Absolute Poison

by Evans, Geraldine

  Rafferty nodded. That was something else he'd already deduced.

  Sam smiled with a return of his usual black humour and added, “He'd be more concerned with getting to the lavatory, and then, by the time the convulsions and paralysis took hold, and the realization came to him that he was seriously ill, he would be unable to get help.” He shook his head. “A nasty death. A very nasty death.”

  “Around lunchtime,” Rafferty repeated thoughtfully.

  As though suspecting Rafferty's repetition of the phrase questioned his judgement, Sam remarked tartly, “Such is my humble prognosis, though if you'd like a second opinion…“ He let the words hang in the air as he tightened his scarf with force enough to strangle a lesser man.

  Although he was inclined to tease the irascible Scot by saying he'd consult Smales, Rafferty judged it prudent to forego the pleasure and he shook his head. Sam's recent bereavement had increased his irritability and nowadays the only teasing he could stomach was his own.

  “No?” Sam gave him a tiny smile which told Rafferty the doctor knew perfectly well the extent of his temptation. “Very well. In that case, I'll make an effort to carry out the post-mortem this evening.” He paused and produced another smile, one that didn't bode well for somebody. “And seeing as young Smales has such a particular interest in the case it would be a kindness to let him attend.”

  Like Rafferty, Smales did his best to avoid post-mortems. But, unlike Rafferty, Smales, with the carelessness of youth, had neglected to keep this repugnance to himself.

  It was clear Sam was going to make sure that in future Smales thought twice about trying to steal his professional thunder. Rafferty, who had tried and failed on various occasions to get Smales to control his schoolboy enthusiasm for corpses—whole ones, anyway—wasn't averse to trying a harsher method.

  “You know me, Sam,” he remarked airily. “Like you, I'm all for encouraging the young. Of course he can go. Just give me time to wheel in a replacement.”

  Sam, not being a believer in compromise, went for the full complement of victims. “You'll be there, of course?”

  Rafferty made his excuses. “Afraid I've got too much to do at this end.” Besides, he was damned if the old bugger was going to get two sacrificial victims for his officially-sanctioned sadism. “Seems our late cadaver is not only likely to be seriously unlamented, but would have brought up the rear in a popularity contest that included the entire ranks of both Labour and Tory parties. Anyway,” he added waspishly, as Sam's knowing grin made him forget his earlier wise resolution, “you”ll hardly need me. Not with young Dr Smales there to hand you your knives.”

  Thankfully, just then, Llewellyn interrupted to let Rafferty know that the key holder had arrived and he was able to make his escape before Sam was tempted to stick a knife into him.

  “So what killed him?” In the way of Americans, Hal Gallagher, the key holder and deputy manager, was upfront with both curiosity and questions.

  Rafferty was surprised to find an American at such a small firm; he had always considered them a go-getting people and he thought it unlikely go-getting tendencies would find much scope at Aimhurst And Son.

  Although now obviously pushing sixty, with little worry lines radiating out from his eyes, Hal Gallagher still had a fresh-faced ruddiness that was more usually seen in a younger man. He had a rangy figure that would look more at home riding a horse than an office chair. “Was that guy I saw going out the sawbones?”

  Rafferty nodded. He wondered how long the American had lived in England; he had certainly lost little of his accent, which sounded as rough as the Brooklynese Rafferty was familiar with from the American films he had devoured in their hundreds in his youth.

  He drew Gallagher along the corridor to the empty office. Llewellyn followed. “You must prepare yourself for a shock,” Rafferty said. “I'm afraid Clive Barstaple was almost certainly poisoned. Of course, we'll know for sure after the post-mortem.”

  Gallagher whistled softly. “You mean somebody waste-killed him I take it?”

  Rafferty was amused at Gallagher's gangsterese. It sounded like a throwback to an earlier era and he wondered if the American had consciously adopted more vigorous expressions as a way of retaining his identity so far from home. “Let's put it this way—he's dead, and if our supposition as to the cause is correct, no one in their right mind would choose this particular poison as a means of suicide. Nor does it seem likely that Mr Barstaple took it by accident.” Rafferty paused. “You don't seem very surprised, Mr Gallagher.”

