Third Degree

by Claire Rayner

  M. R. H. Market Traders Ltd. She closed her eyes to listen to the memory of what had been said to her on the day of the Trust Board Meeting, what Ellen had told her, and what she had heard at St Dymphna’s, then began to search furiously through the drawers of the little desk for the booklet about the new Trust that had been sent round to all the staff when the NHS reforms had taken over at Old East.

  She found it and scrabbled through the pages furiously. She stopped, her fingers on one entry, staring down at it. The list of new non-executive Trust directors.

  Michael Roderick Harlow, she read. M. R. H. The market trader in a big way of business. He had more market stalls and market sites than she could count, he had told her. What was the name of his company – and she was quite certain it was his – doing among those Gus had collected in his search for the owners of Copper’s Properties who had taken over Lenny Greeson’s shop and who, perhaps – and it wasn’t too farfetched a connection – had for reasons of their own disposed of Don Greeson and his dog in Connie’s macerating machine?

  Now excitement did begin to bubble in her. She settled down to go through the papers in Gus’s plastic folder more carefully. There might be information here that would make the links even more clear.

  It took her a while but eventually she saw what it was he had been trying to do. Each of the companies on the Companies House Register had to list their directors. Gus had been looking for companies where directors overlapped; where the same name appeared on more than one Board. He’d found several, but none of them made any sense to George. There were names after names and she’d never heard of any of them. On M. R. H. Market Traders’ list of Board members there were no names that meant anything at all to her, though some were obviously there to do as they were told. J. R. Harlow and L. F. N. Harlow were clearly members of Mickey’s family and as such likely to be obedient to his demands. The other two names meant nothing. One of them, however, the innocuous sounding E. Pike, also appeared on the list of Board members of three other companies on Gus’s lists, and those also had members on different Boards elsewhere. By linking from one to another she at last found a track that meandered between Copper’s Properties and M. R. H. Market Traders, but it involved five companies and many names, and she could not believe that each and every one of these people, whoever they were, were ciphers who just did as they were told. Perhaps they were, but was it likely? It seemed highly improbable, the more she thought about it. And anyway, even if they were ciphers, would they all collude in murder? And if so, why? Why was Don Greeson murdered at all? Why should Mickey Harlow want him murdered, which would appear to be the logical outcome of her musings, and why …

  Her head was spinning now. There was clearly much more going on here than she had realized. She had seen her searches as first of all involving just a severed leg and perhaps a couple of burned women, which were of course bad enough, but in her terms, understandable. Now it seemed she had stumbled into a morass of City-type wheeling and dealing that mystified her. Digging around in dead bodies I’m good at, she thought forlornly. Coping with live money dealers foxes me completely.

  Money dealers, she thought then. Money, and murder. What was it Gregory had told her? That Connie was a smuggler of medicines to India, and that they were being obtained via Old East? She leaned back in her chair and stared sightlessly at the window again.

  Connie was, according to Gregory, making money as a smuggler of Old East’s property. Nonsense. If sufficient Old East stuff had been stolen for Connie to make much out of it, she’d have known. The whole damned hospital would have known. They could never have kept such a thing quiet. She remembered what had happened a couple of years ago when there’d been a rash of pilfering; there hadn’t been a soul in the place who hadn’t suspected everyone else, who didn’t watch his or her fellows with slitted-eye concentration. And anyway, even if someone had been successful in silent theft, once the robberies had been discovered the thefts would surely have been stopped. Yet Connie, again according to Gregory, saw his smuggling as an on-going activity.

  Slowly her eyes lost their glazed look, focused and became sharp. There would have to be some digging around done; but how? She herself couldn’t just turn up at the hospital, not while she was officially on compassionate leave, and start nosing about. Anyway, she wouldn’t have access to the places she would need to investigate.

