Absolute Poison

by Evans, Geraldine

  Of course they hated him. That didn't worry him. Let them hate, so long as they feared—wasn't it some Roman emperor who had coined the phrase? Whoever had coined it, Barstaple knew he'd been right.

  He frowned and sent a minor tremor through the office before glancing at his watch. Nearly midday. Old Harris would be going to lunch any minute. Barstaple knew Harris had arranged to meet his wife in an attempt to patch up their marriage. Slowly, he unlaced his fingers; he intended to put a stop to that. It would never do to have the old dinosaur getting back to his wife just when he was on the point of cracking up and giving him an excuse to sack him.

  Barstaple shouted Harris's name just as Harris headed for the door. “Come in here a minute.”

  Harris hesitated, then, his face a mask of apprehension, he turned and walked to the office door, with a gait that had become increasingly shuffling over the months. “Yes, Mr Barstaple?”

  “Come in here. I want a word.”

  A quickly concealed dismay shadowed Harris's eyes, a touch of unexpected rebellion made him blurt out, “I was just going to lunch, sir, and…”

  “What's more important?” Barstaple asked silkily. “Lunch or increasing the efficiency of the department? You seem to lack the team spirit, Harris. I've noticed that in you before. It's one of a number of things I've been meaning to discuss more fully with you and this seems an opportune moment.” He paused. “Still, if your lunchbreak is more important to you…” He let the words hang on the air.

  Harris blinked. For a moment Barstaple thought the old fool was going to burst into tears, as his Adam's apple bounced like a yo-yo against the corrugated skin of his throat. But then Harris got a grip on himself. His stiffened features revealed how tight a grip his emotions needed. The tightened lips muttered, “No, sir. Of course not.”

  Barstaple smiled. “So glad you can spare the Company a few minutes of your precious time. Come in and shut the door. We don't want to be disturbed, do we?”

  Harris complied and then sank heavily onto the hard chair, his air of defeat robbing Barstaple of much of his satisfaction. Until he noticed that Harris's lowered eyes held a simmering resentment rather than defeat. That was much better. The almost dumb insolence from the usually meek Harris sent Barstaple's mind flying back years. Harris's face dissolved and instead, Barstaple found himself staring into the angry face of his father. He was again that small fearful boy, the boy his father had delighted in goading, in hurting. The face shimmered in front of suddenly tear-washed eyes. He blinked rapidly and when the tears had cleared, his father had gone and Harris's face was again before him, grey and anxious, and Barstaple felt a surge of relief swiftly followed by a desire to punish.

  He decided to push Harris that little bit further. Who knew of what foolishness the man might be capable if he thought his last chance to patch up his marriage was being stolen from him?

  It was thirty minutes later, just after half-past-twelve, when Barstaple finally let Harris go. Long enough, he thought, for the estranged Mrs Harris to get good and mad at being stood up.

  Harris, who had obviously come to the same conclusion, stood uncertainly in the middle of the open-plan office for fully ten seconds, before shuffling first to his desk and from there to the kitchen. He clutched a bag that probably contained the bland food, the milk and yoghurt that his ulcers demanded.

  Barstaple remembered the large plate of peeled prawns he had waiting for him in the kitchen and his mouth watered in anticipation. They should have defrosted nicely by now. Shame he couldn't go to his usual restaurant for lunch, but he'd promised himself he'd lose a stone and there was no way he could do that if he carried on going to Luigi's every day. Besides, he thought as he glanced down at his lap-top, he wanted to get his report finished. It should do him a bit of good; maybe even earn him a fat bonus. If he continued as well as he'd started, he'd save Watts And Cutley a packet, especially as Plumley had had to tie his own hands to get Aimhurst's son to agree to the sale of the firm. And I'm the man with the golden key, he thought, the key to unlock those chains.

  It was a few minutes later when he walked past the hunched figure of Harris. He was sitting at his desk sipping a glass of milk. Almost, Barstaple felt sorry for him, but he stopped that line of thought immediately. That way lay weakness. That way lay a return to the days of being a victim. He was resolved they would never come again.

