Absolute Poison (5 page)

Aware that Sam's professional ego had been bruised and that he was consequently reluctant to concede that the rest of Smales’ conclusions might also be correct, Rafferty was forced to press him. “But you do think it possible he died of carbohydrate andromedotoxin poisoning?”

“Haven't I just said so?” Dally scowled and his rimless spectacles glinted as he bit out the words. “Could also be several other things, like an amphetamine overdose, or water hemlock or-”

“Hemlock?” Rafferty repeated, as he remembered Llewellyn's earlier tidbit.

“Amongst other possibilities,” said Sam testily. “There are quite a number of things that cause vomiting and diarrhoea, which is why I, unlike your resident expert, prefer to wait before jumping to conclusions. So, if you want any more information now-” Sam paused and pulled off his gloves with a resounding snap, “I suggest you consult Constable Timothy Smales. He seems to be man with all the answers round here.”

“Not quite all,” Rafferty commented dryly. “He doesn't know what subtle poison you're likely to use on him for his presumption.”

“That's true.” Sam's glasses glinted again. “I must remind him of that on my way out.” He paused, rocked back on his heels and gazed at Rafferty with a narrowed gaze. “Just supposing Smales is right- just supposing, mind,” he repeated. “Did yon young smart-arse happen to mention how long, from ingestion to reaction time, carbohydrate andromedotoxin takes to do its stuff?”

“No,” Rafferty lied. “He couldn't remember.” He wanted co-operation not aggravation and discretion was more likely to get it for him. It was always a hard enough balancing act to get Sam to commit himself to much before the post-mortem without making life difficult for himself. Rafferty regarded it as a challenge to his powers of persuasion to get him to say anything definite; it was as much a matter of professional pride with him as medical matters were for Sam. Fortunately, Sam's next words told him he'd struck just the right note.

“Och. These amateurs.” Sam jammed his hat on his head with a triumphant flourish. “The poison is one of the most toxic you can find. A very small amount of it kills—just seven drops will do it. From ingestion to reaction time is around six hours.”

“Six hours?” Rafferty frowned as, for Sam's benefit, he did some pretend arithmetic. “So he'd have taken it around lunchtime?”

“So my calculations would indicate. Of course, I can't speak for yours. Maths never was your strong suit, was it, Rafferty?”

Rafferty gave a strained smile. Even though it seemed he'd been given a reprieve on the dodgy suit question, it was still a sore point and Sam's unfortunate choice of the “s” word rubbed the sore spot all over again. Luckily, Sam didn't appear to notice anything, though Llewellyn gave him an odd look.

“Anyway,” Sam went on, repeating, practically word for word, Smales’ earlier recitation of the symptoms. “Amongst other things, the victim suffers a slow heartbeat, hypertension, nausea and vomiting, diarrhoea, convulsions and paralysis. They finally slip into a coma. If carbohydrate andromedotoxin is what killed him, I imagine he put the earlier symptoms down to some kind of bug and wouldn't be unduly alarmed.”

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 when 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.”