Prescription for Murder

by David Williams

  ‘Laurence Stricton rang me several times. The last time around six.’ This was Closter-Bennet.

  Stricton was the executive in the bank’s Corporate Finance Department who had been in charge of the Closter Drug flotation. He was young and very bright. Treasure wondered what he had made of the situation since he evidently hadn’t been given the true reason for what had happened.

  ‘My chauffeur gave me a message to ring Laurence,’ he said, glancing at the time. ‘I’ll do it in a minute. Just tell me, all the directors’ shares had been sold by three o’ clock?’

  ‘That was the arrangement, Mark.’

  The others nodded agreement with Closter-Bennet.

  ‘And the lowest price up to that point?’

  ‘Around sixty pence. It went lower still immediately after. When the evening paper came out advising people to sell. Because the Closter directors weren’t giving adequate reason for offloading their own shares. That’s what the paper said.’

  ‘And because of an unattributed report that Seromig had gone wrong. I wonder who fed that in?’ said McFee. ‘The SAE probably.’

  ‘Almost certainly,’ Treasure responded.

  ‘Anyway, the newspaper advice was reported on all the television share services. That really got small private shareholders selling with the rest.’ The Finance Director had pushed his chair away from the table and had his head bowed as he spoke, eyes focussed on the floor between his feet. ‘Laurence Stricton said the institutional selling was heavy from noon, except for some very large holders, customers of the bank, who accepted the bank’s view.’

  ‘Which was that the whole thing was caused through ill-considered action by the directors?’ Treasure put in.

  ‘Yes. And that there was definitely no setback with Seromig,’ Closter-Bennet completed, glancing up at Treasure. ‘I felt very badly about keeping Laurence in the dark.’

  ‘Mark knows we couldn’t let anyone into our confidence. Not anyone,’ said Larden abruptly.

  ‘The bank’s customers who accepted its advice shouldn’t regret it,’ said Treasure.

  ‘Did we do the right thing, Mark?’ It was Stuart Bodlin who had asked the question. This was the first time he had spoken since the banker’s arrival.

  Treasure shrugged. ‘You took a quite reasonable course.’ The words created an almost tangible sense of relief amongst the others. ‘It’s no ordinary kidnap. There’s no ransom to be collected. Until we get Dermot back, I don’t see how anyone can find out where he’s being held or who’s holding him.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘You tried delaying things. If you’d hired security specialists they’d probably have advised that. They usually do.’

  ‘You think we should have hired specialists, Mark? But … but the SAE said— ’

  ‘They said if we contacted anyone like that they’d find out,’ Larden interrupted Bodlin’s halting words.

  ‘Aye, and that the consequences for Dermot would be the same as if we’d told the police. You heard that on the tapes.’ This was McFee, who had got up and was replenishing his whisky glass from the tray of bottles on one of the bookcases. ‘We decided it would have been too great a risk to take. They sound like murdering zealots, and we took them to be just that. We made our decision and stood by it. No heel tapping.’

  Treasure admired the resolution in McFee’s tone. The determined voice at Closter directors’ meetings was usually Larden’s, but tonight it was the Scotsman who had taken over from the desperately demoralised Managing Director.

  The banker inwardly wished the group had handled the emergency in a different way, but there was no purpose in saying so now. The damage was done, but, in his view, it was possibly still repairable. Meantime Hackle appeared to be safe, and the threat to others was at least in abeyance. ‘It’d be useful if we knew the SAE’s ultimate intention,’ he said.

  ‘Haven’t they achieved it already? What else is there for them?’ asked Closter-Bennet.

  ‘If it really is them at the back of everything,’ the banker answered.

  ‘Who else could it be?’ questioned Larden.

  ‘I’ve no idea, but if it’s the SAE there’s a big flaw in their strategy. From what you’ve told me they’ve got no publicity and they’re not looking for any. There’s no suggestion that Closter has been brought down because it experiments on animals, and you’ve been forbidden ever to disclose there was a kidnap. It doesn’t fit. Crusaders, zealots as Hughie describes them, aren’t normally so reticent. It defeats their purposes.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll start crowing tomorrow,’ said McFee, returning to the table.

