Chris Collett - [Tom Mariner 01] (38 page)

Eddie Barham took a shortcut. I think he attempted to blackmail Bowes Dorrinton.’

‘Good God.’ Lloyd took a moment to absorb the information.

‘And you mean his death is tied in with this?’

‘Shortly before he died Eddie received two large payments from an offshore bank account, a month apart.

We’ve traced them to an outfit called the Queensbridge Trust. You don’t know it, do you?’

Lloyd didn’t.

‘We haven’t yet identified what exactly the organisation is or does, but I’m certain there will be a link with Bowes Dorrinton. I think the company played along with Eddie to begin with, humoured him. But Eddie was a journalist.

They could never be sure that he wouldn’t expose the truth about Pinozalyan.’

‘Or increase his demands. On principle, major organisations don’t give in to blackmail. They either ignore it, if they didn’t consider it enough of a threat, or…’

‘If they did take the threat seriously?’

‘The simplest thing would be to eradicate the source.’

Lloyd’s words had a chilling formality.

‘And you really think they would go that far?’

‘Drug companies have a turnover of billions of pounds annually, Inspector,’ Lloyd said in reply. ‘It’s a cutthroat, competitive field. Almost all firms have their own versions of the same drug, so they’re completely dependent on advertising and promoting positive image. It’s not dissimilar to the rivalry between Coca-Cola and Pepsi, though in this case billions of pounds are spent cosying up to GPs. And on top of that, many of them still like to see themselves as benign entities, the saviours of the modern world, ridding us of disease. If the case were proven it would cost financially, but far worse, their reputation and the public confidence in them would be severely damaged, possibly beyond repair. In my experience drug companies will do whatever they have to do to prevent adverse publicity.’ Lloyd’s confidence was reassuring. He was the only person who hadn’t questioned Mariner’s logic.

‘Even murder,’ said Mariner.

Lloyd didn’t contradict him. ‘There are plenty of cases where clients have been intimidated by large corporations into withdrawing actions against them, through hate mail, fire bombs—remember Samantha Drummond?’

Mariner did. The five-year-old had been abducted from a playground in north London, prompting a nationwide search.

‘Her father was bringing an action against Piersmont for failing to disclose the sugar content of their paediatric products. Samantha was released after three days unharmed, but the message was clear enough. “Watch your back, because this is what we’re capable of.” Naturally, Drummond withdrew his claim.’ Lloyd smiled. ‘Samantha’s abductors were never traced. The people who specialise in this kind of damage limitation have massive resources at their disposal, they’re clever and they’re careful. They tidy up after themselves.’

‘On the night Eddie was killed his father’s notebooks went missing. Since then, the letters from other parents who took Pinozalyan have been stolen and, as of yesterday, Andrew Todd has disappeared.’

Lloyd remained sanguine. ‘Someone’s done a highly efficient job, then,’ he said.

‘You could say that.’

‘But if you could track down Andrew Todd…’

‘We’re working on it, believe me.’ Mariner thought for a moment. ‘If Eddie did decide to make a direct approach to Bowes Dorrinton, who would he have made it to?’

‘That depends on how brave or foolhardy he was. He might have gone for someone right at the top, the chairman or the chief executive.’

‘And what would the likely response be?’

‘They’d turn to their legal department who would handle any complaints or grievances against the company or its products. Someone would be nominated to look at how much of a threat was being posed and then deal with it accordingly.’

The bleachers, Andrew Todd had called them. ‘So that’s where we need to look? At the company’s legal department?’

‘That’s what I would suggest. Though I wouldn’t expect too much. Those guys will be squeaky clean. I can start you off if you like.’ Opening up a desk drawer, Lloyd took out a plastic wallet, which he passed to Mariner. ‘After Eddie Barham came to see me I did a little research of my own into Bowes Dorrinton. I didn’t get very far, but you’re welcome to it. And if there’s anything else I can do to help I’d be glad to. Gratis.’

Mariner tried to conceal his surprise, but apparently without success.

Lloyd smiled, sardonically. ‘That child I told you about, our oldest, Daniel, has an autistic spectrum disorder. That’s partly why Eddie was referred to me. Danny was born long after Pinozalyan had come and gone of course, but if there’s anyone out there who’s responsible for inflicting autism on any child or family I’d bloody well want to see them brought to book.’

