by Ken McClure
Charles French, Cambridge-educated, brilliant — a double first — very interested in politics, involved in an unsavoury incident leading to criminal charges but got off thanks to an exceedingly lenient judge, set up Deltasoft, a software company which was involved in the Northern Health Scheme, went on to become a big player in the computer world and a pillar of the community, according to Charlie Malloy. Murdered in Paris.
Antonia Freeman, wife of surgeon, Sir Martin Freeman, operating at the same hospital where the Northern Health Scheme was trialled and at the same time but, perhaps more important, daughter of the judge who let Charles French off on a charge of GBH. Murdered in Paris.
Steven doodled with his pen at the corner of the page while he went over what he’d written. French hadn’t been completely ‘let off’, he reminded himself: he had been fined. No big deal as a punishment perhaps, but enough to give him a criminal record for a particularly nasty offence, something that would almost certainly have come back to haunt him had he tried to pursue a political career of his own. On the other hand, there was nothing to stop him operating as a backroom boy, out of the public eye and away from press interest.
Everything pointed to French’s being the brains behind Carlisle. They were at university together, had both been in the Conservative club, and, later, French’s company had supplied the sophisticated software for the innovative health scheme up in Newcastle.
Steven found that this conclusion raised more questions than it answered. However bright French had been as a student, and subsequently as a software designer, he had not been in any position to arrange a safe seat for Carlisle or smooth his progress through the parliamentary ranks. Others had been involved… person or persons unknown. It wasn’t the Northern Health Scheme that was the link connecting these people; there was something else, something bigger, some group or association that included a high court judge and people in positions of real power. The Northern Health Scheme was something they had been involved in but it wasn’t the be all and end all.
Steven relished the intellectual freedom this conclusion gave him. He could now widen his thinking to include the others who’d died in Paris and see what it all added up to. He shuffled his way through the bits of paper he’d been accumulating and found what Charlie Malloy had told Macmillan about the Paris dead. Apart from Antonia Freeman and Charles French, they comprised three big names from the world of business and a senior civil servant. He didn’t have names to hand but Charlie had also mentioned large donations to the Conservative Party. He had enough to go on to form a working hypothesis. What these people had in common was right-wing politics, perhaps even extreme right-wing politics.
The obvious common ground for them would be the Conservative Party but the way the John Carlisle story was shaping up suggested not. Everything pointed to their working outside the mainstream of the party. Twenty years ago they had used John Carlisle as a front for their association, presumably to promote their aims, which were what exactly? A toughie, thought Steven. All he had to go on was the success they’d made of the Northern Health Scheme. He smiled as he found himself looking at an extreme right-wing faction that had greatly improved the National Health Service in the north of England at a time when everyone believed the Tories were very much for getting rid of it. Maybe they all lived in Sherwood Forest as well, he thought, as he threw down his pen.
There were, of course, the deaths in the north at the time to consider, the victims of the ‘drugs war’, which now looked even more fanciful. There had been another reason for all these deaths, and the fact that no prosecutions had been brought… Steven felt a chill run up his spine as he wondered just how much power these people were capable of wielding. His desire to find out what had made John Macmillan so uneasy had now been granted in spades. He didn’t understand what had really been behind the Northern Health Scheme but, whatever it was, it was a fair bet it had had nothing to do with care and concern.
Steven saw he was following in the footsteps of James Kincaid, the journalist who’d been murdered along with his nurse girlfriend. It wasn’t the drug barons he’d fallen foul of: it was ‘them’. He must have come too close to what had been going on and paid the price with his life, as had his editor.
Steven wondered if this had been true for all who’d died back then. But there was a possibility they hadn’t all been on the same side — the old hostage-situation dilemma where outside rescuers had no way of telling the good guys from the bad when they stormed the building. Steven’s train of thought slowed and finally hit the buffers when he was forced to recognise that the people who’d been behind the operation twenty years ago — Carlisle, French and the others in the Paris flat — were in no position to reprise whatever it was they’d been up to. They were all dead.
An act of vengeance? Had someone carried a grudge for all these years and taken retribution on a cold winter’s day in Paris, or had it been down to something else? Could the Paris killings have been the result of internecine strife? If so, had the group or organisation or whatever it was been wiped out or had it just been reborn?
Steven revisited Antonia Freeman’s father’s leniency towards Charles French. It made sense now. Antonia’s father had been by all accounts as far right as it was possible to get. He must have recognised a kindred spirit in French, possibly even recruited him and his right-wing breakaway group to a bigger, more organised body, one that did have the wherewithal to get John Carlisle into a position of influence and power.
Steven suddenly saw how he could eliminate the possibility of an act of vengeance in Paris. Charlie Malloy had highlighted the secret nature of the meeting. The individuals concerned had gone to great lengths to leave no trail of their movements or indeed inform anyone where they were going — not even close family. But the person who had set the bomb must have known in advance where the meeting was being held, and prepared accordingly. The bomber had been one of those who’d been invited to the meeting. He or she had been one of ‘them’. The chances were it had not been revenge; it had been a coup.