  Treasure shook his head. ‘But they can never do that without repairing all the damage they’ve done so far. Because they’d be disclosing the truth about what’s happened. That you’ve been criminally pressured into starting a run on the shares. That there’s nothing basically wrong with the company.’

  ‘They’ll still have crippled us all financially,’ Larden said, but leaning forward with rekindled interest.

  ‘Not necessarily. For instance, if you can buy back the shares while the price is still low.’

  ‘The SAE will still have rubbished Seromig,’ said Bodlin, with all the feeling commensurate with being the drug’s discoverer.

  ‘No. They’ll have set it back. No more than that, surely?’

  ‘Long enough possibly to make it unprofitable.’ This was Larden.

  ‘Not even that if they admit to what they’ve done,’ Treasure insisted.

  ‘So you’re saying what they’ve achieved is only short term?’ said Bodlin thoughtfully. ‘Too short term? And that can’t be enough for them?’

  ‘It might have been enough if a ransom had been paid. Providing funds for the cause of stopping animal experiments. But there hasn’t been. Even though large sums of money have been involved.’

  ‘Lost, you mean? By us?’ said Larden.

  ‘And by other shareholders, of course,’ Closter-Bennet added in a sanctimonious aside, as though his concern might be primarily for the others.

  ‘But our loss could still be someone else’s gain?’ said McFee slowly.

  ‘Precisely,’ the banker replied. ‘Otherwise, it might have made more sense for the SAE to do something much more dramatic and admit it.’

  ‘Like burning down this factory, you mean?’

  ‘That might not have done the company more long term harm, but at least it would have advertised the cause of the SAE. It’s much more the sort of thing fanatics do if they’re simply pushing a crusade.’ Treasure glanced around the faces at the table. ‘No, I think the whole thing makes more sense if the SAE, or someone behind them, have an end result in mind we don’t know about yet.’

  ‘One that can’t have been achieved so far?’ asked McFee.

  ‘Certainly.’ Treasure got up and went over to the document case he had left open on Larden’s desk. ‘By the way, there can’t be any doubt that’s Dermot’s voice on the tape?’ he asked, while removing a black leather notebook from the case.

  ‘None at all,’ said Larden. ‘It’s a bit muffled. Strained. But it’s Dermot all right.’

  ‘If there is any doubt, it’s easily resolved,’ McFee put in. ‘His voice is recognised by the voice locks in the high security wing.’

  In answer to Treasure’s puzzled expression, Bodlin explained: ‘I don’t believe you’ve been in the research labs recently, Mark. The main door is now opened by voice, in combination with a card-key.’

  ‘You mean you have to say a codeword?’

  The scientist shook his head. ‘You just need to speak. Into a receiver.’

  ‘High-tech cloak and dagger,’ said McFee with a wry smile. ‘Except one of Stuart’s boffins proved last week a tape recording works just as well as the real thing.’

  ‘The makers are trying to find out why,’ offered Bodlin, in an apologetic voice, as though he were responsible for the shortcoming. ‘Of course, you still need to use the card-key as well. But Hughie’s quite right. If that’
s Dermot’s voice on the tape the sensor will recognise it.’

  ‘Well that’s something I can settle on the way back from having a leak. Something I’ve been needing to do for some time. So if you’ll all excuse me,’ said McFee. ‘Shan’t be a jiffy.’ He picked up the tape recorder from the table and, with a nod to Treasure, left the room with it.

  The banker punched out a number on Larden’s telephone that he had read from the notebook. ‘I’m calling Laurence Stricton at his home,’ he said. ‘There’s one outside possibility we haven’t checked on yet. He will have. At least I hope so.’ He looked down at the voice-piece. ‘Hello Laurence, Mark Treasure here. Sorry it’s so late.’ He paused briefly. ‘Yes, I got your message, but I’m afraid the plane was delayed. I just got in. I’m at Closter Drug. With the directors. Anything new on their— ’ He stopped speaking to listen to Stricton. He was frowning a moment later when he put in: ‘Damn. It’s what one guessed could be happening, of course.’

