by Adam Croft
‘I see. And do you often manage to spot the villain before the end?’ Hardwick asked.
‘Never, if I'm honest. I hope that doesn't reflect badly.’
‘Not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. The truth is, murders just don't happen the way they're written in books. The vast majority of murder cases are very simple and straightforward. No red herrings, no cases of mistaken identity, no switching of clocks or mirrors. Most of the time, instinct prevails.’
‘Is it not usually the spouse of the victim who committed the murder?’ Ellis asked.
‘Most of the time, yes,’ Hardwick replied. ‘But that would make life very boring indeed.’
Patrick Allen's house sat back from the road on White's Lane, a red-brick wall holding the iron gate shut as the mock-Tudor house poked out from the immaculate lawn behind. It was Ellis Flint who pressed the intercom button on the gate’s control panel.
‘Hello?’
‘Good morning. My name's Kempston Hardwick and this is Ellis Flint. We're here to speak to Mr Allen about Dave Spencer, also known as Charlie Sparks.’
No further words were said, but moments later the gates began to roll apart as the house exposed itself to the two men like a prize on a game-show. Passing the gleaming Range Rover Sport parked on the tarmacked driveway, Hardwick and Flint had barely travelled two thirds of the way down the front path before the door opened and a tall man who seemed to be greying before his time stepped out onto the doormat.
‘Hi, I'm Patrick Allen. Terrible news about Dave.’
‘You've heard?’
‘Yes, his wife called me last night. Couldn't quite believe it myself. I only saw him yesterday afternoon before he went off for his gig. I'm afraid I'm not really sure what to say.’
‘Well, if you don't mind, Mr Allen, we'd like to come in and ask you a few questions.’
‘Oh yes, of course. Do come in.’
The interior of Patrick Allen's house was tastefully decorated, if a little too clinically clean. The contrast between the traditional cottages of Little Markham and the modern mansions of Fettlesham was yet again apparent to Kempston Hardwick as he glanced around the kitchen at the immaculate work surfaces and over-abundance of white. Hardwick abhorred white, seeing it as a soulless, unnecessary colour.
‘We understand that you were a business partner of Dave Spencer's, Mr Allen.’
‘You could say that, yes. We run — ran — a company called Wellington Pharmaceuticals. Known Dave since we were both at school together. That's why it's come as a bit of a shock, if I'm honest.’
‘And how has the company been performing?’
‘About as well as any company is these days, I suppose. It's had its ups and downs, but it's provided an income for the last good few years, so I can't really complain.’
‘Were there any other shareholders?’
‘No, just the two of us. Dave was more of a silent partner, just tended to provide the funding when it was needed and helped the business to get off the ground and expand. I mean, he had his own office and did the occasional few days, but I take care of the day-to-day running of the company.’
‘And how many staff do you have working for you, Mr Allen?’
‘Twenty at the moment. Mostly sales and office staff, as well as an IT and accounts guy who works from the basement. We don't tend to do much in the way of research. Just tends to be direct sales to the medical and research industries.’
Hardwick mulled this over for a few moments, trying to gauge the direction in which the conversation should go. On the face of it, it seemed that Patrick Allen had done very well for himself through his involvement with Wellington Pharmaceuticals. He had an expensive car sat on his driveway and the home was decorated lavishly with contemporary ornaments — perhaps a little too modern for Hardwick's tastes, but undeniably costly.
‘Do you live here alone, Mr Allen?’
‘Goodness, no. My wife, Anne-Marie, is at work.’
‘No children?’
‘Not at home, no. We have two, but they both have their own families now.’
‘Rather a large house for the two of you, isn't it?’
‘Indeed, but we both love it to pieces. Anne-Marie, especially. I don't think either of us could imagine living anywhere else.’
Somewhere with a little less white gloss paint, Hardwick thought to himself.
Once the meeting had concluded and the pair had left Patrick Allen's sumptuous property, Hardwick was somewhat taken aback by the force with which Ellis Flint had grabbed him by the pleats of his coat and thrust him at a nearby bush. Still holding onto Hardwick's coat, Ellis Flint's face had an air of revelation.
