Prescription for Murder

by David Williams

  Doris had been downstairs, dressed in a négligé, having breakfast when her husband had arrived home. He had been later than expected. She had warned him already that she was going to be late for the office. But she needn’t have been concerned about his delaying her with amorous demands. He really preferred love-making first thing, and so far as Bert’s body clock was concerned, this was the middle of the night. He’d scarcely had the energy to kiss her, let alone attempt anything bolder.

  ‘From when I clocked on,’ he recounted, his voice slurred, eyes half closed. ‘From the first minute, it was nonstop. Not a break all shift.’ He yawned loudly. ‘Tell a lie. There was a lull around three. Short one. Rest of the time you’d have thought all Chiswick was one bloody great gas leak. Whole area about to blow up.’ He leaned heavily on one elbow while rearranging his pillows.

  ‘Real leaks were they, then?’ She was wriggling into her dress.

  ‘No. Equipment faults mostly.’ He watched her, not so much dispassionately as resigned to inaction. ‘The punters say there’s leaks so you get there in a hurry. Emergency service. Don’t fool nobody though.’

  ‘That’s dishonest. To say there’s a leak if there isn’t. Could be dangerous too. I mean if there’s a real leak somewhere and no one left to go to it.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Bert yawned again. He wasn’t affronted by the wiles of British Gas customers, just inured to them. ‘Four hours’ overtime, though, altogether. Really short-handed, the Chiswick depot.’ The overtime was the compensation. He didn’t earn as much as Doris when he worked normal hours. It was the overtime that levelled things. He smacked his lips as he watched her close the wardrobe.

  The noise made her think he was changing his mind about getting her into bed. ‘I can’t— ’ she began.

  ‘Did I say who I saw?’ he interrupted without realising it. ‘From your office?’ His eyes, nose and lips were tightly crunched together as he did a memory dredge. ‘What’s that director’s name?’

  ‘Mr Larden?’

  ‘No.’ He sighed, scratched his left crutch, and wished he hadn’t started telling her. ‘No,’ he repeated. It seemed he had given up the effort of explaining further, until he said hoarsely: ‘It was the one I did the installing job for. Heaters in stables. For cash. In the country. Village outside Maidenhead.’

  ‘You mean Closter-Bennet?’ She had moved to the dressing table to make up her face.

  ‘Expect so.’ His eyes were closed again, then they opened briefly. ‘Yeah. I remember now. Same name as the company. They’re the ones with all the money, you said.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He took a long breath through his nose, swallowed, then cleared his throat, making a noise like an overcharged blow-lamp.

  ‘Bert, give over,’ his wife exclaimed.

  He made a sighing noise instead. ‘In a Chiswick cut-price supermarket, anyway. Half six on a Wednesday night. Not in the Closter-Bennet style. Slumming. That’s what I thought,’ he said.

  ‘People shop around these days. After something special perhaps.’ Or more like Mr Closter-Bennet had forgotten something his wife had told him to pick up, she thought, so he’d had to find a late shopping store: Chiswick was a bit out of the way for him of course. Perhaps he’d been to London. They said Mrs Closter-Bennet was a tartar at home, though she’d always been pleasant enough to Doris when they’d met. ‘Anyway, Chiswick’s not slumming,’ Doris said aloud. ‘Look at the cost of houses there. Mr Larden’s wife is always decorating places in Chiswick. She’s an interior designer. Often gets work there. He told me. Chiswick or Wapping. That’s the other place that’s come on.’ She widened her lips at the mirror as she applied her lipstick. ‘Mr Larden doesn’t like her going to Wapping though. I can tell. Too far. The other side of London. Keeps her away from home too long, I expect. Of course, it used to be a terrible area, Wapping.’

  She looked around as his broken breathing turned into heavy snoring.

  ‘Watch it, Doris Tanner,’ she said to herself. ‘Your man’s gone to sleep on you. Poor lamb.’

  It wasn’t until later that she was made to wonder more seriously what Giles Closter-Bennet could have been doing in Chiswick the night before.

  It was nearly eight o’clock in the evening of the same day when Mark Treasure, showered, and changed into casual clothes, joined his wife for drinks before dinner in the first-floor drawing room of their house in Cheyne Walk. They had intended to be outside in the garden but the temperature had dropped unexpectedly and a chill wind was blowing.