  She thought hard, letting her mind move as it wished, knowing that to be the most fruitful sort of thinking she could do. Memories attached themselves to ideas, pleated into them, made new forms; memories of her family’s business talk, so boring, so incomprehensible in childhood, now making a curious sort of sense. She saw in her mind’s eye the range of vans with their names painted on them in Connie’s yard, and then, slowly, she reached for the phone. A pattern had formed deep in her mind and emerged into daylight, fresh now and very seductive. If she’d got it right, it was the answer. Or, of course, it was just so much moonshine. There was only one way to find out. It was a gamble, but it might work.

  ‘I’m glad she’s so much better.’ Ellen’s voice was a touch sardonic at the other end of the phone. ‘Does that mean you’ll be back soon?’

  ‘As soon as I can be, Ellen,’ George said. ‘How are things working in the lab?’

  ‘I hate to tell you this, but absolutely fine. Alan’s coping nicely, got Sheila eating out of his hand, and there haven’t been any nasty episodes at all. I gather you arranged for any forensic work to go to the other police lab.’

  ‘Well, I did let them know I was off work,’ George admitted. ‘I thought they might do that. You don’t mind, I hope?’

  ‘We’re glad of it,’ Ellen said. ‘It means we can concentrate solely on hospital work while you’re away. When you get back and can take over the forensic, that’ll be soon enough to change the arrangements.’

  ‘OK.’ George hesitated. ‘Ellen, sitting here with my friend – she sleeps a lot, you know? – I’ve had time to think. I’m … Hell, I’m not sure how to explain this.’

  ‘Try from the start,’ Ellen said, her voice suddenly eager. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well,’ George said. ‘It’s sort of to do with St Dymphna’s.’

  ‘Oh?’ Ellen sounded sharper than ever.

  ‘Mmm. I – er, I managed to get a free day in the week – my friend’s neighbour took the day off work, so I used it to visit St Dymphna’s.’

  There was a little silence. ‘You came all the way from Chislehurst for that and didn’t come in here?’

  ‘I know.’ George began to feel wretched. Her usual propensity for lying was letting her down. Perhaps there was too much truth in what she was saying? She hurried on. ‘I just got to thinking about the Board and what they’re trying to do – Listen, Ellen, I overheard something and – Well, there was someone there who, er, wanted to help Old East, you know? I can’t go into details.’ (Glory be, I can’t, the back of her mind thought feverishly. This lie is getting very complicated. I can’t imagine a lot more that won’t make Ellen see right through it all.) ‘But let me explain. It seems possible …’ She hesitated. ‘It seems possible that someone has been stealing drugs from Old East. In large quantities. Not narcotic drugs,’ she said that hastily, hearing Ellen’s sharp intake of breath. ‘Steroids, antibiotics, anti-cancer stuff. Expensive mainline therapies.’

  There was a blank silence and then Ellen said, ‘Good God!’

  ‘The thing is, I’m not sure – well, let’s put it this way. If such thefts were happening, I think we’d all know, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘You’re damned right we would,’ Ellen said firmly. ‘There’s no way stuff could be disappearing from here more than the usual pilfering quantities without us knowing it. We all, the business managers, you know, watch our budgets like fury. And Pharmacy is on my patch and I’m here to tell you that there is no way this side of the millennium that I’m being ripped off. Not me.’

  ‘I know,’ George said. ‘And I’ve had the craziest thought. I wondered
if you could look into it.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘A bit of explanation first. How are orders placed and filled for pharmaceuticals?’

  ‘How? We fill out order forms and send them to the manufacturers. How else?’

  ‘Not to intermediaries, or wholesalers?’

  ‘No. We buy direct. We’re a big hospital, so we get direct sales and the discounts that go with them.’

  ‘I hoped that was how it would be.’ George caught her breath as excitement began to grow inside her. ‘OK. How is it done?’

  ‘What? Oh, well, the order forms are made out in my office. Monthly. I collate the demands from the whole hospital, wards and departments, and make up the orders. Then they’re checked by the Purchasing people in Accounts. They’re sent the forms.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘In due course we get a delivery notice confirming the address and the name of the person responsible for accepting the delivery and checking it for accuracy. The goods arrive a while later and a statement comes with them. Then the firms send an invoice. I check the goods received against it; if it’s all right, I pass the invoice to Accounts who pay it. That’s all.’