  The telephone conversation lasted another two minutes and was very one-sided, Treasure making mostly monosyllabic contributions until he concluded with: ‘Look, I think we’d better meet. My house? In half an hour? I expect Bob Larden will be with me.’ He looked across at Larden who nodded. ‘And you’ll bring Fritzoller’s letter with you? Good. See you shortly then. Goodbye.’

  He put down the phone just as McFee re-entered the room with the words: ‘It’s Dermot’s voice on the tape all right. Sprung the lock like butter. But I’ll tell you something else that’s very odd, he’s— ’ The Scotsman stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Treasure’s expression. ‘Sorry. Something’s happened?’ he asked, looking round at the others.

  ‘Yes. We’ve found that elusive end purpose. With a vengeance,’ said the banker. ‘A takeover bid for this company has been formally in progress for roughly an hour. The bidder is Krontag Pharmaceuticals of Zürich. Earlier, between eight and nine o’ clock, they bought a substantial number of Closter shares, at pretty knockdown prices. We don’t know the precise number of shares yet.’

  ‘And that was the outside possibility you meant, Mark?’ asked Bodlin.

  ‘Afraid so. Alters the scenario a lot, of course.’

  ‘But … but the stock market’s been closed for hours,’ protested Closter-Bennet.

  ‘Not in Tokyo it hasn’t,’ said Treasure. ‘All the orders were put through the Japanese offices of London security houses there. The deals can’t be confirmed till morning, but they’ll be honoured first thing.’ He snapped his case shut. ‘The eight London security firms who’ve been making markets in Closter shares were only too pleased to unload them after hours this evening. At first, at almost any price. They were all expecting the price to go down again tomorrow.’

  ‘But it’ll have gone up again by now?’ said McFee.

  ‘Naturally. But the Krontag brokers made most of the killing before anyone twigged what was happening. They arranged to have the orders spread between the market makers, all of whom were operating with a caretaker staff at that time of night. Laurence is sure Krontag will have picked up more than thirty per cent of the company, and quite a bit of it at below fifty pence a share.’

  ‘But with thirty per cent they had to make a formal takeover bid for the rest. That’s the regulation.’ This was Closter-Bennet in a tone now combining both bewilderment and outrage.

  ‘They have. Mark just said so,’ said Larden brusquely, bringing the knuckles of his clenched fists together.

  Treasure nodded. ‘A letter to me from Doctor Willy Fritzoller, the Chairman of Krontag, was handed in at Grenwood, Phipps at nine. Much earlier, Miss Gaunt, my secretary, got what was made to sound like a routine call from a secretary at another merchant bank, saying a letter was on the way to me this evening from one of their customers. She wasn’t told the subject or the name of the customer. Miss Gaunt smelled a rat and sensibly told Laurence Stricton. They both stayed on to accept the letter. The other bank was probably hoping it wouldn’t be opened till the morning. Ethically, though, they’d covered themselves with the advance message.’

  ‘Which bank is it?’ asked Larden.

  ‘Schenlau. They were playing a tactical game, of course. Under the regulations, Krontag had to admit they held more than five per cent of the shares once that was the case, but they weren’t obliged to announce a formal takeover bid for the whole company till they owned thirty per cent. That happened probably around nine o’clock.’

  ‘But through deals that still can’t be confirmed till morning?’ This was Closter-Bennet.

  ‘That’s true. In the circumstances that’s a technicality, but one no doubt they’ll quote later to emphasise the apparent rectitude of their actions. You see they stopped buying on the open market at nine, and announced their bid and the price they were offering in the letter to me. Any shares they acquired after that would need to have been bought at the Krontag formal bid price.’

  ‘Which is?’ asked Larden and Closter-Bennet, almost in unison.

  ‘One pound twenty-five pence a share. That’s the minimum price they could offer to comply with the Takeover Code.’

  ‘Being the highest price paid for our shares in the last six months,’ said Closter-Bennet dolefully.

  ‘Or more precisely in the last seven days, since Closter only went public last week,’ Treasure continued. ‘I believe— ’

  ‘It’s inconceivable!’ Larden thundered suddenly, this time banging the table with his fists.

  ‘That a company of the eminence of Krontag should be mixed up in a kidnap?’ said Treasure. ‘I agree.’

