Vicious Circle

by Douglas Clark

  “I have the key of the bedroom door,” said Whincap handing it over to Dean. “Whoever collects her will need it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The pathologist said he’d have enough information for you by morning, did he?” asked Rainford. “That’s quick work.”

  “He only agreed to try to let me have it after I had told him we were fairly sure that the deceased had died from an overdose of digitalis. Knowing what you’re looking for helps in his line apparently.”

  “He’ll test for it immediately,” said Whincap. “He’ll do his other tests later.”

  “That’s possible, is it?” asked Dean.

  “If he suspects the presence of digitalis, all he will have to do is to take an extract from the stomach contents and the liver and test the extract on a frog’s heart. If there is digitalis present it will slow the heart right down.”

  “And that’s the test?” asked Rainford in amazement. “It doesn’t sound very scientific to me.”

  “Testing for the presence of digitalis is usually done biologically, as I’ve described, as opposed to chemically, which is how his later tests will be done.”

  “How much is fatal, David?”

  “I’m not sure that anybody could give you the absolute figure, but it is very little. We doctors consider two milligrams of the purified drug to be dangerous. That is our rule of thumb. But whether to kill Mrs Carlow would take three or three and a half milligrams I can’t say, because we obviously can’t test a patient to destruction and every individual reacts differently.” He turned directly to address Rainford. “You sounded a bit sceptical about the frog test, Theo. But I should have added that the pathologist will make other visual tests. Severe digitalis poisoning causes the fragmentation of heart muscle fibres, for instance, with areas of necrosis dotted throughout the heart. They’ll be found with a microscope . . .”

  “Don’t go on, please,” said Bennett. “Let’s forget it for a bit and have a drink. Patrick? Theo? What’s it to be?”

  By ten o’clock the next morning they all knew what it was to be. Dr Eric Dampney, the pathologist, had made his preliminary report to Patrick Dean. Mrs Elke Carlow appeared to have died of a massive overdose of a cardiac glycoside. Precise facts and figures would be given later in his written report. Meanwhile, he felt it his duty to advise the deputy coroner to start an investigation into the ways and means by which so great a dosage of dangerous medicine had come to be ingested by the deceased.

  Patrick Dean mentally added to this advice a rider to the effect that his inquiry must seek to show whether the toxic material had been administered to Mrs Carlow. If so, it would be up to the police to decide by whom it had been administered. The Chief Constable, already aware that he faced the possibility of calling for outside assistance if the case developed, decided, on hearing the pathologist’s report and his advice to Dean, to ask the Yard for the team which he had earlier asked them to earmark in case the need for their help should crystallize.

  In the middle of that same morning Detective Chief Superintendent George Masters was detailed to make his way to Croxley in the West Central police area. He was to take with him his usual assistants, D.C.I. Green, D.S. Reed and D.S. Berger. On arrival D.C.I. Green would combine the temporary post of coroner’s officer to Patrick Dean with his usual job in Masters’ team. Theo Rainford and all his subordinates were thus excluded from playing any part in a business which Dean intended should not only be legally correct, but should be seen to be so. The Chief Constable had assured him that, judging by reputation, nobody could be more impartial than Masters was likely to be, nor more likely to clear the business up quietly and efficiently.

  Patrick Dean pronounced himself satisfied with these arrangements.

  Chapter Three

  “Digitalis,” said Green. “That’s fox-gloves, isn’t it?”

  He and Masters were walking to the car after lunch. Reed and Berger had already packed the bags in the boot of the Rover and had taken the two front seats. Reed was to drive.

  “That’s the source,” agreed Masters. “At least it was originally. Now they produce it chemically.”

  Green took his usual nearside back seat. “All I know, George, is that some old bird died last night with too much of the stuff inside her.”

  “I can’t tell you much more myself, because they haven’t yet decided whether it was suicide, accident or murder.”

  Reed pulled away.

  “Then why the hell are we being called in?”

  “Because there’s a dog’s dinner of personalities down there. She was related—either directly or by marriage—to just about everybody immediately involved. The D.C.S. is married to her daughter, the son of the doctor who attended her is married to her granddaughter, the coroner is the doctor’s brother-in-law and so on and so on. Very properly the coroner handed over immediately to his deputy who is, by pure chance, not related to any of the others. The deputy barred the D.C.S. and any of his merry men from the inquiry.”

  “Why any of his men, Chief?” asked Berger. “Because he might influence them?”

  “To treat him and his relatives with kid gloves, you mean?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “There’s that. But you’ve also got to remember that the opposite could be true. A detective on his staff who didn’t like him might decide that this was an opportunity to make it hot for his governor.”

  “Only if he could prove it, surely, Chief.”

  “Not so, lad,” said Green. “In a case like this you don’t have to prove anything. You’ve just got to sling enough mud surreptitiously to finish a bloke in such a situation. A whisper to the press, a hint to somebody else. All cleverly done and untraceable. The D.C.S. could later be proved as pure and innocent as driven snow, but he’d never escape from the memory of the gossip. And others would remember years later. ‘Wasn’t he the chap who was mixed-up in the murder of his mother-in-law?’ ‘So he was. I’m surprised they kept him on after all the talk there was.’ You see, lad, the word mixed-up can mean anything you want it to and a lot of people like it to mean the worst.”