  George took a deep shaky breath. ‘Listen, Ellen. Suppose someone sent off orders in Old East’s name, but when the delivery notice comes authorized delivery to a different address?’

  ‘It would be sent there,’ Ellen said, mystified. ‘That happens sometimes. We’ve got a branch unit, a sort of spoke to our hub, out in Sussex, remember? And there are some outreach clinics. The orders are written to go there directly.’

  ‘I knew it! And when the invoices are sent, do they go to you or to the place the stuff was delivered to?’

  ‘The place it was delivered to,’ Ellen said. ‘Then they check their orders against records, send us the invoice and we arrange payment.’

  ‘Then that’s how it’s done,’ George said almost to herself.

  Ellen said, ‘What?’ and when George didn’t reply at once said it again, louder. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s all right, Ellen. I’m so sorry,’ George said. ‘It was such a puzzle, you see. I knew no one could buy listed therapies just for the asking. It has to be proper hospitals or doctors. I just couldn’t see how the orders were made in the first place. Then it’s a doddle just to embezzle on the payments, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’ Ellen said.

  ‘Here I was thinking I had no head for this sort of thing. But I do, don’t I?’

  ‘I can’t tell till I know what’s in your head,’ Ellen said tartly. ‘You’re not talking sense! If you could just –’

  ‘I’m sorry!’ George was jubilant. ‘Listen, the – er the person at St Dymphna’s who told me that we were being robbed didn’t have it quite right. We aren’t being robbed at all. But someone else is – the manufacturers. I’m not sure what the scam is but there is one. Orders are sent out, seeming to come from Old East, so no one at the pharmaceuticals firm queries them – we are Old East, after all! – and when they send out the delivery notes, someone there at the hospital intercepts them and arranges to have the deliveries sent to – somewhere else. Then some sort of arrangement is made about the payment – I don’t know what. But I’ll bet there’s a crooked accountant or bookkeeper or someone at the firms supplying the goods who lets them go through in some way without payment. To the company, that is. I dare say they get paid handsomely enough for what they do. And there it is. Quantities of drugs ready to be sold abroad for vast sums, after they’re smuggled out. It’s a hell of a business!’

  ‘It sounds crazy to me,’ Ellen said. ‘How could anyone –’

  ‘I know it does. But I also know it’s happening. Oh, you’d be amazed at how clever thieves can be! I’m sure I’m right. It makes total sense. Mind you, it doesn’t explain the burned women. There has to be a connection there! If only I can find it.’

  ‘What burned women?’ Ellen sounded despairing now. ‘George, are you sure you’re not ill yourself? You’re talking an awful lot of, well, odd things.’

  ‘It’s all right, Ellen,’ George cried jubilantly. ‘It actually makes sense, believe me. I’ll be back soon, I hope. Next week, maybe. See what you can discover there to back me up, will you? You’ll see I’m right. Bless you for your help.’ And she hung up the phone with a little clatter and then stretched her arms above her head and shouted her elation at the ceiling.

  30

  After that it seemed impossible to sit still. She wandered about the flat, tweaking at already perfectly neat cushions and straightening pictures so that they hung crooked instead, generally prowling. Not to have Gus here to explain to him what had happened, the way she’d worked out the Old East/ Connie connection, was agony. And then, as suddenly as she had been swept up into euphoria, she was thrown into gloom.

  None of this helped Gus in his dealings with the CIB in the least. To get him out of the hole he was in with them they would have to find Lenny Greeson. And they hadn’t. Would Mike manage it there in Brighton? Her spirits nosedived even more. Could she phone him? Find out?

  But it was too early. She looked at her watch and knew he could barely have arrived in Brighton, let alone had any success in his searches. She would have to find something else to do. Something useful.

  She thought again about Gus’s folder. Could she take it over to him at his flat? After all, he might need it. Maybe he wasn’t there any more, though. He’d said he was going to Ratcliffe Street nick as arranged with the Super there to work on his defence notes. But she phoned his flat all the same and, as she’d expected, got the answerphone. There was no point in leaving any message.