  Gallagher shrugged. “I guess I'm not. Clive wasn't a real nice guy.”

  Rafferty nodded. “Tell me, sir, have you any idea what else—apart from the nut yoghurt that was discarded in his wastebin—Mr Barstaple might have eaten today?”

  Gallagher frowned. “There was a large dish of prawns defrosting in the kitchen this morning. I guess they were Clive's. He generally went out for lunch, but he's been on a diet for the past few weeks and tended to stick with the kind of stuff that didn't need cooking, like supermarket prawns, smoked salmon and so on. Nothing but the best for Clive.”

  Rafferty nodded again. Seemed Barstaple's diet was a happy coincidence for somebody. He'd already checked the kitchen. There were no dirty dishes in the sink. He mentioned as much to Gallagher. “Would Mr Barstaple have washed the plate and cutlery himself?”

  Gallagher laughed. “Hell, no. Clive do dishes? No way. At most, he'd have stacked them in the sink for the cleaners.”

  Maybe Eric Penn had cleared them away while he was waiting for the kettle to boil, thought Rafferty. He asked Llewellyn to check it out.

  There was short silence which Gallagher broke. “Perhaps I ought to warn you to expect a visit from Watts And Cutley's big cheese, Alistair Plumley. I can't say when exactly, but I left messages all over for him when your sergeant rang me with the news of Barstaple's death.”

  Rafferty frowned. “Watts And Cutley?” The firm was well-known and had various branches up and down the country. Rafferty didn't understand what they could have to do with this case and said as much.

  “We were taken over by them four months ago,” Gallagher explained

  “I see.” Even if Watts And Cutley had taken over Aimhurst And Son, Rafferty thought it odd that Gallagher should have so quickly informed the boss of the parent company of Barstaple's death, especially as, at the time of the phone call, it hadn't been confirmed that the death was suspicious. The close-mouthed Llewellyn would certainly not have let such a detail slip. “Is it usual to immediately notify a man of Mr Plumley's importance when an employee dies on the premises?”

  Gallagher laughed again. Rafferty wondered if it was his imagination that the American's manner seemed more uptight than before.

  “No, of course not. But Clive Barstaple was his man; reported directly to him. My job would be on the line if I didn't tell him asap. Alistair Plumley doesn't like people dying on the premises, Inspector, from whatever cause. Apart from being bad for the Company image, it shows a sad lack of team spirit—Watts And Cutley are hot on team spirit. Plumley likes his employees to die in their own time and on their own premises, not those of the Company.”

  Rafferty couldn't help wondering—if dying a natural death on Watts And Cutley's premises was regarded as showing a sad lack of team spirit—in what light an employee who had the temerity to get himself murdered there would be regarded. But rather than comment on this, Rafferty restricted himself to expressing surprise that such a large and diverse concern as Watts And Cutley should be interested in a small firm like Aimhurst And Son.

  Gallagher enlightened him. “The best things come in small packages, Inspector, isn't that what they say? In this case, Watts And Cutley wanted to get their hands on a nifty little mechanical gadget we hold the patent on—the Aimhurst Widget—to give it its non-technical name. This gadget is used in any number of household appliances and our workshop in Lincoln churns them out in their hundreds of thousands. It's a very profitable line. So w
hen Robert Aimhurst, the founder of the firm, died last year, they saw their chance, moved in and made his son a very attractive offer which, unfortunately for us, he chose to take. Which is how Clive Barstaple came on the scene as interim manager. His unofficial brief was rationalization.”

  Rafferty nodded. Rationalization was, he knew, just one of a whole dictionary of euphemisms used by bosses to avoid the use of more emotive expressions. Nowadays, instead of being fired you were iced or forced into an involuntary career event. You weren't made redundant, you were downsized or de-hired.

  Rafferty had no time for the minds and attitudes that had created such expressions. As if the dole queue by any other name wouldn't still smell of poverty, deprivation and despair.

  “Unofficial brief, you said?”