‘Well whatever happens at the sharp end of all this, there are still all those families out there who have suffered as a result of Pinozalyan,’ said Mariner, Anna Barham uppermost in his mind. ‘If we could identify them all again— But I don’t have the time or the manpower to do it.’

‘It should be a simple enough task,’ said Lloyd. ‘The quickest route would be through the Autistic Association.

We could arrange to have a circular sent out, perhaps in the guise of a more general survey. If we log the details of anyone who took the drug all over again we may be able to instigate a public enquiry into the drug. It will be slow, but at least it would be something. Even better would be some press coverage. That would open up the whole case.’

Mariner thought about Ken Moloney. ‘I’m sure we can arrange that,’ he said.

Back in his car, Mariner scanned the information Lloyd had given him. On the list of company personnel, one name on the board of directors had been highlighted. Alan Crowther. Or was that just Al? If it was, Al had got careless.

He wondered if it was worth having a chat with Crowther. It was unlikely to turn up much, but it was all they’d got. Mariner deliberated about giving Dennis Weightman another call, but in the event that decision was taken out of his hands. Arriving back at Granville Lane there was a message for him to call Weightman.

The detective got straight to the point. ‘We’ve got Andrew Todd. Some ramblers found him up on the moors in his car, a length of hosepipe leading in from the exhaust.

He’s alive, but only just and we don’t know what state he’ll be in if he ever regains consciousness. I’m sorry.’

‘Oh Christ.’ How many more blows could they take?

‘He left a lengthy suicide note detailing what happened over Pinozalyan,’ Weightman went on. ‘But I doubt that it will be of much use. It reads like a history lesson.’

‘Can you fax it through anyway?’ asked Mariner, dejected.

‘Sure.’

‘Oh, and have you ever heard of something called the Queensbridge Trust?’

Weightman considered. ‘Yeah,’ he said, at last. ‘It sounds familiar. I’ll see what I can find out.’

‘Cheers.’

But still there was nothing on Jamie Barham.

When it came through, Mariner pored over the faxed letter. Todd’s handwriting was shaky and barely legible in places. In it he detailed his research paper on Pinozalyan.

His letter concluded with the hope that someone would have the courage that he did not. A separate sheet provided details of meetings and there was a copy of a letter congratulating him on his retirement.

Mariner compared it with the information given to him by Lloyd, but none of the names matched. Like Weightman had said, it was all in the past. No one named by Todd could be held to account.

Mid-afternoon, Mariner got a summons to Coleman’s office. Invited, he slumped down in the chair facing the gaffer.

‘What are you doing about Holmes and Weller?’

Coleman asked.

‘What about them?’

‘We’ve held them for nearly twenty-four hours. Their brief is putting pressure on. And he wasn’t particularly impressed that you cleared off after only half an hour and you haven’t been back since. What are you playing at, Tom? In twelve more hours we have to charge them or let them go.’

‘Ironic, isn’t it? If we can contact the other parents we can link Pinozalyan to autism all over again. And I’m sure that we’ll be able to find a connection between Bowes Dorrinton and the payments made into Eddie Barham’s account, but we still have nothing more than circumstantial evidence linking anyone to Eddie’s Barham’s murder. The guy in the legal department at Bowes Dorrinton who set up the whole thing will be as clean as a whistle, won’t he?’

Coleman was inclined to agree. ‘I doubt that when their records are seized and scrutinised they’ll come up with any invoices for ‘hitmen, two’, if that’s what you mean.’

‘To be honest, the interviews with Holmes and Weller are going nowhere.’

‘Would Jamie Barham be able to pick them out of a lineup?’

‘Even if we knew where he was? I doubt it. All we’d find out was whether he recognised them or not. And that seems a bit immaterial right now, sir.’

‘It’s not looking good, is it?’

‘Not especially, no.’

‘It could have gone either way, Tom. Self-flagellation isn’t going to help.’

‘No one else made it happen,’ said Mariner and walked out of Coleman’s office.

A little later, Dennis Weightman called back. ‘I’ve tracked down the Queensbridge Trust. I thought the name rang bells. It’s a local charitable organisation. They were pretty high profile a few years back, doing “good works” with local deprived kids, that kind of thing. But since then they seem to have slipped into oblivion. They’re still registered though, and guess what? Alan Crowther, one of the trustees, is also…’

‘On the board of Bowes Dorrinton.’

‘You’ve got it. It’s flimsy, but it’s better than nothing.’