‘Don't you see? My God, it's all coming together already, Kempston! Patrick Allen said he and Charlie Sparks were the sole owners of Wellington Pharmaceuticals. That means, if one of the pair were to die, the other would gain sole control of the company!’
‘That's hardly a motive for murder, though,’ Hardwick protested, squirming free of his grip and dusting off his coat.
‘Absolutely not. There's almost certainly something else. But I'd be willing to bet that the fortunes of Wellington Pharmaceuticals aren't quite as they seem.’
8
Ellis Flint sat in his study and tapped at his laptop's black-on-white keys furiously. His password entered, he selected his favoured internet browser and entered “poisons” into the search engine. He was met with a selection of encyclopaedia entries, medical journals and NHS links, most of which seemed far too daunting for the little information he needed, which was what poison could possibly have killed Charlie Sparks.
That any poison in the world was readily available to Patrick Allen by means of his company being one of the country's major stockists of chemicals was undeniable, but how on earth could it be proved? Naturally, the sheer range and number of chemicals and substances available on the premises of Wellington Pharmaceuticals should mean that any possible combination of poisons, explosives, potions and medicines could be easily created by someone with prior knowledge.
The subject matter was simply too vast to take in all at once. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. What on Earth could be given internally which would cause tetanus poisoning? He decided he needed some expert advice. Without taking a moment to think, he dialled the number of the local police station and asked to speak to someone about methods of poisoning.
‘Can I ask what this is in relation to, sir?’ the understandably cautious desk sergeant asked.
‘It's to do with a murder case you're currently investigating.’
‘May I ask which one?’
‘Charlie Sparks, otherwise known as Dave Spencer.’
‘One moment please.’
After twenty or thirty seconds of being told that his call was important to them, Flint found himself talking to a deep-voiced man who introduced himself as Detective Inspector Rob Warner.
‘You say you have some information regarding a murder case, sir?’
‘Well, more questions, actually. It's about the Dave Spencer case.’
‘I see. I think it's probably best if we discuss this at your place.’
Ellis Flint beamed with excitement at the prospect of moving one step ahead of Hardwick and diligently provided DI Warner with his address. Following the conclusion of the call, he called Hardwick to tell him the good news.
‘You bloody fool!’ Hardwick spluttered. ‘What on earth did you do that for?’
‘What's the matter, Kempston? We're almost there! With the police's help, or them with our help, we can help find Charlie Sparks's murderer!’
‘Fool!’ Hardwick informed Flint that he would be at his place as quickly as possible and slammed down the telephone.
Arriving barely a minute before the police officers, Hardwick had little opportunity to explain his rage to Flint, leaving him with an uncomfortably small amount of space between Hardwick and the wall of the hallway.
‘What on earth possessed you to do such a thin
g?’ Hardwick asked.
‘Are you mad, man? We can help the police investigate Charlie Sparks's murder!’
‘As far as the police are concerned, there is no murder to investigate, you fool! All they have managed to garner is that Charlie Sparks died on stage and that no cause of death has yet been decided. If you go wading in with accusations of murder, all hell could break loose!’
‘But you told me you thought he'd been murdered!’
‘And I do! I know he was murdered! But as things stand, we're the only two souls who do, so where do you think that puts us in terms of suspects numbers one and two?’
‘Ah, I see. Well that's put us in a bit of a pickle.’
‘You fool, Flint. You absolute—‘
Only the ringing of the doorbell could cut the atmosphere. As Ellis Flint eased himself from between Hardwick and the wall and opened the front door, he could hear Hardwick's footsteps retreating towards the living room, rhythmically accompanied by his whispered curses.
The man who introduced himself as Detective Inspector Rob Warner was a tall, portly man with a comical comb-over. He introduced his fellow officer as Detective Constable Sam Kerrigan. DC Kerrigan was a young officer, barely out of school, it seemed, but he carried with him an air of confidence and bravado which Hardwick immediately recognised as the folly of youth.
