Dying for Millions

by Judith Cutler

If only my brain would work! Chris – not his area, even if he hadn’t been at Bramshill. What about Dave Clarke, an inspector in the Fraud Squad? He was up to his eyes with preparations for a big insider-dealing case; and moreover his eyes always had a predatory gleam when they shone in my direction. Not really enough excuse, if Gurjit was serious – but enough for now.

  ‘Sophie – couldn’t you come and look?’

  ‘Me! I don’t know the first thing about accounts!’

  ‘No, but I know enough to teach you. To explain, at least. Please! You have to come and visit me anyway, to see how I’m getting on. Please!’

  I sighed. ‘When are you due in next?’ Please God, don’t let it be tonight.

  ‘Next week. But Mark said I could go in any time. I thought perhaps tomorrow—’

  ‘No.’ My voice was so emphatic, she looked up, startled. ‘No. If there is anything going on, then it’s important to behave as normal.’ Almost as an afterthought, I added, ‘So what’s being stolen? Booze, cigarettes? The usual high-duty stuff?’

  She shook her head. ‘Medicines.’

  Before I could summon up any intelligent questions, a scream came ricocheting up the stairwell. Then another. In my book theft gives way to violence: I was hurtling down the stairs before I knew it. Two floors down, there was a pool of blood. It wasn’t occupied by anyone, so I supposed that whoever had left it there was walking wounded. There was a trail of bloodspots downwards; I followed it to the eighth floor. Richard’s secretary, an imperturbable woman from St Kitt’s who was wearing her violet contact lenses as opposed to her turquoise or green ones, was pulling on rubber gloves and looking weary. An Afro-Caribbean lad was clutching a wad of lint to his ear. A distant emergency vehicle was getting closer.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘I was bloody knifed, Miss, that’s what. Fucking Pakis!’

  Florence flicked her eyes heavenwards. ‘It may have had something to do with the fact that you bottled him last week. Now sit still and let me look at that properly. The police and ambulance are on their way, Sophie.’

  ‘It’s that bad? Shit!’ I said, suddenly realising that I’d shed Gurjit en route.

  ‘Thought you were going to give up swearing for Lent,’ Florence said. ‘You were lucky, Earl, it’s a very clean cut. Not like what you did to him. Ah!’

  I turned; the lift doors opened to reveal the community copper and a couple of paramedics. What really interested me was the suggestive intonation with which the constable told Florence he’d need to talk to her later, and the little flutter of her smile when she agreed. Someone’s day was going to become a bit brighter. I grinned, thought briefly of my lunch; but I knew I had to contact Gurjit, and, thanking goodness that it too was on the eighth floor, headed off to the office where the students’ records were kept to find where her afternoon class would be. Twelfth floor: and mine was on the thirteenth. No problem. Better to exercise the legs than the blood-pressure. But then I looked at my watch and pressed the up button, and waited. And waited.

  ‘What’s this, Sophie? I thought you always used the stairs,’ said Florence, coming up behind me on her way back from the loo. She’d taken the opportunity to put on fresh lipstick, add a little mascara, and spray herself liberally with Tendre Poison.

  ‘Just thought I’d treat myself,’ I said.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to save it for another day.’

  ‘But the engineers were in earlier! And they’d got them working by break!’

  ‘And the first one gave up as soon as they left the car park. Together with the one that hadn’t been broken in the first place.’

  I was late for my class and still hungry. I took a mug of tea in with me but rather drew the line at eating bread, cheese and celery in front of a GCSE group. If I finished the class a couple of minutes early, I might just have time to catch Gurjit and a bite to eat before setting off for the work experience visit.

  ‘I thought you’d follow me,’ I said, running her to ground in the library.

  ‘I had a class to go to, and it was obvious you might be some time. Have you come to any conclusions about the thefts?’

  I shook my head. ‘If you’re determined to keep it completely hush-hush, then the only thing we can do is have me visit you on a night you’d normally be there. I can’t make it tonight – I’ve got another visit. Tomorrow’s Friday and—’

  ‘I would be quite happy to work an extra shift,’ she said.

  ‘I sing on Friday evenings,’ I said. ‘In a choir. I can’t let the other members down.’