  ‘But what’s the alternative?’

  The banker sniffed. ‘Coincidence?’ He picked up his case. ‘We’ll have to see. You ready to leave, Bob?’

  Chapter Eleven

  Dr Willy Fritzoller, in his middle sixties, was a courteous, stooping bear of a man. His immense head was strangely square, an impression heightened by the cut of the close-cropped, wiry grey hair which seemed to flatten the top of his skull. ‘You are alone, Mr Treasure? This is not what I had expected,’ he said, as the two shook hands.

  ‘There’s a reason.’

  ‘So. And you must have started very early this morning?’ The voice was low and powerful, the consonants distinct.

  ‘By New York time, yes. I was there yesterday. Flew into London last night. But perhaps you knew that?’

  The other shook his head. ‘Only that it’s unfair for you to have travelled again so soon.’

  ‘I’m used to it. I’m only glad you were free this morning.’

  The Swiss-German bowed gravely in an overly mannered way. ‘If you’d come in the middle of the night, I’d have been available, Mr Treasure. For so distinguished a visitor.’ The lids over the dark eyes opened wider and lowered again in a fluid, characteristic movement before the speaker went on. ‘And how is Lord Grenwood?’

  ‘Berty’s very well, thank you.’

  ‘We meet sometimes at Ascot races. Royal Ascot, yes. Also, once, I remember, at Christie’s. During a sale. That was a few years ago. He’s retired now, I believe?’

  ‘He’s still titular Chairman of Grenwood, Phipps.’

  ‘But not active. Not since you became Chief Executive. Also I see the bank has become even more successful under your leadership. And you have time for important outside directorships.’ The eyelids made their double, punctuating movement again. ‘Like the chairmanship of Closter Drug.’

  ‘The bank has an enduring interest in the company.’

  ‘Of course.’ Fritzoller considered for a moment. ‘You understand the present situation is a little embarrassing for me?’ He spoke slowly and with feeling. ‘More than a little.’ He gave an enquiring smile, eyes searching for a reaction.

  ‘I can imagine it might be.’

  ‘Business affairs used to be more civilised.’ The big hands unclasped then stayed in an abject pose. ‘Letters are now delivered at dead of night. Shares are bought through stock exchanges that never sleep. Tch! Who wants such t
hings?’ The shoulders heaved a dismissal. ‘But that’s the way it is.’ Both hands were now thrust deep into the side pockets of the dark, generously cut jacket. ‘But I’m forgetting my duties as a host. Some coffee perhaps? It’s ready over there. Come and sit down?’

  They were in Fritzoller’s office on the top floor of the Krontag Tower in the industrial suburb of Glattbrugg, eight kilometres north of Zürich, but only four kilometres south of the airport.

  The sixteen-storey tower was on high ground in the middle of the Krontag factory complex – something even more substantial than Treasure had expected. Though the company had remained private, it was one of the world’s ten largest pharmaceutical manufacturers.

  The low-ceilinged corner room, with two curtained glass walls, had been designed as a private study. External sound was excluded. The cooled air came without any suspicion of draught. Internal sounds were muted by deep carpeting and heavy wood panelling. There was a collection of well-lit paintings displayed along the two inside walls. Amongst the pictures, Treasure had identified a Pissarro, a small Corot, and what was unmistakably one of the Picasso ‘blue period’ oils of circus clowns.

  Willy Fritzoller was a renowned collector of fine art, an indulgence that in terms of cost, at least, fitted with his being the largest shareholder in Krontag, as well as its Chairman. The banker felt that the paintings by themselves had justified the several identity checks he had gone through from the main gates of the factory onwards. He mused also that tape recordings would certainly not be acceptable door-openers in any of the top security zones at Krontag.

  The part of the room to which the two men now took themselves was away from the ornate, antique partner’s desk where Fritzoller had been seated on the visitor’s arrival. Here there were winged armchairs, in soft leather, grouped in a semicircle to offer panoramic outside views. To the east was the Zürichberg range of mountains, shrouded now in a green-blue haze. To the south, beyond the city skyline in the middle distance, there were glimpses of the Lake of Zürich, sparkling in the mid-morning sunlight.