‘Mr Flint, we believe you wanted to speak to us about a potential murder case?’
‘Well, sort of,’ Ellis Flint started, glancing at Hardwick, who stood coyly in the doorway to the living room. ‘It's actually more of a question I had. A few questions, actually.’
‘Right. Are they the sort of questions you feel comfortable asking in front of your... friend?’ DI Warner looked at Hardwick and spoke the last word with an air of implication.
‘Oh, sorry. Yes, this is Kempston Hardwick. A good friend of mine.’ Ellis Flint led the two officers towards the living room.
‘Good friend, right. Very nice to meet you, Kempston.’ DI Warner moved to extend his hand but decided against it.
‘Hardwick,’ came the sole response.
‘Right. Mr Hardwick. Well, shall we go into the living room?’ DI Warner half-attempted to squeeze past Hardwick at the living-room door whilst gesturing for him to enter first, raising his eyebrows in unison with DC Kerrigan as he followed Hardwick into the room.
‘Tell us, Mr Flint, what questions did you have?’
‘Well, it's about poisons, really.’
‘Poisons?’
‘Yes, poisons. I was wondering if there was a particular poison that might cause a person to get very ill and die quite suddenly.’
DI Warner laughed before answering. ‘Only a few hundred thousand. Why do you want to know, exactly? This could easily be considered to be a waste of police time.’
Hardwick thought he would be better off answering the question. ‘Well, it's quite simple. It's for a... Uh...’
‘School project,’ Flint interjected, with very little in the way of prior thought.
‘A school project?’ DI Warner asked.
‘Well, college course,’ Flint responded, noticing that Hardwick now had his head buried deep in his hands. ‘I’m doing a college course and wanted to get some extra background information.’
‘I see. What college course is it?’
‘Poisons. Well, chemistry. Chemicals and poisons. Actually, you know, it doesn't matter. I can probably find the information on the internet.’
‘Mr Flint, this is a very serious matter. Our police department is extremely understaffed at the present time and we can't simply start sending out officers every time someone wants to ask us some inane questions. We really are very busy.’
‘No, yes, I understand. I'm very sorry. Next time I'll carry out my own research.’
‘Very well. Now, on to the matter of Charlie Sparks.’ Hardwick and Flint glanced at each other, both hoping that the conversation wouldn't move on to this subject. ‘You mentioned on the phone that you wanted to speak to us about some information.’
‘Well, no. That was a mistake. It was just about the poisons, that's all.’
‘Mr Flint, you told our desk sergeant that you were calling about the murder of Charlie Sparks.’
‘I see. Yes, slip of the tongue, I'm afraid. Just the poisons.’
‘Mr Flint, we're not investigating any murder in relation to the death of Charlie Sparks,’ DI Warner said, standing and moving towards the door. ‘The reasons for his death are unknown, but he was an overweight man. A smoker and a drinker. Needless to say, we're not currently treating his death as suspicious. Of course, should that change, you'll be the first to know,’ he added with a thinly-veiled threat.
As DI Warner walked back down the steps from Ellis Flint's house, the up-until-now quiet DC Sam Kerrigan leant in and half-whispered to Flint: ‘I’d keep your nose out if I were you. Police business don't concern you.’
‘Doesn’t,’ Hardwick corrected, not taking his eyes from the ceiling.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Police work doesn't concern us. Is a basic grasp of the English language not a requirement in the police force nowadays?’
DC Kerrigan stared at Hardwick for a few moments before raising a cocky smile and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, began to follow DI Warner down the steps, turning only to add: ‘We'll be seeing you again, gents.’
The door closed, Flint postulated, ‘So what do we do now?’
‘Nothing,’ Hardwick responded. ‘That is to say, nothing different. We just need to make sure we keep away from the noses of Detective Inspector Warner and Detective Constable Kerrigan while we continue our own investigations.’