  That should convince her of the seriousness of my commitment. As it was, I don’t suppose anyone would miss a back-row soprano, but I discovered an urgent desire to do something I actually wanted to do, rather than something I ought to be doing. We agreed to fix an appropriate evening soon. She seemed much calmer, as if sharing her anxiety had made it manageable; she even managed a smile. ‘When you’ve sorted it out,’ she said, ‘it would give me great pleasure to invite you to a meal at my home.’

  ‘That would be delightful,’ I said, surprising myself by meaning it.

  The staff room at fast. Picking up my lunchbox caused a little avalanche of paper. A couple of pieces of late homework. Richard’s marking file – he must have put it down while he took a phone call. A query about a student’s coursework. And a note from Ian Dale: would I phone him?

  It took so long to get through the police switchboard I had started on my lunch, so I had to ask for him through a mouthful of celery. There was a message: he’d pick me up from college at five. There was something he’d like me to see.

  Was there indeed?

  I’d never before done such a perfunctory placement visit. But since the forecast threatened snow, and the whole city had the air of imminent disaster, everyone working with an eye on the darkening sky, doubtless the employers were relieved by my praiseworthy efficiency. In any case, everything seemed to be going according to the textbook, so my conscience was relatively clean.

  Ian was waiting in the college car park when I got back. He sensibly suggested that we went via Harborne on the way to drop off my car.

  ‘Via Harborne on the way to where?’

  ‘Acocks Green, love. There’s something you should take a look at.’

  He wound his window up and started his engine before I could ask what; he enraged me further by grinning and tapping the side of his nose with his index finger. An impressive spurt of gravel, and he was gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A tedious rush-hour journey. Ian was waiting outside my house by the time I got there, and opened his passenger door before I could do more than think about dumping my bag of marking in the hall, so it had to join us in the car, where it huddled ignominiously between my feet. Ian sniffed, and put the car into gear.

  ‘You’ll have to tell me sooner or later,’ I said.

  ‘No. Not a word.’ He drove in silence for a mile or more to prove his point.

  I maintained an equal silence. Two could play at that game.

  The first flakes of snow started to fall. Ian sighed. I sighed. He pulled up at last outside an unpretentious thirties semi, the sort of semi of which Acocks Green is made.

  Karen’s mother greeted us tearfully, but with the news that Karen had phoned to say she was all right, and would be in touch.

  ‘Did you let WPC Green know?’

  A nod. ‘But I don’t know where she is, you see.’

  ‘Could you hear her clearly?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, she wouldn’t be talking from the North Pole!’

  I laughed, as if she had made a joke. ‘But there might have been other noises, Mrs Harris. Traffic, or – or something.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Well,’ said Ian, ‘if she does phone again, just see if you can pick up any background. WPC Green’s got all the details of her money and bank account and so on? Good. Now, I was just wondering if I could have a quick look at her room again? I wondered if Sophie – you kn
ow, her college books …’

  I would never have imagined Ian capable of such half-truths. Finding from somewhere a serious yet sympathetic smile, I followed him up the stairs before Mrs Harris could reply.

  I would have thought, being Andy’s cousin, that I’d seen him in most positions. I would have been profoundly mistaken. Codpiecing for Africa, hadn’t he called it? There he was: pouty in tight jeans; out-Springsteening Springsteen; smiling sexily; languishing, ready for some teenager to come and save his life by taking him to bed. There must have been twenty-five or thirty sexy Andys, on doors, walls, wardrobes and even on the ceiling over the bed. A half-naked Andy would be the last thing Karen saw before she went to sleep at night and when she woke up in the morning.

  ‘I thought you said she wasn’t a fan,’ said Ian, mildly.

  ‘She told me it was her mum,’ I breathed. One thing was clear: our little Karen was an accomplished liar. The posters went back about five years, though there were a couple of old ones – quite valuable if you happened to be a true devotee. ‘This is Karen’s room? Not her mum’s?’

  ‘Her mum’s is quite an education as well. Tell you what – pretend to go to the bathroom and sneak a look.’ Ian dropped his voice conspiratorially.