  Gallagher nodded. “I guess Gareth—Robert Aimhurst's son—had just enough regard for the old guy to insert a clause into the deal with Watts And Cutley guaranteeing the continued employment of the current workers—unless they gave due cause for dismissal—that's where Clive Barstaple and the unofficial rationalization came in.”

  Llewellyn interrupted. “Excuse me, sir, but how did you know about this clause? Was it generally known?”

  Gallagher nodded. “I made it my business to spread the knowledge around once I knew. When the takeover was announced, I took young Gareth out and got him drunk so I could find out the ins and outs of the deal. It didn't take more than a couple of large ones. He blabbed it all out, seemed to think me and the rest of the staff should be grateful he'd spared us a thought. As if we didn't know the bottom line of the deal as well as he did. Large concerns like Watts And Cutley always find a way to ease out staff they don't want. And they have; three have left since Christmas, two of them on the verge of nervous breakdowns. Another one is managing to cling on, though taking such a combination of painkillers, anti-depressants and sleeping pills he's likely to rationalize himself out of the world not just the job. Not bad going in a few short months.”

  Llewellyn interrupted again. “Did nobody make representations to senior management about Mr Barstaple's methods? I would have thought you could have used this clause you mentioned as a bargaining counter.”

  Gallagher looked steadily at him. “What would be the point? They were the ones who wrote Clive's brief. Watts And Cutley wanted rid of the bulk of the staff without contravening Gareth Aimhurst's clause and laying themselves open to possible financial penalties. It's my guess they gave Barstaple six months to do it.”

  “Did none of the staff who resigned consider pursuing the matter through an industrial tribunal? From what you say, the way they were forced out amounts to constructive dismissal.”

  Currently hyper-sensitive on the subject of dismissal, whether constructive or otherwise, Rafferty gave a cynical laugh. “And who would be likely to employ them in the future if they had something like that on their work record?” he demanded. Thoughts of Superintendent Bradley and the “bargain” suit ma had obtained for Llewellyn had brought too many sleepless nights for him to be able to ignore the consequences of folly. “Can't you just imagine the scene if they got as far as a job interview?”

  Rafferty grabbed Llewellyn's file of papers, adopted a nose in the air manner and intoned, “I see your last firm was Watts And Cutley. Tell me, Mr/Mrs/Ms Blank, did you leave there suddenly? Only I notice you can't have had another job to go to as you've been unemployed since you left.”

  Handing Llewellyn back his file, he said, “See? Even if they omitted to mention the industrial tribunal on the application form, they'd be bound to put the facts of their employment down; their P45 would reveal it if they didn't. Employers always want details of your last employer. Can't you just imagine what Barstaple or the bosses at Watts And Cutley would tell any prospective employer who contacted them?”

  Llewellyn stood his ground. “There are laws against giving unfair references, you know and-”

  “Try proving someone's lied about you when the real reference is given over the phone. By the time Barstaple had finished, no employer would touch you with a protectively-clothed barge pole. Mr Gallagher's right. Stick up for yourself by going to a tribunal and you're branded a troublemaker; the bosses know it, the workers—those with any sense—know it, even what remains of the Trade Union's muscle know it. Though there's always a few brave souls who go for it. Even if their old firm's forced to take them back it's likely to be what your Ancient Romans would call a pyrric victory.”

  Now Gallagher added his two-pennyworth. “The inspector's right. Employment protection laws can only protect you so far. In reality, if you work for a firm determined to get you out you'd need to be a real tough cookie to either cling on or fight. I could tell you a few tales from the States that would give you goosebumps. I guess Clive Barstaple took lessons from a master. For sure, he knew more than one way to skin a rabbit, more than one way to encourage staff to de-hire themselves. From a caring, family firm, this place has become hell on earth in a few short months. Most of us have been clinging to the cliff like reluctant lemmings, waiting for Barstaple to ice us.”

  Surprised that Gallagher should be so frank in the circumstances, Rafferty observed, “And now somebody's iced him.”

  “Couldn't happen to a more deserving guy.”