  He felt Harris's gaze follow him as he walked towards the kitchen; no doubt he was wondering what excuse he could give his wife and Barstaple smiled to himself. It was true what they said, he reflected, there was more than one way to skin a cat. More than one way, too, to get rid of unwanted employees…Now—lunch. As he glanced again at Harris's defeated figure, he knew he'd earned it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  After such a depressing day, Rafferty's one consolation that evening was that it was nearly over. In an attempt to cheer himself up, he planned an Indian takeaway, the latest video blockbuster from the States and the breaking open of a fresh bottle of Jameson's.

  Fleetingly, he considered inviting one of the ladies of his acquaintance to share them with him and then abandoned the idea. He wasn't in the mood. Llewellyn's steady relationship with Maureen had brought home to him that his private life was as empty of fulfilment as that of the week's two suicides, and had been for months.

  This realization destroyed his previous anticipation of quiet pleasures, so Rafferty wasn't altogether sorry when Sergeant Llewellyn's long face appeared round the door just as he was putting his coat on. Llewellyn told him that a man had been found dead in the offices of Aimhurst And Son, the light engineering firm on the roundabout.

  “There,” Rafferty pronounced, with a kind of grim satisfaction. “Didn't I tell you there'd be a third suicide?”

  Llewellyn shut the door and came further into the office. “We don't know yet that it is a suicide, sir. In fact…“ he paused, then went on. “PC Smales is there now and he says the dead man,” he glanced at a note, “a certain Clive Barstaple who was a hired consultant acting as an interim manager, was found slumped on his desk a short time ago by one of the contract cleaners.” Llewellyn paused again and gave a delicate cough. “PC Smales is of the opinion that Mr Barstaple had been poisoned.”

  Rafferty stared at him. “Since when did Smales become an expert witness? Or was the dead man found clutching a bottle marked poison?”

  “No sir.” Llewellyn's intelligent dark gaze was inpenetrable. “PC Smales has, he informed me, recently been doing some research on toxic substances. He hopes it will advance his career.”

  Rafferty snorted. “The only thing likely to do that is if he was planning to poison the entire nick”

  Llewellyn made no comment on Smales’ ambitions and how they might best be achieved. “He said that the dead man—the victim—as he insisted on calling him, exhibited the classic signs of rhododendron poisoning.”

  Rafferty frowned. “Are rhododendrons poisonous?”

  “Every part of the plant is, I believe, highly toxic, sir.”

  Rafferty's frown deepened. It was a new one on him. “He didn't happen to mention what these symptoms are, by any chance? Only, unlike young Smales, I neglected my studies into the subject.”

  “He says the symptoms include drooling, tearing of the eyes, nausea and vomiting, convulsions, diarrhoea, paralysis and coma. And—again—according to Smales, the dead man had exhibited the more obvious symptoms as both his office and the lavatory show,” Llewellyn paused and gave a cough of even more delicacy, “evidence of loss of bodily control.”

  “Vomiting and diarrhoea must be symptomatic of any number of poisonous substances,” Rafferty pointed out. “What makes Smales so sure he's right here?”

  “I believe he mentioned the term “gut instinct”, sir.”

  “Gut instinct?” Rafferty's instinct was to snort again and retort that the only gut instinct Smales was likely to experience was the usual male one when lusting after a pretty girl.

  Just in time, he re
membered that “gut instinct” was his own invariable defence when he went bullheaded in pursuit of a favourite theory. Now, instead of making a sarcastic comment, he gazed thoughtfully at his sergeant and said, “Good old gut instinct, hey? Never to be lightly ignored, even when it's Smales’ gut that's getting all instinctive.” He got up. “I suppose we'd better get over there and take a look. See if you can lay your hands on a book of toxicology, will you, Daff? There must be one around here somewhere. I'd like to check it out myself before I invite the world, his wife and Dr Sam Dally to find fault with our expert witness's deductions.”

  “Smales said he had a copy in his locker.”