  I raised my hands in mock horror and did as I was told.

  I quite like the Bee Gees. OK, I like them a lot. I used to do my fitness routine to their greatest hits before I hit on the more silent Canadian Air Force exercises. But I didn’t like them as much as Mrs Harris did, and I don’t think I’d have thought of putting portraits of them together to make lampshades and a decorative firescreen. Well, I’d never have thought of making anything into a firescreen, to be honest. The only sign of reading matter was a pile of much-thumbed Bee Gees Fan Club newsletters on a bedside table.

  There was a stirring down below: the return of Mr Harris, perhaps? While I used the loo, I pondered how he might deal with womenfolk so obsessed. Back to Ian: he’d laid a couple of William Murdock folders on the bed. Her timetable was stuck inside one of them.

  ‘Why on earth didn’t I think of it before? Asking her fellow students where she might be!’

  Ian’s face produced what might have passed as a smile. ‘Even Stephenson’s thought of that. But I have to admit, Sophie, she didn’t get much out of them.’ He coughed discreetly, and raised his eyebrow a millimetre: Ian, encouraging me to meddle? I could hardly believe it. ‘Maybe someone else … No hurry, of course. But someone who actually knows the kids involved …’

  ‘What a good idea, Ian,’ I said. ‘I wonder if there’s anyone on the college staff who might help you?’

  I was prowling round the room again. Poor Karen – she’d have died if she knew one of her teachers had invaded her privacy. A couple of blockbuster sex-and-shopping paperbacks; some teen magazines. I leafed through them idly – surely Karen was too old for these? And then I found one for slightly older girls, judging at least by the cover. I flicked it open idly. ‘Remedies for Love.’ What the hell –?

  It all seemed innocent enough, Herbs and spices. A little cayenne to make him hotter in bed; basil to sweeten his temper; and so on. It was just a silly, glossy magazine. But I wondered; might it be altogether more sinister? Karen had spent a lot of time in that kitchen at the Music Centre: what culinary arts might she have employed to make her man love her?

  ‘Ian, we have to take this.’ I held it up, pointing at the headline.

  He came over, peering and then letting out a low whistle. ‘Can’t,’ he said. ‘Everything has to be done above board, remember?’

  ‘Can’t we ask Mrs Harris’s permission?’

  ‘Are we talking possible evidence here?’ he demanded.

  ‘Maybe only background.’

  He wished I hadn’t found it, didn’t he?

  An anxious Mrs Harris was waiting in the hall with a man whom she introduced as ‘Mistrarris. Alan.’

  He was a sweet-faced man, with round, rather prominent brown eyes and a smudge of a moustache inadequately concealing an upper lip bullied by the incisors it was supposed to conceal. His lower lip and chin did what they could, but sank chummily into the fold of his neck. He wore a honey coloured sweater and thick beige cords, stretched tight by his stomach.

  We all shook hands.

  ‘You’ll find my little girl?’

  His voice was surprisingly deep: I’d expected a whispering tenor.

  ‘We’re doing our best, sir,’ Ian began, immensely kind. And then he stopped. I followed the line of his eyes. Mr Harris’s side pocket was convulsing. He put his hand in, and removed it promptly, shaking it then putting the index finger in his mouth.

  He shook his head; more in sorrow, it seemed, than anger. He turned to his wife. ‘It’s no good,’ he said. ‘There’s no taming her.’

  ‘A ferret,’ Ian said. ‘It’s got to be a ferret.’

  ‘Too big for a pocket. And there was no smell.’

  ‘A clean ferret.’ Ian had his head down on the steering wheel; tears of laughter glistened in the streetlights.

  ‘No! You only have to look at him! A gerbil! I bet it’s a gerbil!’

  Had it been Chris, I could have inveigled him into letting me look at the magazine, once it had officially been logged in. But it wasn’t Chris. So it was simpler to battle through the now vicious snow to the newsagents, which stayed open the most appalling hours, and try to buy my own copy. Fortunately they always had an heterogenous supply of reading matter, and they let me dig through old copies till I was filthy, stiff – and successful.