  “I hadn’t looked at it like that,” admitted Berger.

  “So that’s why we are going to Croxley,” said Masters. “The D.C.I. will be responsible for the deputy coroner’s preliminary enquiries and dependent upon what he finds we shall or shall not institute a full-blooded murder enquiry.”

  The car sped north-westwards through the heart of England. The spring sunshine, now that May was in, gave the whole of nature that new look which promises so much.

  “It doesn’t always ride when it puts on its spurs,” grumbled Green, referring to the weather. “Just look at some of that green. It’s so tender you could eat it with chips. Come back this way next week and as like as not it will all be blighted by late frosts, browned-off at the edges and dripping with non-stop rain.”

  “What’s biting you?” demanded Masters, filling his pipe with hand-rubbed Warlock Flake.

  “I know,” said Reed.

  “Do you, clever clogs? Well, you just keep out of this and keep your eyes on the road. And on the speedometer.”

  “Which is it to be?” asked Reed. “Road or speedo?”

  “Both.”

  “Okay. But just because you don’t like the idea of being appointed temporary coroner’s officer to a deputy . . .”

  “Can it!” growled Green.

  “Is that really it?” asked Masters. “I know that for a man of your experience, length of service and reputation it does seem to be a bit of a comedown. Like making a colonel a platoon commander. But it is a rather special . . .”

  “It’s not that at all,” grumbled Green. “It’s just that I’ve no experience of the bureaucratic side of things and I don’t know how to arrange an inquest—apart from asking for one to take place. You know me, George. I’ve never been behind any form of desk. If I’d not been at the Yard I would have become an office wallah—with my rank. But as it is, I’m part of a field
team and always have been.”

  Masters looked at Green, with no hint of amusement on his face at the idea of the D.C.I. being afraid of failure. “Do you know, Bill, I’ve never done any staff work myself, now you come to mention it. Apart from ordinary duty roster turns, of course.”

  “A fat lot of help you’re going to be then,” said Green, mollified by the knowledge that Masters, too, would be at a loss.

  “I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Masters. “We’ll just quietly—and conveniently—forget that particular bit of our assignment.”

  “Quite right, too,” murmured Green. “And if there is anything that actually needs doing, the sergeants can sort it between them.”

  “I like that!” complained Berger.

  “You’d have got it to do in any case, lad. The only difference is that now you’re not in the dark. You know the score. It’s better that way.”

  *

  The Chief Constable was waiting for them. As soon as they arrived at the HQ building and made themselves known to the sergeant-clerk on duty, a constable was instructed to guide them upstairs to the C.C.’s office.

  “Some building, this,” said Green. “Not like any cop-shop I’ve ever seen before. Standing in its own grounds, too.”

  “Ronald Harrington,” said the C.C., getting up from behind his old-fashioned desk and coming forward to greet them as soon as the constable ushered them in. He shook hands with them one by one. Masters got the feeling that here was a man who wanted to be liked, who hoped that everybody would think him a good chap as opposed to being an autocratic, stand-offish disciplinarian.

  “I’ve got tea laid on,” said Harrington, waving them into a circle of low, armless easy chairs congregated round a large low table at one end of the room. “We might as well be comfortable.”

  “Some place, this,” said Green, still harping on the same theme. He sank down on to one of the orange-coloured chairs. “Different from most.”

  “We’ve only had it a year or two,” said Harrington.

  “It’s not purpose built, sir,” said Masters.

  “No, no. It used to be a teacher training college. You may remember a few years ago quite a number of them were closed down because the supply of teachers was outstripping the needs of the pupils. This one stood empty for a while and then we moved in. We were scheduled to start a new HQ building, but the money was proving hard to come by, so the Authority bought this—for a lot less than it would have taken for the new building—and I must say everybody is delighted with it.” He looked round. “This used to be the principal’s office-cum-study. I can use half as an office and this half as a conference room.”

  “In comfort. An excellent idea.”

  “It’s not only that. Apart from all the lecture rooms and so on, we got more than a hundred and sixty bedrooms. We kept some of those as bedrooms for recruits, trainees and unmarrieds, so we’ve been able to do away with the HQ police houses. And then we’ve got the gymnasium and playing fields. Excellent for our athletics side and for our mounted training, dog-handling and the like.”

  “Sounds good,” said Green. “Large kitchens and dining rooms . . .”

  “All that. And their common rooms for recreation rooms. We’re really in clover. I can afford to let you have a good, big temporary office and if you’d prefer to stay with us, well, we have a number of hospitality rooms. They don’t come up to five star standard, of course, but at one time, during the college vacations, they were used for all sorts of symposia and holidays.”

  “We’ll do very well in your residential wing, sir,” said Masters. “I know you’ll want to cut down on expenses as much as possible.”

  Harrington smiled. “I hadn’t budgeted for your visit. And in these days of protests and marches I’m faced with finding large sums at the drop of a hat just to contain the possible trouble they cause.”

  “We understand, sir. Every C.C. must be pleading poverty—like the rest of us nowadays.”