  ‘I went to Ealing to see Rosemary Hackle this afternoon,’ said Molly from an armchair near the fireplace, closing the book on her lap. She had been on the telephone when the banker had got home, then, later, in the kitchen preparing their meal. This was their first chance to talk since breakfast. ‘Rosemary’s taking it all very well. Mary Ricini was there. She actually seemed more affected than Rosemary.’

  ‘Tearful, you mean?’ Treasure was pouring himself a whisky at the trolley near the door.

  ‘Numb. She was going through the motions of being a help to Rosemary, but at moments it seemed to me the rôles were reversed.’ Molly picked up her unsweetened tonic water laced with a token amount of gin. The drink still seemed raffish after a week on lemon juice. ‘They went together to identify the body this morning. I don’t know who was supporting whom then.’

  ‘D’you suppose Mary was still emotionally involved with Dermot?’

  ‘Of course she was. You could see that the night she came here. After the Savoy dinner. She hadn’t come just to be bitchy about Jane Larden.’

  ‘Surely she came to tell us that Dermot was making a play for Jane? That was after a lot of heart searching, as she said. She knew a liaison between those two could wreck Dermot’s relations with Bob Larden, and with it the future of the company. I remember her words quite clearly. Bit ingenuous to think I could do anything about it, of course. She came here on impulse. Probably regretted it later. But I think her motives were right. Responsible too.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Molly. ‘She admitted she and Dermot had just had an affair. She was obviously hoping you’d talk Dermot into letting Jane alone.’

  ‘So he’d go back to his wife. His long-suffering wife. Mary made it plain enough it was because of Rosemary she’d broken with Dermot herself.’

  ‘Also nonsense. I’m sure he broke with her. Mary simply wanted to get him back.’

  ‘I think you’re being uncharitable.’

  ‘No, darling, just realistic.’

  He came over with his drink, taking the chair opposite Molly, on the other side of the fireplace. ‘I gather Mary really has been a pillar of strength to Rosemary and the children since Monday morning.’

  ‘That’s conscience probably. As for her theory about Jane, thinking back, it was perfectly obvious at dinner that night that it was Jane who was making off with Dermot, not the other way around. And that she must have been at it for some time before. I remember feeling vexed that Jane had been telling me the week before how attractive Dermot was to all the women at Closter. I wonder any of them got a look in with Jane on the prowl.’

  Treasure stretched his long legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. ‘I must live a very sheltered life,’ he said, eyeing his shoes blankly.

  ‘Just busy, I expect, darling. With no time for trivia,’ said Molly tolerantly, before taking another sip of her drink. ‘So tell me about today. Were you at the Closter factory?’

  ‘No. At the Stock Exchange most of the time. Dealings in Closter shares have been suspended till Monday. Meantime, all transactions since last Tuesday are to be scrutinised.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Needed to be. On balance, this part of the business is another tragedy. Sort of episode that hangs over a company for ever. But it’s unavoidable. The Stock Exchange Council and the Securities and Investments Board both accepted our evidence that the directors’s shares were sold under duress.’

  ‘So will a
ll those sales be cancelled?’

  ‘Yes. On the request of any seller. Any sale that was made at below a hundred and twenty-five pence a share.’

  ‘That’s Krontag’s bid price?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But what about the people who bought Closter shares?’

  ‘Their deals will be cancelled.’

  ‘So can they buy again at the Krontag bid price?’

  ‘At the market price on Monday morning. That’s likely to be a lot higher than a hundred and twenty-five pence. Effectively, of course, there was only one buyer this week.’

  ‘Krontag?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But other people besides Closter directors sold shares in a panic, too.’

  ‘They can all have the sales cancelled. It’ll be on the TV news tonight, probably. In the papers tomorrow, certainly. Krontag have turned Queen’s Evidence, as it were. Through their London bankers. They’ve shopped Lybred and Greet in the process. Krontag have disclaimed all knowledge of the kidnap, and that’s being presented as fact in the news announcement.’

  ‘Will the disclaimer do for the police too?’

  ‘Depends on whether the Fraud Squad decides to investigate. It’s their pidgeon, not the ordinary CID’s.’