  “And did he say where we might find the key?”

  “He suggested we might try using a hairpin, sir.” Llewellyn gazed unblinkingly at him. “He seemed to think you'd be familiar with the required technique.”

  “Did he now?” Rafferty gave a sheepish grin. “Maybe I ought to revise my opinion of young Smales. Come on then.” He made for the door. “I'll borrow the hairpin and you can bring the swag bag.” His grin widened as Llewellyn's features contracted. “It's about time you learned the gentle art of breaking and entering.”

  After checking quickly for any signs of life, Rafferty retreated to the doorway of Clive Barstaple's office, from where, with nostrils clenched, he gazed round the room. The smell both in the small office and in the gent's toilet, was appalling. Obviously, in the later stages, Barstaple hadn't made it back to the lavatory; the dead man had not only soiled his trousers, he had vomited down his shirt as well as in the metal wastebin in the corner of the room. Apart from the swimming bile, the bin was half-full of shredded paper on top of which rested an empty yoghurt carton. The yoghurt was hazelnut flavour, Rafferty noted. It was the only one he liked.

  The desk phone was off the hook, the receiver dangling down the side of the desk by its plastic wire and Rafferty guessed the dead man had tried vainly to summon help. Obviously, he had left it too late and, presuming Smales’ deductions to be correct, the convulsions and paralysis had overtaken him before he'd been able to do so. Rafferty could imagine that, in the earlier stages, the dead man had just assumed he had a particularly bad stomach upset and thought no more about it than to ensure he had a clear run to the lavatory. But then, as the symptoms had grown more violent he had probably been torn between lavatory and telephone.

  Unfortunately for him, the need for dignity had triumphed over common sense until it was too late. Barstaple had died a horrible death, alone, frightened, covered in his own vomit and excrement. Poor bastard, thought Rafferty. Poor, poor bastard.

  For the second time today, the odours of death overpowered him and he stumbled from the office, down the stairs and out into the fresh evening air. For once he didn't curse the weather. The cold raindrops refreshed him.

  He was surprised to find that Llewellyn had followed him. Unlike his own, Llewellyn's stomach seemed able to take the most appalling sights and smells in its stride. To cover his attack of collywobbles, Rafferty now remarked, “Seems like young Smales was right.”

  Llewellyn nodded.

  Though whether the culprit was rhododendrons or some other toxic substance, Rafferty wasn't prepared to hazard a guess. “What a way to go. Somebody must have hated his guts to do that to him. Bloody awful death.”

  Llewellyn nodded again. As if he sensed that Rafferty needed a few moments more to get himself together, he remarked quietly, “The ancients were fond of poison, you know. Used it for murder, suicide, even judicial execution.”

  Sensing an imminent lecture, Rafferty merely remarked, “Is that so?”

  “Oh yes. For instance, the Athenian philosopher, Socrates, was condemned to die on charges of atheism and corrupting youth. He was ordered to drink hemlock.”

  Rafferty raised his eyebrows. “And did he?”

  Once more, Llewellyn nodded.

  The information that one of Llewellyn's much-quoted and know-all heroes had got up other noses than his own and had met a sticky end for his pains restored Rafferty's stomach quicker than an alka seltzer. His manner more sprightly, he now remarked, “And I thought your old Greeks and Romans were supposed to be such a civilized lot. God save us from civilized people, hey? Give me ignorant barbarians any day and a quick sword thrust in the vitals.”

  Confident he now had his queasy stomach under control, Rafferty led the way back upstairs. This time, he was able to take in more than the immediately obvious. There was a large pinboard just outside the victim's office. It was covered with notices and he glanced at them; reminders to the staff of this or that new company policy; warnings of the penalties awaiting those who failed to grasp and implement the numerous changes swiftly; bans on smoking either inside or immediately outside the building, bans on eating outside the prescribed lunch periods, bans on making tea or coffee more frequently than lunchtime, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. The bans even extended to making more visits to the loos than the management deemed sufficient. The wording of all of them reminded Rafferty of Superintendent Bradley at his more pedantic. All were signed by the dead man. His earlier pity evaporating, Rafferty wondered sourly if Barstaple had issued a reprimand for his own recent over-use of the toilet facilities.

