The Best of British Crime omnibus

by Andrew Garve

  Closter-Bennet, Mary Ricini and Hugh McFee were seated with Treasure at the long table. They were four out of the six Closter directors expected at the meeting summoned the day before for this time. They were still digesting the unwholesome news that one of their missing number had been shot dead, while the wife of the second was being interrogated by the police.

  ‘She hasn’t been formally arrested yet. But Bob believes they’re about to charge her with killing Dermot Hackle,’ Treasure continued.

  ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said McFee, producing his pipe and tobacco pouch from his pockets with aggravated movements.

  ‘And probably with shooting Stuart Bodlin,’ the banker completed.

  ‘Not both, surely?’ demanded Closter-Bennet. ‘I mean, what kind of evidence can they have? The idea’s preposterous. I mean … Well isn’t it?’ He looked around at the others. The final question made his outrage less credible than the Scotsman’s.

  ‘The police arrived at the Lardens’ with a search warrant at seven this morning,’ said Treasure. ‘They found an empty package of Bovetormaz in a rubbish bin in the garden.’

  ‘If you turn over garbage, that’s exactly what you get. More garbage,’ said McFee flatly.

  ‘It sounds as if it was an outer pack they found,’ Mary put in. It was her first contribution since the meeting had started. She had arrived before the others, and Treasure had told her of Bodlin’s death first. In the minutes since then she had been fighting to compose herself. So far she had stoically avoided tears, but the shock had been visibly greater for her than for the men. She had been fond of Bodlin and had worked closely with him for several years. ‘It could have been a sample outer Bob had at the house. With specimen packs of other products,’ she went on, her voice flat and unemotional.

  ‘I have plenty of sample outers at home. Couldn’t tell you where. Or for which products. They just accumulate,’ volunteered McFee, filling his pipe. ‘If Jane had done in Dermot with Bovetormaz, she’d hardly have left the packaging lying about the place. I’ll bet anyone the pack they’ve found never had a Bovetormaz phial inside. Not ever. Is that what Bob’s said?’

  ‘Not exactly, but you could be right,’ said Treasure. ‘He told me the bin was full of very old rubbish. It’s hardly ever emptied.’

  ‘And how can they link Jane with what’s happened to poor Stuart?’ McFee demanded.

  ‘The police discovered one of Bob’s shotguns is missing from its case in his study. The case was unlocked for some reason he can’t account for. He explained he lent the gun two days ago to a cousin who’s on a shoot somewhere in Scotland. He doesn ‘t know where, and neither does the cousin’s wife.’

  ‘Pity,’ McFee murmured.

  ‘I agree. But there it is,’ said Treasure. ‘No doubt the point can be proved when the cousin comes back. Or gets in touch.’

  ‘We’d better try to find him ourselves.’ This was McFee again, while making a note on the pad in front of him.

  ‘There’s more, I’m afraid. When the police got to the house this morning, Jane’s car was outside. They checked and found the engine was warm. The car had been used.’

  There was silence for a moment after Treasure stopped speaking.

  ‘No doubt there’s a perfectly sound explanation for that,’ McFee commented firmly, striking a match.

  ‘There was, according to Jane,’ said the banker. ‘She woke early, couldn’t get to sleep again, got up without waking Bob, and drove the car to Queens Club, Hammersmith where she jogged in the grounds.’

  ‘So she must have seen someone there?’ Mary questioned.

  ‘Not that she remembers. It was very early. Around five thirty.’

  There was another awkward silence until Closter-Bennet said: ‘I’m sure Stuart’s death has nothing to do with Dermot’s. It’s much more likely to be the result of a— ’ He paused, evidently embarrassed, then cleared his throat. ‘Well we all know about Stuart’s sexual propensities.’ He wiped his chin with his hand.

  ‘That he was gay?’ asked Mary stonily, but louder than before.

  ‘Yes. And that he had a lot of homosexual friends.’

  ‘A lot?’ queried Mary. ‘I know of one steady friend. The one who lived with him. An actor called Julian something. Sweet man. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s away on tour at the moment. Stuart told me.’

