroom window was on the end of the block. The windows of the other three rooms faced the rear.

  When all four men were inside, the tiny hallway was overfull. ‘I don’t know what I’m looking for, if anything,’ Masters said.

  ‘I’d have thought they’d have had somebody on duty here,’ Green said wonderingly.

  ‘I’d have expected it. But evidently they thought there was no need. And it’s just as well from our point of view. Now. First of all the living-room.’

  They followed him in. The furniture was contemporary and functional. The only signs of Sally’s business interests were near the window. Here, on a red formica-topped kitchen table, was an artist’s drawing-board with a wheel at the side for adjusting the tilt. Pinned to it was a plan of a window space with various items marked in. A long T-square lay across it. An anglepoise lamp, swung away; a vase with a posy of pencils a shapeless putty rubber; a sharpener like a small green dustbin; a straight edge with a metal ribbon on one side; a french-curve template; a compass and a craft knife. In the waste basket a heap of torn-up card. The pictures on the walls were bright marketing scenes. Masters touched nothing until he saw that the kitchen table had a drawer. He opened it. Photographs of window decorations. He went through them. He was impressed. He thought the Show Off girls certainly had the flair that Hook had claimed for them. In many of these pictures there seemed to be the recurrent theme of what the items displayed would do for the purchaser. Hook had said that in the Baby Shop they showed the effect of having a baby about the house. With electricity they showed the effect of power in the kitchen. Husband half-way through erecting shelves with the help of a power drill. Wife preparing a minute steak on an infra-red grill. Young daughter beating a cake with an electric mixer. Washer looking after itself. And so on. It looked authentic. There were empty food cartons lying about. Sawdust on the floor. Even splashes of paint on the folding steps. Masters realized the appeal. It came from down-to-earth reality. It didn’t stress the value of the various items. It stressed what each item would do to make life easier.

  ‘You concentrate on this room,’ Masters told Hill. ‘Brant can take the kitchen.’ He and Green went through to the bedroom. The bedclothes had been straightened. On the little table was a small aluminium case: a box less than six inches long, three wide, and an inch deep. Masters opened the snap lid gingerly. Inside was a white plastic lining divided into three longitudinal compartments. The near one was empty, but the nesting ridges suggested that it was intended to take two small bottles, on their sides, bottoms to middle. The central channel contained a metal cylinder, the full length of the box. Masters eased it out with a finger nail, and undid the screw cap. Inside was a syringe. He lifted the barrel. A fine needle was still attached. He could smell spirit. ‘A carrying case,’ he said. ‘I suppose it keeps the needle sterilized. Smell.’ He handed it to Green.

  ‘Surgical spirit? No. I’m wrong. It’s industrial.’ He pushed the barrel back into the cylinder. ‘By crikey, it holds the syringe tight. I s’pose that’s to prevent breakage in a handbag.’

  ‘That’s a point. I wonder if she always carried it with her?’

  ‘You mean somebody might have had a chance—while she was out, somewhere—of filling the syringe with something other than insulin?’

  ‘If she kept it charged. It’d be easy, wouldn’t it? Say it was in her handbag. She put it down and took her eyes off it. How long would it take? A couple of minutes?’

  ‘This means we’ve got to trace her movements pretty carefully. When was she last seen alive?’ Green asked.

  ‘Damn! That’s what I intended to ask Hook and I forgot. The old boy got me so involved with his emotional approach it completely slipped my mind. There’s a phone in the living-room. Could you give him a buzz?’

  Green went off. Masters glanced at the third compartment of the metal box. This was divided into two. In one half a pad of cotton wool; in the other a small, capped bottle of urine-testing strips and a spare nee
dle. He turned the box upside down so that the contents slid gently out on to the table. He examined the lining. It was slightly buckled and just a little discoloured along the tops of the ridges. For a moment he wondered why, and came to the conclusion that it represented nothing more than fair wear and tear on a piece of comparatively fragile equipment that was used frequently and came into contact regularly with industrial spirit and insulin. He took the cap from the bottle of reagent strips. He tipped them on to his hand, and noted the dark brown colour of the impregnated part of each matchstick. He put them back carefully, making sure that the little desiccant pack went in, too. He closed the lid of the box.

  He looked round the rest of the room briefly. Saw nothing to interest him and went to the bathroom. After opening the door he stopped. A momentary, evocative sourness in the air met him. Then it was gone. Imprisoned in the hot room, it had escaped through the newly opened door. For a moment he couldn’t place it. Then it was recalled by his own reactions. He felt slightly nauseated. That was it! Vomit. Somebody had recently been sick in the bathroom. He called Hill.

  ‘Smell?’ Hill answered. ‘I can’t smell anything. A bit stale, perhaps, through being shut up, but all houses and rooms get like that.’

  ‘I think she was sick,’ Masters said. ‘See what you can find.’

  Masters left Hill and met Green in the hall. Green wrinkled his puggy nose. ‘What’s that stink?’

  Green would never know how Masters blessed him for that remark. ‘You smelt it?’

  ‘Just a whiff. As though a little pocket of it passed me. What was it?’