  Barstaple's office was streamlined and functional. Its sole decoration, on the solid wall behind the desk, was several framed posters of some grey mechanical gadget called the Aimhurst Widget.

  Rafferty, aware he'd have offended against nearly every one of Barstaple's dreary edicts, thought fondly of his own office, which in spite of Superintendent Bradley's frequent exhortations about tidiness, still remained as cosily ramshackle as ever.

  Overcoming his distaste, Rafferty transferred his attention back to the dead man. The cadaver was half in, half out of his chair, which had tumbled to the floor with its load.

  Barstaple must have cracked his head as he fell, he thought, as he noted the skin on his forehead was broken. As if to confirm his conclusions, he now saw there was a smear of blood on the corner of the desk.

  “Find out the name of the key holder and get them over here please, Dafyd,” he instructed. “But before you do that, get on the blower and call Dally and the team out. When you've done that, have a word with the security guard on the desk. With a bit of luck he'll be an ex-copper and might have something useful to tell us. I'll speak to the woman who found the body. Where has Smales put her?”

  “In the ground floor staff room with the rest of the cleaners,” Llewellyn told him before heading off to make his phone calls.

  Slowly, trying to compose his mind for the coming interviews, Rafferty followed him down the steep stairs to the ground floor and walked along to the staff room. Along with a collection of staff photographs, there was the same profusion of notices here as there had been in Barstaple's office. They even contained the same diktats.

  WPC Green and PC Smales were there, along with the three members of the contract cleaning firm. Smales was doing his best not to look smug and failing. His face, so boyishly smooth that Rafferty guessed he rarely needed to shave, was pink with excitement and Rafferty smothered a sigh.

  The cleaners, two women and a man, stared anxiously at him. Incongruously, the male cleaner still sported a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves.

  Rafferty nodded to Smales and after a quick, whispered, “Well done. It looks as if you were right,” he added, in an attempt to curb some of Smales’ more obvious adrenalin surge, “I'll want you to take notes, Constable.” He spoke briefly to the contract cleaning staff before asking, “Which one of you found the body?”

  “I did.” A plump middle-aged woman in a faded blue nylon overall answered.

  “And you are?”

  “Mrs Collins. Ada Collins.

  Rafferty was relieved to see that she seemed a sensible, level-headed kind of woman. Even after the shock of finding the body, she appeared remarkably composed and when Rafferty told her he'd like to speak to her first, she simply nodded and followed him do
wn the corridor to the reception area.

  The building was on two floors. It wasn't a large concern, and, as he now learned from a sotto-voce Smales, consisted of a reception area, conference room, four offices, and a staff room on the ground floor and a large open-plan office and male and female lavatories on the first floor. The open-plan office also incorporated a kitchen halfway down its length and the victim's own glassed-in office just inside the door.

  As Llewellyn returned from his telephoning and took the security guard to an empty office, Rafferty led Mrs Collins to the seating area on the far side of the reception. Smales sat importantly on the other side of her, notebook and pen much in evidence.

  Although composed, Ada Collins had had an unpleasant experience and Rafferty spent the first few minutes gently drawing her out about herself before he led her onto the discovery of Clive Barstaple's grisly death. “What time did you find the body?”

  “It was about 6.30.” She blew her nose firmly with a large, practical men's handkerchief before she stuffed it back in her overall pocket. “In the normal way of things I wouldn't have been the one to find him at all. I don't usually do this floor,” she explained. “Only Dot—Mrs Flowers, the regular cleaner—had some family trouble last week. Her lad.” She shook her head sympathetically. “From something she let slip one time, he's obviously a bit of a handful. Drugs,” she added darkly. “Poor Dot had to pay his fine last time. He's in hospital up in Birmingham. Overdose, I shouldn't wonder. Anyway, Dot said she was going up there and wouldn't be in to work on Monday.”