‘Good idea. The fact that the police aren't even yet treating Charlie Sparks's death as suspicious says to me that we've something of a head-start,’ Flint added.
‘It's not a competition,’ Hardwick responded. ‘It's the pure and simple fact that somewhere out there, a killer is on the loose. And we're the only two people in the world who are looking for him.’
‘Or her,’ Flint remarked.
‘Indeed. Or her,’ Hardwick murmured pensively.
9
The late-afternoon sky had turned a mellow purple and the almost-faded light cast silhouettes all the way to the horizon. Hardwick's house was silent but for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
He sat looking at a notebook which he could barely see in the low light, yet he knew exactly what the words said. Exhaling and removing his reading glasses, Hardwick reached for the bakelite telephone and dialled the number.
‘Mr Allen, it's Kempston Hardwick here. We spoke at your house regarding the death of Charlie Sparks.’
‘Ah yes, good to hear from you. Have you caught the killer yet?’
‘No, but we do need to ask you for some more information if we may. Is it convenient to meet tomorrow morning?’
‘Yes, but not at home. Can we meet somewhere else?’
‘Absolutely. How does the Freemason's Arms sound?’ Hardwick suggested, listening for any hint of emotion in Patrick Allen's voice.
‘Well, that sounds fine to me. A little out of my way, but it's neutral ground, I guess. How does 11.30 sound?’
‘Perfect.’
*
The air hung crisp in the air as the sunshine failed to break through the morning mist. The Freemason's Arms was the only pub in the area that opened before midday, releasing its door catches at 10 o’clock every morning. Many locals remarked that this was quite odd for a small village pub, but it surprised none that Doug Lilley should have little else to do with his mornings.
Rubbing his hands warm again, Hardwick entered the pub and awaited the arrival of Patrick Allen. He ordered a large Campari and took a seat at a nearby table, at which he extracted a copy of that day's Times from his inside coat pocket and turned to the crossword.
When Patrick Allen did arrive, ten minutes later, Hardwick moved on immediately to the points in hand.
‘Mr Allen, you told us the other day that you own Wellington Pharmaceuticals with Charlie Sparks, otherwise known as Dave Spencer,’ Hardwick stated.
‘Owned, yes,’ Patrick Allen corrected. ‘I’ve no idea what will happen to the company now.’
‘Quite. Would you say that the chemicals stocked by your company could be quite easily used to poison a human being?’
‘Well, I suppose it's always possible. Wait. Are you suggesting that I killed Dave Spencer?’
‘That's a very quick conclusion to jump to, Mr Allen,’ Hardwick said, his back hunching slightly as he studied the man before him. ‘Tell me. Do you know of anyone who might have reason to want him dead?’
‘Blimey, only a few hundred. How many names do you want?’
‘Perhaps we could start with one, Mr Allen. Would I be correct in assuming that you'd stand to benefit from the victim's death by inheriting his half of the company?’
‘I’m not entirely sure how the legal process would work, if I'm honest,’ Patrick Allen responded. ‘Besides, the company is worth bugger all nowadays.’
‘Oh, I'm more than aware of that,’ Hardwick said, plunging his hand deep into his inside coat pocket yet again, this time extracting a few sheets of folded A4 paper. ‘You see, I went to the lengths of obtaining your company accounts, dated just two months ago. It doesn't seem that Wellington Pharmaceuticals is doing too well at all.’
‘Wait, how did you get those?’
‘Wellington Pharmaceuticals is a limited company, Mr Allen. The accounts are publicly accessible.’
‘Well, I know, but—’
‘And do you know what else is accessible?’ Hardwick asked, turning to the rearmost of his sheets of paper. Patrick Allen shook his head. ‘The set of conditions by which each company is run. You see, in general company law, the remaining shares of a deceased partner would pass to the spouse of the deceased. Looking at the documents of Wellington Pharmaceuticals, it seems that a clause was added just over four months ago.’ Hardwick turned the sheet of paper to face Patrick Allen and pointed to the paragraph which was circled in deep blue fountain pen ink.