‘Shit,’ said Steven under his breath as he saw the magnitude of his task grow. He didn’t know who ‘they’ were; he didn’t know how big the organisation was and he didn’t know what they were planning. He decided his only option was to learn from the past. He might be dealing with a case of history repeating itself if there was to be some kind of revival of the Northern Health Scheme, so he’d have to try to find out what Carlisle and his colleagues had been up to back in the early nineties. ‘A stroll down memory lane,’ he murmured as he called it a night.
Markham House looked impressive, Steven thought, as he got out of the car to use the phone at the side of the gates. He only managed a brief look, however, before turning away from a bitter wind which was whipping sleet into his face. ‘C’mon, c’mon,’ he complained, as no one up at the house seemed keen to answer the buzzer. He pressed twice more before an upper-class female voice said, ‘Yes, who is it?’
‘Steven Dunbar, Sci-Med Inspectorate.’
‘You’d better come in.’
‘Yes, I’d better,’ murmured Steven, shrugging his shoulders in discomfort as rain-water found a way inside his collar to trickle down his back. The iron gates swung open and Steven drove up to the house.
TEN
Melissa Carlisle’s expression could best be described as neutral, Steven thought, as she held the door open and gestured that he should come in. The fact that she kept her right hand on it suggested that she had no intention of shaking hands, so he stepped smartly inside and waited.
‘This way.’
He followed her into the drawing room and sat down on the chair that she indicated to him by way of a languid hand motion.
‘I don’t have much time. I’m leaving the country tomorrow.’
‘Holiday?’ Steven asked.
‘South Africa. A period of recovery.’
‘Ah yes, your sad loss.’
‘I’ve never heard of the Sci-Med Inspectorate, but I assu
me it’s John you’ve come here to discuss; the woman who telephoned me made it clear I didn’t have much choice in the matter. We get more like a police state every day. What is it this time? Ye gods, my poor husband isn’t cold in his grave. What exactly does the great voting public want now? His eyes?’
‘As I understand it, your husband committed suicide after making a fraudulent expenses claim over a property he didn’t actually own, and being found out,’ said Steven.
‘A complete misunderstanding.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ exclaimed Melissa, assuming an expression of wide-eyed disbelief.
‘As you don’t have much time, Mrs Carlisle, I though we should cut to the chase,’ said Steven, who had decided before coming that his only chance of success might be to go on the offensive. ‘I’m not interested in expenses claims. I’m not the press, and I am not under any obligation to report our conversation to anyone. What I need to know is just how a man of limited intellect, by all accounts, reached cabinet rank, received universal acclaim for the design of a revolutionary health scheme he didn’t actually design, and then plunged into obscurity before topping himself over a seedy little expenses fiddle.’
There was a long silence, during which Melissa stared at Steven unflinchingly. Just as he thought his gamble wasn’t going to pay off, she broke eye contact and said, ‘His suicide surprised me too. I didn’t think he’d have the balls.’
Steven remembered that Arthur Bleasdale had said much the same thing. It set off alarm bells, but he maintained an expression that indicated he was waiting for more.
‘Christ, I don’t know how he ever became a minister,’ said Melissa. ‘He was unbelievably thick.’
‘But he had the looks and the right accent,’ said Steven. Another gamble.
Melissa broke into a small smile. ‘You don’t mince words, do you, Dr Dunbar? But you’re right. It was something I learned too late. He was an empty shell, the mouthpiece of others.’
‘It’s the others I’m interested in,’ said Steven.
‘I don’t think I can help you there. I wasn’t privy to what arrangements he had. I was the dutiful little woman in the background, as befitted my role in the party.’
Steven smiled. ‘Does the name Charles French mean anything to you?’
‘He and John were at university together. John maintained they were friends but I could never see it.’
‘How so?’
‘I first met John when he was a young MP. He was handsome and charming and I fell for him. I suppose I just assumed he had ability, so I ignored certain warning signs, including the advice of my father who thought he was an idiot. Charles was introduced to me as one of John’s researchers but I got the impression that he lacked respect for John. He always had an air of quiet superiority about him.’
‘How did he feel about you?’
‘He seemed to like me. Encouraged the relationship between John and me.’
‘Saw you as a suitable wife?’
‘It could have been that.’
‘Do you think Charles French could have been the brains behind John?’
‘He was certainly much brighter than John,’ said Melissa, looking doubtful. ‘But he was young, the same age as John. He couldn’t have had any influence within the party, so I don’t see…’
‘Could he have been part of a larger, more influential group, d’you think?’
‘You know, I recently asked my father about that. Mistake. I thought he was going to have a heart attack. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so angry. Demanded to know what had made me ask.’
‘What did?’
‘John and I had a fight. I said some very cruel things. Told him exactly what I thought of him, and how the party were going to fling him out on his ear. He seemed to suggest they couldn’t because he “knew things” and “they” owed him.’
‘For what?’
‘I don’t know. I was past caring by that time. I’d had enough of listening to his drivel. I stormed out and went home to my mother and father’s place.’
