Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  “You’re a funny man for a detective. Not like your three mates who go around searching for things. You just potter about asking disconnected questions. I can’t see how that helps you find murderers.”

  “Can’t you? Well, in that case, you’ll have no difficulty in forgetting everything I’ve asked, will you? Don’t speculate, there’s a good girl. Goodbye.”

  Masters went to the lifts. He intended to look for Green, but on the eighth floor Diane Murdo got in.

  “You’re a long way up,” he said. She looked cuddly. He found himself thinking it was surprising there weren’t more incidents in self-operating lifts. The proximity was so tempting.

  She smiled: “I’m investigating a complaint.”

  “Food poisoning?”

  “No. Nothing serious. Some silly weans have said that when the lifts stop on the First floor they suck in great gobs of smell from the kitchens and then carry them up and let them out on all the other floors. It’s particularly bad if we’re frying onions, they say. We’re frying them today, so I came out to see what all the blather was about.”

  “Anybody who dislikes fried onions is soft in the head,” said Masters. “Oh, blast. I didn’t press my button.”

  “Never mind. We’re at the first floor now. Have you had your coffee?”

  “Not yet. I’ve been wandering round and haven’t met the trolley.” He’d made up his mind to accept the invitation before it was given. At her suggestion he followed her to her own little office sandwiched — opposite the dry goods pantry — between the kitchen and the directors’ dining-room. He was interested to see how she lived. The desk was a broad shelf under the window. There were a few box files, but her invoices hung in large bulldog clips from hooks on the walls. A menu for the month was pinned on a notice board.

  As he followed her in he smelt the aroma of freshly percolated coffee. An electric percolator was plopping away on a tin tray carrying a Bass advertisement. She closed the two hatches leading to kitchen and directors’ dining-room. With the door shut there was no more room than in the lift.

  “Do you always make your own?” he asked.

  She laughed. “I’d no more drink the stuff we send round in urns than the dishwater.” She poured a large cup for him — a big, man-sized breakfast cupful, just muddied with top of the milk. His first sip of the scalding liquid made her point. She smiled her thanks at his appreciation. “Sit you down.” She made him take the only chair. She perched herself on the desk shelf, holding her saucer high up in her left hand and the cup — from which she took quick little sips — in the other. He liked what he saw. He had a good view of her legs and a hint of thigh. He thought he wouldn’t mind having this girl running a house for him. Both in practical ability and looks she’d got the makings of a wife any man would like.

  “Do you manage to get up to Edinburgh often?” he asked.

  She shook her head. The red hair swirled heavily. “Too expensive.”

  “Where do you live? In London?”

  Again she shook her head and said: “Too expensive.” She put the cup and saucer down. “I share a flat in Brendan’s Wood with another girl. It’s just a fourpenny bus ride away. It’s nice and quite reasonable, which I like because I’m saving up to get married.”

  “Who to?”

  “Phil Carr. He doesn’t work here. He’s in insurance. I don’t think I could tell you exactly what he does, but I know he’s going to get us a jolly good mortgage through his work.”

  “Lucky you! No, thank you, I’ll not drain the pot. I’ve got some work to do.”

  She jumped down. “So’ve I. Don’t be late for lunch. I’ve made Scotch broth for you. D’you like that?”

  “If you made it, I’m sure it’ll be wonderful. By the way, there’s just one personal question.”

  “Yes?” She reddened, giving him the impression she knew what he was going to ask.

  “What was the trouble between you and Mr Huth? And please don’t say it was nothing. You got agitated when I mentioned it the last time.”

  “Well it was nothing, really. He invited me out to dinner and a theatre soon after I came here.”

  “You went?”

  “Who wouldn’t? He said his wife couldn’t make it at the last minute and it seemed a pity to cancel the arrangements.”

  “You enjoyed yourself?”

  “Very much. I was flattered. I was new here and the chairman was taking me out. The trouble was … he expected to be repaid afterwards.”

  “In kind?”

  She nodded and began to turn over some bills, not looking at him. She said quietly: “It had been marvellous up to then. He asked me if I had to get home quickly. Of course I said I hadn’t, because I expected him to say we’d go on to a night club and I’d never been to one and wanted to. Instead he said he knew a place that would let us have a room for a couple of hours.” She turned to face him. “I’m not a Scot for nothing, you know. I told him straight there was going to be no peely wally with me. Then I left him and came home by train.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “He couldn’t do anything else but like it.”

  “And he never referred to it again?”

  “I told you. He hardly said a word to me after that. At first I thought about getting another job, but then I met Phil so I wanted to stay in the district. Now I expect I’ll stay here until after I’m married.”

  He said: “Thank you. Now I really will be on my way.”