  Gallagher had been very informative. Rafferty wondered why. He also thought it interesting that he should also confirm that Barstaple had worked late fairly often. Certainly, he had stayed at the office at least once a week till getting on for seven o'clock. It was a direct contradiction of Ada Collins’ evidence. Of course, she had said she usually cleaned the ground floor, so it was possible she had never encountered him. Still, it was curious and he made a mental note to look further into it.

  Rafferty left Gallagher and Llewellyn in the empty office to await the arrival of Alistair Plumley and returned upstairs. The Scene of Crime team were still busy.

  As though drawn by an invisible magnet, Rafferty found himself standing in the doorway of Barstaple's office. He closed his eyes, forced himself to ignore the still-lingering odours as well as the idle comments of the SOCOs, and let the atmosphere of the place seep into him.

  Even now, though the coroner's officer had authorized the removal of Barstaple's body, Rafferty could feel the man's presence. He didn't need to read again the many management-speak communications that were pinned to the general noticeboard—each signed by the dead man—to realize that Barstaple had been a tyrant. The evidence had been there in the dead man's mean little mouth, the close-set eyes, the imperious thrust of the nose: mean, devious, proud—what a combination. No wonder somebody had killed him.

  The shame of it was that added to these lesser qualities must have been a marked intelligence, as well as sufficient courage to set himself up as a freelance. The pity was he had used these attributes to assist asset-stripping bosses. Surely, he thought, he could have found something more worthy to which to apply his talents?

  But then he recalled what Hal Gallagher had said. From that, it sounded as if Barstaple had taken a real pride in his work. It was incomprehensible to Rafferty that anyone could take pride in making other people's lives miserable. Had it never occurred to the man that one of his victims might just turn nasty?

  “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. I will repay,” he muttered, as the voice of his old Religious Instruction teacher echoed back down the years.

  “Not if someone beats Him to it, it's not,” one of the SOCO team commented.

  Rafferty nodded, smiled an acknowledgement and turned away. It looked like somebody had done just that.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  So far, Rafferty and Llewellyn had only had the opportunity for a cursory inspection of the premises. Now, Rafferty returned downstairs and collected Llewellyn. Before Watts And Cutley's “big cheese”, Alistair Plumley arrived, he wanted them to have the grand tour.

  Aimhurst And Son's offices stood twenty yards or so back from the road, with parking places for ten cars in front. The grounds incorpora
ted a roadway that led right round the premises. Obviously, the building had originally been a quite substantial residence. Victorian in its heavy use of the ornate, it must have been gutted and turned into offices before the protecting hand of the architectural environmentalists held sway. Rafferty thought it a pity; he loved the gloriously robust individuality of such buildings, convinced that only soulless designers could come up with the uninspiring functionalism of most modern architecture. After the attentions of the architects with no souls, the building had become a sad hybrid and, to Rafferty's fanciful imagination, it seemed aware of it. Dwarfed by its highrise concrete neighbours, its grandeur compromised to commerce and its facade grubby, its roofline seemed bowed in dejection.

  Feeling that, so far, everything today seemed designed to depress him, Rafferty forced himself into a more businesslike frame of mind. “Come on,” he said to Llewellyn. “Let's get on with it.” At a brisk pace, he headed round the side of the building. It had two entrances, one at the front and one at the rear. The rear entrance had a sturdy, cinema-style door, that could only be opened from the inside.

  “These'll have to be checked thoroughly,” Rafferty commented as they passed two commercial-sized refuse containers that stood just past the back door.

  Llewellyn nodded.

  Although he now knew that the much larger firm of Watts And Cutley had recently taken over Aimhursts, Rafferty was surprised at the extent of the security. Apart from burglar alarms with the usual infra-red sensors, the security stretched to floodlights that would illuminate all round the building as well as a key-numbering system on the front door that the staff used to gain access when the security guard wasn't at his post. It all seemed a bit over the top for such a small concern, especially as the premises held only offices. Aimhursts were wholesalers, their customers would be other businesses rather than the general public, their receipts crossed cheques or credit transfers rather than cash. Admittedly, they had expensive computer equipment, but even so-. He glanced at Llewellyn. “Inside job, you reckon?”