  What I now needed was a tame pharmacist with patience, to tell me if any of the herbs in the so-called remedies might be toxic. There was an obvious candidate: Carl. If he could call me, I could call him. So I did.

  As luck would have it, it was his wife who answered. I got a sub-zero reception when I asked to speak to him. There was, of course, no way she would do anything as simple as call him; she went – excessively slowly, it seemed at my end – to fetch him.

  ‘Sophie? What do you want?’ His tone was ultra-business-like. I thought I detected the click of another extension being lifted.

  ‘Helleborin,’ I said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  I’d swear she echoed him.

  ‘Could you tell me if any of the following plants contain helleborin?’ I read out the list in the teen mag.

  ‘Negative. But telling anyone to put anything in anyone’s drink to change their behaviour is irresponsible in the extreme’. He sounded outraged. Did he think I was going to try it on him? ‘One person’s common herb may be another person’s allergen. Even simple things like parsley!’

  ‘Parsley?’ I echoed. ‘But that’s supposed to be good for you!’

  ‘A lot of things good for you in small amounts can be damaging if you take them in concentrated form,’ he said. ‘Parsley’s one of them – the seed, in particular.’

  ‘Oh. Anything on basil or mint?’

  ‘Pennyroyal – is that on your list?’

  ‘Yes. As a remedy for irregular periods.’

  ‘They used to use it as an abortifacient.’

  I was lost for words.

  We exchanged a couple of polite sentences about the following week’s trip and I hung up.

  I ought to sit and think this through. If Karen had been inspired by this article to try and influence Andy – a big if, since I didn’t think even she was that stupid – at least she’d only have put trivial, probably harmless, herbs and spices in his drink. But what if she’d been inspired – if that was the word – to experiment? That meant she had almost certainly been responsible for Pete Hughes’s death. No wonder she was distressed. But what if she just thought she’d done him harm? – That would cause her at least as much misery. I ought to have read those letters. In fact, I ought to go into college and read them right now …

  Chapter Fourteen

  I woke up with a start, ready to run, my heart pounding, my hands tense. Why was I asleep at my dining-tabl
e? And then that didn’t matter, because whatever had woken me hadn’t been part of any dream.

  There it was again!

  Someone was at the front door, fiddling with the lock.

  I froze.

  Rationally, I knew I was quite safe. I had deadlocked the front door: no one could get in. The Yale lock rattled again. Then someone started on the Chubb.

  I scuttled into the kitchen and reached into a cupboard. No one was going to get me without a struggle. I crept towards the hall, hiding behind the half-open kitchen door.

  Another rattle: the Chubb lock responded, all five levers of it. The door opened.

  ‘Sophie?’

  ‘Andy! You stupid bastard!’ I flung into the hall. ‘You had me wetting myself with fear and you nearly got a faceful of this!’

  ‘But I always let myself in. That’s why you gave me the keys.’

  ‘You always ring first.’

  ‘I did!’

  ‘You bloody well didn’t.’

  ‘I pressed the bell. Is it my fault if it doesn’t ring? Your batteries must be flat: where’s that tester gadget?’

  ‘In the glory hole.’ I flounced off to get it. And then I came back. ‘What the hell am I doing, testing batteries?’

  ‘Well, you need to know if your doorbell rings, don’t you?’

  Andy followed me to the kitchen table with the noise end of the bell. He prised off the back, and fished out the batteries: ‘There. Flat as pancakes! Any spares?’

  I pointed at the glory hole.

  He reached in. ‘They’re your last ones. Where’s your shopping list?’ He scribbled on my kitchen jotter. ‘What’s the matter? And what the hell’s that?’

  ‘I told you, you scared me. And this is something Chris got for me to deal with unwelcome visitors.’

  ‘Christ – is it CS gas?’

  I patted the little canister. ‘He didn’t want to tell me and I don’t want to know. He didn’t lift it from police stores, don’t worry. He brought it home from a conference in the States. Free sample.’

  ‘OK, I don’t need chapter and verse. Sit down before you fall down, why don’t you?’ He pulled a chair back for me and, when I sat, pressed my shoulders down. ‘Jesus, that’s some dose of stress you’ve got. What’s up? Apart from thinking I’m Burglar Bill, that is.’