Absolute Poison (6 page)

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.

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 incorporated 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?”

Llewellyn nodded. “Almost certainly, given the level of security.” He paused, then added, “Though, of course, as the victim was poisoned rather than shot or stabbed or killed by other more immediate physical means, it's possible someone from outside could have administered the poison via the victim's brought-in lunch.”

“Vengeful wife or girlfriend, you mean, hoping to shift suspicion?”

Llewellyn nodded. “Poisoning is usually regarded as a woman's crime,” he pointed out.

It certainly seemed reasonable to believe the poison had been in the prawns, Rafferty reflected. And whether they had been doctored at home or in the office, suspicion had certainly been well spread. According to Hal Gallagher, they had been defrosting on a plate in the Aimhurst staff kitchen all morning, available for anyone to tamper with.

“You'd have thought he'd have had the wit not to leave himself so wide open to revenge,” said Rafferty. “After all, he might have been reckoned a bastard, but, by all accounts, he was a clever one.”

“It's surprising how often men like Barstaple ignore elementary precautions,” said Llewellyn. “And arrogance of that stamp has a tendency to bring about its own downfall.” After casting an oblique glance at Rafferty, he added softly, “The ancient Romans had a saying that I think would cover it.”

“There's a novelty,” Rafferty murmured.

“
Arte Perire Sua
”—to perish by one's own machinations would be a literal translation. Certainly, it may well turn out that Clive Barstaple's machinations were the death of him. Of course, it's very difficult to make oneself totally secure from poison.”

Rafferty nodded and threw up a quote of his own before he realized what he was doing. “‘No man is an island complete of himself’ Bloody hell. Your habit of borrowing homilies is catching. Whose bit of borrowed wisdom was that, anyway?”

“John Donne's,” said Llewellyn. “From his ‘Meditations’.” Loftily, he added, “And if you're going to borrow from Donne, might I suggest you use the correct version. It's “No man is an Island entire of itself.”

“Pardon my ignorance.” Know-all git, thought Rafferty. “Though whichever way you say it, the man had a point. Barstaple the Bastard obviously disregarded the fact that human islands bump against one another continuously. He must have thought his particular island was immune from life's storms.”

They turned the corner and headed round the far side of the building. The rain had fallen off to a thin drizzle and, as the clouds parted, Rafferty saw that, all the time, a full moon had been lurking behind them. Madman's moon his ma called it. He shivered and hoped it wasn't an omen. Hadn't the notorious poisoner Graham Young started his killings in an office environment?

Rafferty shook himself and told himself not to be ridiculous. Barstaple's murder had been a sane enough act, most likely committed by someone pushed beyond endurance. Rafferty, given his current difficulty concerning Llewellyn's wedding suit and its possible effect on his own career, felt a most unpolicemanlike empathy for such a final solution and its practitioner.

They turned the last corner and returned to the front of the building. Rafferty, thinking of human islands again, murmured to himself, “Perhaps, just before he died, Barstaple's island saw its own vulnerability. Shame it came too late.”

They
returned inside. Alistair Plumley, Hal Gallagher's “big cheese” boss, arrived five minutes later. He'd evidently been attending either a function or a very posh dinner party, because he wore a dickie bow and dinner jacket. He even sported a scarlet cummerbund and looked a very important island indeed; one with an isthmus, no less, Rafferty thought. If he was to accommodate both his professional and personal egos he would certainly need the extra space, he mused as he sized Plumley up.

Plumley was around 36, Rafferty guessed, as they shook hands. And although his waistline was beginning to spread, mentally he seemed tough. Tall, around 6’2”, he carried the extra pounds with ease. The jawline was firm, the gaze a self-assured battleship grey. Rafferty had no trouble guessing he'd be a difficult customer to tangle with. Hopefully, no tangling would be necessary.

“Sorry you've been dragged away from your dinner, sir,” Rafferty began as he led Plumley and Llewellyn into the now empty staff room.

“Not your fault, Inspector,” Plumley had the grace to concede. “Bloody awful do, anyway. Charity dinner, with the usual plastic food and inferior wine. I was glad to get away.” His brief smile hovered between them and for the first time Rafferty got a glimpse of the charm concealed beneath the steel.

Plumley must suddenly have recalled the reason for his abrupt calling away because he smothered his gaffe with another brief smile and the charm washed over them again. “Not that I wouldn't rather have endured it than be called away under such circumstances. Poor Clive.” The steel overlaid the charm as he fixed Rafferty with an uncompromising gaze. “Heart attack, was it?”

“No, sir. I'm afraid not.” Rafferty paused before he added, “It would appear that Mr Barstaple ate something that disagreed with him. In short, we believe he was murdered.”

Plumley stared hard at him for a few seconds. “I see. And he was murdered here, where he worked.” His gaze clouded over and Rafferty wondered if he was mentally calculating the commercial implications of Barstaple's death.

However, it seemed he'd misjudged the man, for now Plumley commented quietly, “He was my placeman. He did my bidding. I hope the fact that he died here is just an unhappy coincidence. I would feel morally responsible should it turn out that his work here brought about his death. I hope he didn't suffer.”