  ‘Yes, but there’ll have been other friends?’ Closter-Bennet was getting bolder. ‘That kind can be insanely jealous. Dangerously so. One is always reading— ’

  ‘You’re suggesting Stuart was shot in a gay lovers’ quarrel?’ Mary interrupted, anger bringing colour back to her face.

  Closter-Bennet shook his head. ‘I’m only suggesting that Stuart’s lifestyle made him subject to that sort of risk, so his death is very possibly— ’

  ‘It may well be unrelated to the other. For a variety of reasons we know nothing about. Including the possibility that he was shot by … by a would-be burglar, for instance,’ said McFee, waving away the smoke from his pipe, and metaphorically the threat of an open clash because of Mary’s loyalty to Bodlin and the Finance Director’s evident prejudice.

  ‘The murderer was in a car. It drove out of the mews immediately after the shots were fired. No one saw the car. Only heard it,’ said the banker.

  ‘If Jane was out at the critical time, I suppose there’s no one to vouch that Bob wasn’t out as well,’ said Mary slowly.

  ‘That’s true probably. But if the engine of his car had been warm as well we’d have been told, I expect,’ said McFee. ‘And if Bob’s a suspect, why not the rest of us? We may all have to account for ourselves at the time of the murders. Both murders.’

  ‘Why?’ Closter-Bennet challenged sharply. ‘It’s obvious his kidnapping cronies killed Dermot. And why should any of us have wanted Stuart dead?’

  ‘Hughie’s right, I’m afraid,’ said Treasure. ‘The police already seem to think there was only one murderer. And I’d say that’s very likely true. Murder’s not that common after all. Not at board room level, thank God.’

  ‘Two killers on the same patch would be quite a coincidence,’ McFee agreed. ‘Well, I was with my wife at home between the times they say Dermot was done for. The same applies at six o’clock this morning. I hope a wife is an acceptable alibi.’

  ‘And I was airborne between Zürich and London when Dermot was killed,’ said Treasure, anxious to keep this particular ball rolling. ‘Molly and I were asleep in bed at six today. And I think wives are admissible witnesses, Hughie. Even somnolent wives.’

  There was silence for a moment until Mary volunteered: ‘I have no alibi for either time.’ She looked at the others in turn. ‘I was devoted to Stuart. And … and Dermot too, of course,’ she finished steadily, her gaze dropping to study the clasped hands in her lap.

  ‘This is a lot of nonsense anyway,’ said Closter-Bennet while staring accusingly at McFee who had started it. ‘I was certainly asleep at six this morning. Barbara woke me as usual at seven when she came back from riding.’

  ‘And you were here at the critical time on Wednesday, I expect, Giles? Until you came to meet me at the airport?’ Treasure enquired carefully.

  ‘Er, yes. I must have left my office about seven thirty.’

  ‘And you were here till then?’

  Closter-Bennet’s expression showed some surprise at the banker’s fresh enquiry. ‘Yes, certainly.’

  Treasure nodded, then shuffled the papers on the table in front of him. ‘No doubt the news of Stuart’s death has been released by now. Also that Dermot was murdered. As you know, the original purpose of this meeting was for the board to be brought up to date on the takeover situation. We’d better cover that briefly, but there’s not much point without the Managing Director.’ He fiddled with the pen he had picked up. ‘How much additional damage the death of Stuart Bodlin will do us remains to be seen, of course.’

  ‘His loss is irreparable,’ put in Mary, voice choking at the end, eyes welling with tears. ‘I’m
so sorry. Please excuse me.’

  She hurried from the room.

  ‘I wondered how long she’d last. Poor child. She’s hit harder than anybody,’ said McFee.

  ‘Not more than Rosemary Hackle,’ Closter-Bennet countered bluntly.

  In response, McFee simply pulled hard and noisily on his pipe.

  ‘Will she be all right?’ asked Treasure.

  ‘I think I heard her go into Mrs Tanner’s office,’ said McFee.

  ‘In answer to your question, Chairman, Stuart’s death shouldn’t affect the viability of Seromig. The drug is too far advanced for that.’ This was Closter-Bennet. ‘It could affect the other development drugs, of course.’

  ‘It could,’ said McFee. ‘But I agree with Giles about Seromig. Of course, Stuart has very able senior assistants. There’s no reason why they can’t carry on with the other development work. And Mary Ricini is a first rate Medical Director.’