  “You’re very understanding, Mr Masters. I hope you’ll be as understanding over this little problem you’ve come to sort out for us.”

  There was a knock at the door, and the messenger constable came in, rattling a laden metal tea trolley as he eased it on to and across the carpet.

  “Thank you, Gibson. We’ll manage for ourselves.”

  As Reed and Berger placed the tea things on the table, Masters asked: “All those who appear to figure in this death you have called us in to investigate are either related by marriage or are great friends. Do you, yourself, know any of them intimately, sir?”

  “Intimately? By that, do you mean socially? Because you must realize I’ve had a great deal to do with Robert Bennett professionally. He is the local coroner. Furthermore, I like him very much, but we are not bosom pals. Then there’s my D.C.S., Theo Rainford. I know him well, obviously. And in the nature of things I know his wife, Margarethe, and their daughter, Marian. I think I should say they are friends of mine because several times a year I find myself holding a glass and chatting to them at the same social functions. In fact, Theo and Margarethe come to dinner with my missus and me occasionally. They started as duty invitations at first, of course, but now . . . well, they come because we like their company.”

  “That sounds reasonable enough, sir. Do you know the dead woman?”

  “By repute only.”

  “Meaning she has a bad name in the area? Or has she interested the police officially before now?”

  Harrington shrugged. “I’m not from these parts so I can’t recount anything but hearsay. However, she has apparently been a thorn in the flesh of many of the locals for many years. You know the sort of thing—haughty and arrogant with shop people and tradesmen and rather given to writing letters to the local paper about the decadence of youth, the filthy state of the streets and the desirability of sacking a few public servants in order to encourage the others to greater efforts.”

  “That sounds,” said Green, “as though she had the guts to put into words what half the population thinks but is too scared to say.”

  Harrington nodded. “There’s a grain of something in most things she says and does. She has always been fiercely proud of being German, but as she arrived in the middle thirties, you can imagine that the local populace has not always regarded her with the greatest admiration.”

  Masters put his empty cup down and leant back, “That’s very helpful, sir.”

  “Helpful? What I’ve just said?”

  “Yes.”

  “How on earth . . .?”

  “Don’t mind the D.C.S., sir,” said Green, taking out a—for once—respectable-looking pack of Kensitas. He gestured with it towards Harrington. “Mind if I smoke?” Having been given a nod of consent, he continued: “George here has to be lived with to be understood.”

  “Meaning that you know why he finds what I’ve just said helpful to solving a mysterious death which we are almost certain is murder?”

  Green blew out his match. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d be interested to know what mileage he got out of my gossip.”

  Masters let Green continue without making any effort to stop him. “George will assume, sir, that since this Carlow bird has been around here for about forty-five years and has been hated by the locals ever since she got here, anybody wanting to bump her off for some incident in the dim and distant past would have had the opportunity to do so long before now. And, he will say to himself, all emotions such as dislike, mistrust, hatred and what-have-you tend to lessen with the years. So, in George’s book, this German bird was, in reality, getting safer from retribution for long-term misdeeds with every day that passed. So, he will argue, the odds are long in favour of her having committed some fairly recent nastiness which caused her to be seen off if, in fact, she was murdered.”

  “I see.” Harrington turned to Masters. “Is that really what you were thinking?”

  “More or less. We’ve got to start somewhere. It makes it easier if we have some acceptable
reason for breaking into the time scale and concentrating on the more recent part of it. We may have to go further back, of course. But I don’t like murder inquiries that depend on dim memories and fading recollections. They are usually so dim and faded as to be totally unreliable.”

  “Quite.”

  “So now, sir,” said Masters, “what we have to determine is what we are actually investigating. As I understand it, you are, if not actually treating this death as murder, prepared to do so unless and until the deputy coroner decides otherwise.”

  “That’s about the strength of it. And the deputy coroner will make his decision on the strength of Mr Green’s recommendations. So I am totally in your hands one way or another.”

  “In that case, I think we should settle in here and then report to the deputy coroner. He is a solicitor, I take it?”

  “Patrick Dean? Yes. Not in Croxley, though. His home and practice are in Downhampton, about twenty miles away. I’ve had a list of addresses and phone numbers put in your office, together with a local map and so on. You’ll be able to phone Dean either at his office or his home.”

  Masters got to his feet. “In that case, sir, we’ll start to sort ourselves out.”

  *

  The residents’ rooms were the old academic staff quarters. Not the cubicle-like rooms of the former students, but good solid sitting, bed and study rooms in which former tutors had made their homes. Masters was laying out and hanging up the comparatively few belongings he habitually took with him on these occasions when Green knocked and was invited to enter.

  “I’m next door. The bathroom’s between us.”

  “Good. Not too far to paddle in slippers, then.”

  “No, but don’t prance around in the nude. There are some women officers down at the far end. I heard the lads reading out the name cards on the doors as they went down the corridor to their rooms.”

  “I’ll remember to observe the proprieties.” Masters shut the wardrobe door and put his empty case beside the dressing table. “By the way, Bill, you rather curbed our activities by your explanation to the Chief Constable.”