Absolute Poison (3 page)

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 remembered 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 down 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.”

“When did she ring you?”

“Friday night.” Mrs Collins paused and clenched her work-thickened fingers together in her lap before adding, “You never know what trouble's waiting for you, do you? Thank God my lads are no bother.”

“Did she say what hospital her son was in?”

Mrs Collins shook her head. “She didn't say a lot at all. She's never been a chatty woman at the best of times and with getting such news it was hardly that, was it? And her on her own, too. I dare say the boy's missed a firm hand.”