  ‘Even with Dermot dying?’

  ‘Yes. Assuming it was a natural death. And nobody’s suggested otherwise. The Fraud Squad probably won’t be interested. Too busy with more complex things. It’s an open and shut sort of case, with all financial losses about to be made good. Criminal proceedings against Lybred and Greet would involve complicated extraditions. Helga Greet is still in a coma. Her American partner Lybred can’t be found. Skipped probably.’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Much better to forget the whole thing.’

  ‘Better for Closter?’

  ‘Especially for Closter.’ He paused. ‘And in view of the dead Dermot’s somewhat enigmatic rôle.’

  ‘Why enigmatic?’

  ‘Because it’s not clear if he was co-operating with the kidnappers. I think he must have been, but it’s only a theory. He could have been bought over by them. After they took him.’

  ‘You mean he wasn’t a real prisoner in that flat? How d’ you know that?’

  ‘I don’t. It’s pure speculation, but it bothers me, along with a few other unfounded possibilities. But since they don’t bother anyone else, much better to ignore them.’ He took a handful of cashew nuts from a dish on a side table. ‘In a sense it’s a pity there’s still life in the takeover. Krontag are surrendering claim to all the shares they’ve bought, except for their original holding. But they still want to take over Closter. That will almost certainly mean they’ll have to increase their offer price.’

  ‘Is that good or bad?’

  ‘Depends on the price. And the attitude of a majority of the shareholders, of course. The Chairman of the Stock Exchange believes the Secretary of State was intending to refer the bid to the Monopolies Commission anyway. That’s what he told me this evening.’

  ‘Will that stop the bid?’

  ‘It’ll delay it certainly. For about six months. And stop it if the Monopolies Commission turns it down. That was always a possibility, of course.’

  ‘Because Closter is a little company that needs protecting from Big Brother?’

  Treasure chuckled. ‘Not quite, but it’s a nice thought. No. The Monopolies Commission would simply have to decide whether Krontag owning Closter would unduly increase Krontag’s power to control a market. Krontag already have a large piece of the painkiller market, and that’s also where Closter are strongest – and will be stronger still if Seromig succeeds. I’m anxious to have Stuart Bodlin’s opinion on that one. Unfortunately he’s gone missing. Since around four yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Disappeared?’

  ‘Mmm. Nothing so unusual for Bodlin apparently, and nothing to get alarmed about either. Still, it’s highly inconvenient after what’s happened. Anyway, we need his input on the monopoly matter.’

  ‘Is the Government bothered because Krontag is a foreign company?’ Molly asked, just as there was a long ring on the front door bell.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said Treasure, heaving himself out of the chair. ‘Funny time to call, whoever it is,’ he complained as he left the room.

  When he returned, Detective Inspector Furlong was with him.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Treasure,’ said the policeman.

  ‘Not at all. Nice surprise,’ Molly smiled. ‘You look as if you might be thirsty. Sit down and join the drinking.’

  ‘Thank you. A tonic water would be fine. Very kind.’

  ‘Ice, Inspector?’ asked Treasure from the trolley.

  ‘Yes, thanks very much.’ Furlong sat on the sofa close to Molly’s chair – carefully, on the edge, and without leaning back to disturb the cushions. ‘I’ll try not to keep you too long.’ His whole trunk had gone through a sharp forward and backward movement on the last words.

  ‘So there’s been a development over Hackle’s death?’ The banker put the glass and a dish of nuts on a table beside the other man.

  ‘Several developments, as a matter of fact, sir. Mr Hackle died of drug poisoning. From ingesting a minute quantity of a veterinary anaesthetic made by Closter. It’s called … er— ’ Furlong, was pulling out a notebook.

  ‘Bovetormaz, I suppose,’ Treasure supplied unexpectedly spreading out the syllables. ‘Poor chap. How simply awful. It’s an injection. Used on farms and in zoos. For operations on large animals. It’s lethal in humans. Even in the smallest quantity. I’ve never really understood how anything so dangerous is allowed at all.’

  ‘Normally it’s only used by vets, sir.’

  ‘I know. Always with an antidote handy. And someone else to inject it, in case of accident. You still wouldn’t catch me near any of it.’ He moved back to his chair. ‘Closter make the antidote too.’