  ‘If Bob should leave us for any reason,’ Closter-Bennet put in, ‘and I’m not saying he will, but if he should, a takeover by Krontag might make a lot more sense than before.’

  ‘Why?’ asked McFee. ‘Why would Bob going make that any more attractive?’ This was much more a challenge than an enquiry.

  ‘For a start, he’s never liked the idea of our becoming a subsidiary of a bigger company. Especially Krontag. But with the loss of three senior directors there’d be a lot to be said for our becoming the British arm of an international group, with a share of central management services. There are great economies of scale with that kind of set-up.’

  ‘You mean because Closter is now light on line management?’ said Treasure, leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest.

  ‘More positively that our management expenses have been slimmed down a lot through the deaths of Dermot and Stuart. And could be slimmed even more.’ This was another obvious reference to the departure of Larden. ‘That’s always attractive to the buyer in a takeover situation, of course. But we still have adequate management for a subsidiary company, and profitable on-going business, with a world-beating new product ready for market, and two more in the pipeline.’

  ‘Sounds like just as good a scenario for staying independent, to me,’ said McFee, being purposely contrary. In the past he had been neutral to the idea of the company’s being taken over. He was now talking against Krontag because he objected to their recent machinations, even if they hadn’t been directly involved in the kidnap. For the moment, he was also cussedly inclined to oppose anything that Closter-Bennet was favouring.

  ‘I understand what you both mean,’ said Treasure, surprised at the extent of Closter-Bennet’s clearly well rehearsed appraisal. ‘But this isn’t going to be decision day. I don’t think anyone should be contemplating Bob’s disappearing from the scene either.’ Privately he was more interested in Closter-Bennet’s reason for suggesting that possibility than he was in the possibility itself. ‘Look, I don’t like no comment responses from company spokesmen, but today I think we should avoid public statements from Closter directors. That’s till we have more on the Jane Larden situation. Is that agreed?’

  The others nodded. ‘I’ll tell Mary later,’ said McFee.

  ‘If you would? Thanks. Now before you both arrived, I rang Penny Cordwright,’ Treasure went on. ‘She has all she needs to cope with the media for the moment. If she has problems she’ll refer back to you, Hughie.’

  ‘I’ll make myself available too, Mark,’ Closter-Bennet put in quickly.

  ‘With Bob taken up with Jane’s problems, I think we may need you for meetings at the bank, Giles. There’s a lot to do yet to sort out those share deal cancellations. Could you call Laurence Stricton right away? Tell him you’ll sit in for Bob?’

  ‘Understood, Chairman.’

  In Treasure’s experience, Closter-Bennet had never before shown such apparent keenness for his work or knowledge of the larger issues affecting it. From the start of the meeting it was almost as though he’d been programmed.

  The banker stood up. ‘Now I must go. I’ll be in touch during the day.’

  ‘I’ll see you to your car,’ said Closter-Bennet.

  ‘Please don’t. I need a word on the way with Mrs Tanner.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was twenty minutes later when Treasure emerged from the Tanners’ semi-detached home in Longbrook. He had been driven there directly from the factory. Bert Tanner was not as sleepy as on the previous morning. He had come off a later shift and delayed going to bed after eating the light meal Doris had left for him. This was after she had called to tell him that Treasure was coming. She had also cautioned him to show the visitor into the living room not the kitchen, and to make sure it was tidy first.

  ‘If I can help any other way, you only got to say,’ Bert offered, not quite certain in what way he had helped already – or if he had. He held open the gate at the end of the short concrete drive up to the garage. The two dogs stayed obediently behind him.

  ‘Sorry about the mix-up, Mr Treasure. I’m no good on directorships. That kind of thing. Nor shares neither. Closed book to me.’

  ‘I’m very grateful. If we could just keep this conversation to ourselves for the moment? I’ll be in touch if necessary,’ said Treasure, while thinking that Tanner would more likely be hearing from the police. ‘Those dogs are beauties.’