More alarm bells. Two people who knew him well didn’t think Carlisle had the balls to take his own life, and now the suggestion that he might have been considering some kind of blackmail. Steven asked, ‘I know it seems insensitive, but do you think I could see where John died?’
Melissa appeared taken aback but simply said, ‘I suppose so.’ She led the way through to the back of the house, where she donned a jacket before opening the door and crossing to the stable block. ‘I found him here, hanging from that beam.’ She pointed. ‘What exactly are you looking for?’
‘How he did it,’ replied Steven, deciding not to beat about the bush.
‘It’s not rocket science: even John managed it,’ said Melissa bitterly. ‘He tied the rope to that beam, looped it round his neck and jumped off. Look, I really don’t see the need for this. It’s positively macabre…’
‘Jumped off what?’ Steven interrupted.
‘The top rail of the stall, I suppose.’
‘Why the top rail?’
‘Because of the… height he was off the floor when I found him.’
‘Quite a gymnast.’
Melissa fell silent as she took Steven’s point. She examined the route her husband would have had to take to get onto the top rail of the stall, and thought about the physical ability it would have demanded. Then she shook her head.
‘Unless there was a stepladder…’ suggested Steven.
‘No,’ said Melissa. ‘No stepladders, no chairs, no boxes. Nothing. You think he was murdered, don’t you?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘But he left a note…’
They returned to the house. ‘Where do we go from here?’ asked Melissa, sounding very subdued.
‘In the circumstances, I suggest we do nothing for the moment. Go to South Africa for your “period of recovery”.’
Melissa nodded, and Steven sensed her relief, although her expression betrayed nothing.
‘Apart from Charles French, do you remember anyone else who was around your husband at the time of the Northern Health Scheme?’
‘He was a minister. Lots of people.’
‘No inner circle?’
‘Paul Schreiber, I suppose. I think he was in charge of pharmaceuticals. And Gordon Field, the hospital manager.’
‘No one else?’
‘I’m not sure if you could call her inner circle, but a very unpleasant woman named Freeman kept popping up. She was the wife of a surgeon at the hospital but she behaved as if she had some kind of official position, although I never worked out what exactly. The others were very respectful towards her.’
‘Lady Antonia Freeman,’ said Steven.
‘That’s right. Do you know her?’
‘She’s dead. So is Charles French.’
Melissa swallowed. ‘I knew about Charles.’
‘These “things” that your husband said he knew. Are you absolutely sure you don’t know what he was referring to?’
‘Positive. He’d never mentioned anything like that before.’
‘Good.’
Melissa looked surprised, but then she understood. ‘You mean there are some things it’s better not to know?’
‘Enjoy your holiday.’
Steven left Markham House feeling satisfied with what he’d established. He called Jean Roberts from the car. ‘Jean, I need as much information as you can dig up on two people from the old Northern Health Scheme: Paul Schreiber and Gordon Field. Schreiber was concerned with the supply of medicines, and Field was the manager of College Hospital at the time.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, but-’
‘It was a long time ago. Yes, I know. Do your best. I also need more information about the people who died in Paris — not French or Freeman, the others.’
‘Very well. Have you heard how Sir John is?’
‘Not yet. I’ll let you know.’
First Steven called Charlie Mallo
y. ‘I know this isn’t your bag, Charlie, but I’m beginning to have doubts about John Carlisle’s suicide. Any chance of someone taking a discreet look at the circumstances surrounding it — and I mean discreet?’
‘You know, Dunbar, I’m beginning to wish you hadn’t come back,’ joked Malloy. ‘I’ll see what I can do. What exactly’s your problem with it?’
‘His jump-off point. According to his wife, his feet were about five feet off the ground. That meant he had to have come off the top rail of a horse stall. There was no chair or ladder around so he would have required considerable arm strength to get up there. If he’d been a fit Royal Marine, fair enough, but he wasn’t.’
‘I’m not sure how we could prove something like that now,’ said Malloy.
‘We couldn’t. So if nothing comes of your foraging maybe we’ll just keep it as our secret.’
‘Fair enough. Let’s both forget we just said that.’
Steven called the hospital and was told that John Macmillan was stable and comfortable. He had not been allowed to regain full consciousness yet. That would probably happen tomorrow. ‘Good luck, old son,’ he murmured as hung up.
ELEVEN
Steven did not make much progress over the next three weeks. The information which Jean came up with on the Paris flat victims only served to confirm Charlie Malloy’s cursory assessment of them: two names in the business world, a merchant banker and a senior civil servant. None of them had a criminal record or had been associated with any scandal considered newsworthy by the press.
Paul Schreiber, however, had thrown up a more interesting CV. He had been head of a pharmaceutical company before being implicated in a price-fixing scam and forced to resign. He had remained as a major shareholder in the company, Lander Pharmaceuticals, with a big say in its running. He had been responsible for supplying the medicines requested by Charles French’s software. He had died in a fire along with a male nurse in the pharmacy department of College Hospital.