  ‘The cause of death wasn’t clear till the post mortem. The indications were exactly like a cardiac arrest.’

  ‘He was injected with the stuff?’

  ‘No, sir. Scratched with something. Probably a hypodermic needle, with enough of the drug on it to kill him. But it wasn’t a proper injection.’

  ‘The scratch on the back of his neck that the doctor noticed?’

  ‘That was it, Mrs Treasure.’ Furlong rapidly pushed a hand through his curly fair hair. Then he did it again.

  ‘Could he have done it himself?’ Treasure asked.

  ‘Not likely. Not in view of the position for a start. And we haven’t found the needle. If he’d done it himself, accidentally or otherwise, the needle or whatever he’d used would have been near the body, or in the room at least.’

  ‘Did he die immediately?’

  ‘About thirty seconds after the scratch. Oh, and the time of death is estimated as between six forty and seven twenty.’

  ‘So now you’re treating it as— ’

  ‘Suspected murder, I’m afraid, sir. I rang you at your office earlier this evening but you’d just left. Mr Closter-Bennet wasn’t in either.’

  ‘Could Dermot have got hold of some Bova-whatever-it-is?’ asked Molly.

  ‘Yes, I suppose. Not that easily, though,’ her husband replied. ‘Closter directors must have access to the company products. For legitimate reasons. But I don’t believe this stuff would be issued without stringent precautions.’

  ‘The high-ups in most companies usually know how to get round regulations of that kind, sir. And it’s not necessarily Mr Hackle who did the purloining in this instance, of course.’

  Treasure debated for a moment. ‘Unless he had some in a sample case. He was on a marketing trip after all. What if he’d had it hidden? Was about to use it on his captors and … and the strategy went wrong?’

  ‘We’ve thought of that, sir. Bit fanciful. There was no sample case. No sign of a struggle— ’

  ‘The SAE of course,’ Molly interrupted suddenly. ‘Whether or not it exists as a proper group, wouldn’t
anyone involved in animal rights be involved with vets too? Might even be a vet?’

  ‘That’s possible, Mrs Treasure. Except’ – he paused – ‘the other important thing I have to tell you is Helga Greet regained consciousness at noon today. She was normal enough to be interviewed after the first hour. I’ve spoken twice to the Swiss police officer who’s liaising with us. When they told her about Mr Hackle’s death, Miss Greet confessed to a lot of things.’

  ‘To the murder?’ demanded Treasure.

  ‘No. The opposite. She’s scared stiff. Says the SAE was a stage army. Recruited by her for a demonstration in London, at the direction of Mr Hackle. Part of a plan he cooked up. He also leaked information to the Evening Standard ahead of a news conference.’

  ‘We wondered who’d done that,’ said Treasure.

  ‘She says it was to make the demo there more credible. If that makes sense, sir?’

  ‘It does, yes.’

  ‘Anyway, she insists there was no real kidnap. That was also staged by Mr Hackle. The Irishman on the telephone was him all the time. Seems he was good at imitating accents.’

  ‘Very good,’ put in Molly.

  ‘Hackle and Greet were setting up the situation that would get Closter Drug on the cheap for Krontag. Mr Hackle stood to benefit to the tune of a million pounds if it worked. On a sort of commission paid by her company, Lybred and Greet. She swears the Krontag people weren’t party to the plot.’

  ‘Astute of her to swear to that,’ said Treasure. ‘If it were suggested they were party to it, there’d be criminal proceedings against them in Switzerland involving her as well as them. As it is, any court action looks like being in England. Extraditing her to this country might present difficulties.’

  ‘Surely you can extradite easily for murder?’ Molly questioned.

  ‘Extradition’s never easy, Mrs Treasure.’ Furlong spoke feelingly, as though he had tried it and failed.

  ‘And do you believe Miss Greet’s story, Inspector?’ asked Treasure.

  The policeman rocked forwards and backwards making a pained face. ‘Too pat, you mean, sir? Too easy to invent now Mr Hackle’s dead? We hadn’t bought it. Except’ – he hesitated, glanced at Molly, then cleared his throat – ‘we have other reasons for believing Mr Hackle wasn’t exactly a prisoner.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘The pathologist’s report says he’d had sexual intercourse with a woman shortly before he died.’