‘Better than nothing will do fine,’ said Mariner. ‘Can you go and talk to him, see if he’s willing to help with our enquiries, say first thing in the morning? I’d like to know more about the Queensbridge Trust, wouldn’t you?’

‘Consider it done,’ said Weightman. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

By eight o’clock, most of the team had left for the night, but Mariner remained in his office going back over the details of the case again and again, trying to find something, anything, that would link Weller and Holmes to Eddie Barham one way, or to Bowes Dorrinton the other.

Knox appeared in the doorway.

‘Bugger off,’ said Mariner.

Knox ignored him. ‘You might want to hear this, boss,’ he said. ‘St Barnabas, the men’s hostel, just phoned.

They’ve had a bloke show up there, bit of a weirdo. They don’t think he’s on booze or drugs, but the description fits Jamie Barham. They’re bringing him in.’

‘Christ!’

Mariner was waiting at the desk when the manager of St Barnabas arrived with a loudly protesting Jamie. The lad was filthy and his clothes stank, but Mariner wanted to hug him.

‘Shall I?’ Sergeant Reilly picked up the phone.

‘No,’ said Mariner. ‘I’ll do it.’ While Reilly took some details from the hostel manager, Mariner put through the call. ‘Anna?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was stretched taut with anxiety.

‘We’ve found Jamie. He’s fine. A bit grubby, but I’m sure he’ll clean up.’

‘Oh, thank God.’ Her voice choked with emotion.

‘Where is he?’

‘We’ve got him here at the station.’

She must have broken every speed limit to get there, and burst into the station only minutes later. ‘Where is he?’

‘Through there.’

Immediately he saw his sister, Jamie walked over to her and put a weary head on her shoulder, while his right hand grabbed at her coat, clutching on for dear life.

Her lower lip trembled. ‘Hi Jamie.’

Mariner could see she was holding back tears. ‘If you can wait a few minutes, we can get the FME to give him the once over,’ he offered.

‘No thanks,’ she said curtly, with a look that said you’ve done enough damage. ‘His own doctor will do that.’

‘Okay.’ It hurt, but it was no more than he deserved.

‘Come on, Jamie, let’s go home.’

Mariner watched them go out of the building. The hostel manager had finished and was leaving too.

‘Thanks for contacting us so promptly,’ Mariner said, the relief of finding Jamie alive had sapped what remained of his dwindling energy.

‘No problem.’ But moments later, the manager was back, holding something out to Mariner. ‘I forgot to give you this. It was in his pocket. We had to take it off him.

Something like this can cause a riot in the hostel. It’s partly how we knew he wasn’t one of our usual crew.’ He handed Mariner a mobile phone.

Something inside Mariner crowed. ‘Cheers mate,’ he said, with remarkable calm. ‘Thanks a lot.’

Jamie had fallen asleep in the car on the short journey home, and Anna had to wake him to get him into the flat.

He was so groggy he didn’t even protest when Anna put him under the shower, and afterwards he munched his way listlessly through almost a whole pizza while Anna put a call through to Dr Payne’s surgery. Inevitably, all she got was the after hours answering service, but moments later the doctor himself called her back. With some difficulty, Anna explained what had happened during the last forty eight hours. Dr Payne was typically unfazed and full of concern. ‘How are you?’ he asked.

‘I’m okay. But I am worried about Jamie. He’s too quiet.’

‘I’ll come straight away and check him over.’

‘I’d really appreciate that, thank you.’ While she waited, Anna thought about DI Mariner. She’d been pretty unpleasant to him. God, she’d hit him too! In truth she’d been annoyed with him for deserting her at the weekend, and her anxiety about Jamie had compounded the anger, but Mariner didn’t really deserve that. After all, he was only doing his job. She must call him to apologise. She’d do it later when Jamie was settled. No she wouldn’t, she’d do it now. But of course, when she tried, Mariner was unavailable.

When her door buzzer sounded, just a few minutes later, Anna half hoped that it might be him, but it wasn’t, it was Dr Payne with a wonderfully reassuring smile.

‘So, how’s the patient?’

‘Strangely subdued,’ Anna said. ‘Look who’s here, Jamie.’

But Jamie had seen who it was and was suddenly animated again. In fact rarely had Anna witnessed such a look of sheer abject terror on his face. ‘No! No black mouth! No black mouth!’ he shouted, backing hastily towards the bedroom.