  Bert watched the Rolls-Royce drive out of the birch-lined avenue, wondered what the neighbours had made of the visit, cast an eye over the budded roses in the little front garden, made up his mind to spray them for greenfly later, yawned, scratched his chest through his open shirt, and went inside with the dogs.

  He was cheerfully unaware that with all his ignorance, he might just have put the finger on a double murderer.

  ‘London or Maidenhead, sir?’ asked Henry Pink as he halted the car at the junction with the main road.

  ‘Sorry, Henry. Maidenhead.’ Treasure had been uncertain before his talk with Bert Tanner. ‘I think I can direct you from there.’

  ‘We’ve been to the house before, sir.’

  ‘I’d forgotten.’

  Earlier, Treasure had thought it likely that one or both of the Tanners had made a mistake. Now it was all clearer to him – if none the more palatable for that.

  He had been sure from the start that Helga Greet had not been involved in Hackle’s murder. The connection was too easily traced. Of course, that connection would never have come out in full if Hackle hadn’t died. Since he had died, Greet and her collaborators simply didn’t rate as prime suspects. They weren’t even genuine kidnappers – only parties to an outrageous corporate scam that with a touch more luck might have worked. But they were industrial swindlers, not murderers. The police now seemed to have accepted that conclusion firmly enough. It was a pity they hadn’t applied similar logic to eliminating Jane Larden from the suspect list.

  Jane just might have killed Hackle – from jealousy, or slight. You could only guess at a reason. And you could never set limits on the behaviour of an oversexed, spectacularly beautiful, and very neurotic woman. The thing was possible, even allowing that Jane would have known that her professional connection with Mereworth Court would come out later, and that her affair with Hackle was known to some already. But Treasure was sure that she couldn’t have killed Bodlin as well. The weapon used was witness to that, when compared with the subtle method he imagined she might have used to dispose of Hackle – taloned fingernails scoring the back of the victim’s neck during a passionate embrace, disguising the prick of the skin with the Bovetormaz needle. But the same Jane Larden could never have felled Bodlin with a highly unsubtle barrelful of buckshot. It was out of the question.

  Treasure was sure there had been only one murderer – someone connected with Closter who had planned Hackle’s death, and who had most probably been panicked into killing Bodlin for a reason that ought to be more obvious than it was proving. And the identity of the killer needed disclosing fast. Apart from the harm being done
to the unfairly implicated, the damage to the already beleaguered company was getting close to irreparable.

  Because if the police let Jane Larden go, as Treasure was sure they would, there were plenty of others they could put in her place.

  As a spurned lover, Mary Ricini had a reason to hurt Hackle – if she had known where to find him. She had left the Hackle house after learning from Tim that his father had been with a ginger-haired woman on Sunday afternoon. Had she gone to the Larden home assuming the redhead had been Jane? – and intending to discover if Jane knew something about Hackle’s whereabouts? If so, had she run into Bodlin outside? And had he told her about what he had heard on the tape? And had she then waited to follow Jane when she left to meet their shared lover?

  But this was another scenario that failed to account for Bodlin’s murder. Death by Bovetormaz at the hands of a dextrous woman doctor seemed plausible enough, but Mary Ricini and a shotgun killing didn’t go together – apart from the sheer unlikelihood of her doing harm to Bodlin in any circumstances. Her admiration for him as a scientist was clearly total.

  Was it significant, Treasure wondered next, that Mary Ricini had just implied that Bob Larden had the opportunity at least to kill Bodlin?

  Certainly Larden could have murdered Hackle, despite what he said to Treasure in the pub the night before. He could have played the tape without Jane knowing, before she left the house, perhaps when she was making the tea. He might have realised that something in the study had upset Bodlin. Then he could have followed Jane – spurred by a personal reason for wanting Hackle destroyed that transcended anybody else’s.

  But even in those circumstances, it made no sense for Larden to have gone on to kill Bodlin. He could only have done so after he knew that Bodlin had told Treasure about the tape, disclosing that Larden had also had the chance to hear it in time to do the killing. In other respects too, Larden could hardly have wanted to harm Bodlin who had been the key figure in Larden’s own commercial future. All this was blindingly obvious – unless Larden had been desperate: unless murdering Bodlin threw suspicion for Hackle’s death away from Larden and on to someone else.