  She picked up the notes again to look at the lists of companies and knew suddenly the only thing she could do now; there was no point in trying to use Gus’s notes. She’d have to follow her own path of investigation, and at present there was only one that was open to her. She ran to get her bag and a loose linen jacket to throw over her slacks and short-sleeved shirt, because she ought to look tidy at least, she thought, and ran for her car, hoping against hope she could remember precisely where the place was.

  She remembered after a couple of false starts, once she got into Barking, and parked about fifty yards from the shop, finding a vacant meter just as she needed one. That was a good omen, she told herself as she fed it with coins, knowing she was being absurd. And then turned and strolled towards Carolynn’s Charity Shoppe.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you!’ Maureen fluted excitedly. ‘Who’d have thought you’d come back again so soon!’

  ‘I was just so fascinated by it all,’ George said. ‘The way you run things here and the amount of money you make. It’s very impressive.’ It was nice to be honest for a little while, she thought. It made a pleasant change from her usual elaborate deceptions.

  ‘Oh, you are sweet to me!’ Maureen said. ‘Isn’t she, girls?’

  The girls, three iron-haired women well into their sixties and wearing the same sort of sugared-almond-coloured overalls that yesterday’s pair had worn, beamed and nodded. One of them scuttled off on Maureen’s command to make tea.

  ‘Anyway, I thought I might be useful,’ George said. ‘I could see there was a lot of work to get through.’ She waved her hand vaguely. ‘All this stuff to be sorted and hung up and priced and so forth.’

  ‘Everyone’s so kind to me.’ Maureen looked round the shop a little helplessly. ‘I’m not sure what I could ask you … I mean, pricing the clothes is tricky. You have to have a bit of experience.’ She looked hopefully at George, who immediately denied having any knowledge of the art of valuing secondhand clothing. ‘I thought as much. Well, let me see …’ She looked around again and then produced a delighted smile. ‘Of course! I know just the thing for you, all your education and all. I was wondering how to work out a price for these.’

  She hurried over to a cardboard box in the corner of the shop. ‘Here they are.’ She hefted the box on to the counter and pulled a tall stool closer. ‘Do
sit down and have a look. They’re books. I have no idea in the world how much to charge for them. I understand about novels and so forth, you know, love stories, but these are special.’ She produced one of the most satisfied of her smiles. ‘Philip sent them, you know. Isn’t he sweet to me? He cleaned out his library, he told me, and wanted me to have them.’ She looked a little worried for a moment. ‘He’s thinking of making some changes, it seems. Anyway, here they are. What do you think? They look very good to me.’

  Obediently George reached into the box, wondering what she had let herself in for. The books were large, glossy, wrapped in heavily coloured printed covers; clearly they had been very costly when new, but now they had a well-thumbed look. They were all about beauty, hair styling, make-up, clothes, jewellery, manicures and pedicures, aromatherapy, reflexology, and every other kind of fashionable quack notion. George looked through them with amusement, at page after page of pictures of models with scrawny bodies, sulky expressions, pouting heavily lipped mouths and incredibly small noses, mostly tip-tilted.

  ‘They do look odd,’ she murmured, more to herself than to Maureen. ‘Their noses are all out of proportion, aren’t they? I suppose they’ve all had them bobbed. Silly, isn’t it?’ And then she remembered and caught her breath. She looked up at Maureen with her lower lip caught between her teeth. ‘Oh, Mrs Ledbetter, I didn’t mean to be rude. About Philip, I mean. I know a lot of the work plastic surgeons do is very important – people with facial injuries and so on. I didn’t mean to criticize in any way.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Maureen said. She lowered her voice confidentially. ‘Actually, Philip would agree with you. He’s told me as much. He talks to me, you know, more than to anyone else. He says I’m the best friend he could possibly have.’ She flushed a little, her cheeks mottling. ‘Isn’t that sweet of him?’

  ‘Yes,’ George said, smiling at her, relieved not to have hurt the woman’s feelings. Her private views on Harley Street plastic surgeons would hardly be of interest to Maureen, and it would be sheer self-indulgence on her part to express them.