  He found Green and the sergeants in Huth’s office. “It’s no good,” said Green. “We came up to tell you, and found the coffee here, so we waited to tell you. There’s not a trace of any phenobarb going missing. Dieppe may be a bit of a dope himself, but he’s got the system of accounting for scheduled drugs buttoned up tight. There’s a signature to support every flaming tablet that’s been sent out, and the balance is correct right down to the last grain.”

  Masters sat down and filled his pipe. He said: “We’ll go over Reculver’s books again.”

  “I tell you there’s a reply paid card with a signature to support every sample sent out.”

  “I’m sure there is. Tell me how you checked them.”

  “There were over five thousand samples sent out in the last handout in September. We’ve checked every name on the signed cards with the names in the drug register that Reculver keeps for whatever official it is that comes to inspect them. Now you want to go over them again! What’s the matter with you? Think we can’t read?”

  Masters said: “For God’s sake keep your shirt on. You’re the one that’s slipped up, aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Failed to find what I wanted, then. Now I’ve got another idea, and we’re going to try it. If I’m right about this, we’ll be nearly home. And you can stop looking so bolshie, because I think you’ve done what you did well enough, but I reckon the almighty Reculver’s made a bloomer.”

  Green’s face almost broke into a smile of pleasure. “No!” he said. “No! Not Reculver. That bastard’s been dinning it into me for the past two days that it would be impossible for anybody to find a mistake in his books. And you should have seen the look on his face when I had to come away without catching him out. By heaven I hope you’re right and we can nail him this time.”

  “Come on, then. We’ll try it.”

  Reculver said to Masters: “I didn’t think you’d find anything. Not in my department. We check and double check. Right to the last card and sample pack, that’s us. We pride ourselves on being the most efficient department in the Company.”

  This was Masters’ first meeting with Reculver. What he knew of him had come from Green’s reports. And Masters didn’t always trust Green’s reports. In this case, as an example, he had thought Green had been laying it on with a trowel. Now he wasn’t so sure. Reculver was giving him the V.I.P treatment in a lordly manner. It made Masters squirm. He’d already envisaged Reculver as an old blowhard. Now he knew he was.

  Masters said: “I�
�d like to talk about the pre-paid request cards for phenobarbitone clinical supplies.”

  “Your men have already checked them and found them correct in every detail.”

  Masters didn’t like “your men.” Neither did Green.

  Masters said: “Inspector Green has so far only been making sure that requests, samples sent out and remaining stocks balance out. They do. Now we’re going to do a further check. The real one. The other was only a preliminary. We’re pretty efficient, too, you know.”

  Reculver blew out his cheeks. “A real check? What d’you mean? What other check can you do?”

  “To begin with, you can tell me what precautions you take to ensure that the samples you send out do, in fact, go to bona fide doctors.”

  “That’s easy. The cards are only sent to doctors in the first place, so they can only come back from doctors.”

  “But supposing a card should fall into the hands of somebody other than the intended recipient. This person signs it and sends it back. How do you guard against fraud of that sort?”

  Reculver’s jowls sank and he stared stupidly at Masters. Green, who could now recognize the pitfall grinned sourly. He said: “There’s secretaries and cleaning women in surgeries. Dustbin men who collect the cards that are thrown out. Scores of unauthorized people could send those cards back and get free samples from you.”

  Reculver said: “Nobody can prevent fraud. We can’t check up.”

  Masters said: “But you can. I’ve seen Medical Registers and Medical Directories in every office in Barugt House. You can check the names against those.”

  “But … there’s over five thousand requests …”

  “Can you guarantee that you haven’t been guilty of sending scheduled drugs to unauthorized persons?”

  Reculver turned pale. He stumbled to the door and shouted to the nearest typist: “Tell Mr Thomas I want him. And be quick about.” He came slowly back to the chair. Before he could sit down there was a knock and a thin-faced young man came in. He paused when he saw the visitors.

  “Sylvia said you wanted to see me urgently, Mr Reculver.”

  “Yes I do. You’re in charge of sample requests. Do you check every request card against the Medical Directory when it’s for a scheduled drug?”

  “Hardly,” said Thomas. “With one girl to help me? It’d take a month to do an average mailing.”

  “Get out,” snapped Reculver.

  Masters said: “Don’t get annoyed with him. You’re the boss.”

  Reculver snarled: “Blasted inefficiency. Incompetence in my own department. I won’t have it. I’ll be a laughing stock. Thomas will be out next week.”

  Masters got to his feet. “Leave him alone, or prove to me you gave him orders to carry out that check. Now, I want him and his assistant to help Inspector Green and my two sergeants.” He turned to Green. “Put the five thousand cards in alphabetical order first and then do the check. I want every card that doesn’t exactly match an entry in the Register or Directory.”

  “They won’t do that,” said Reculver in a surly voice. “Those books are out of date before they’re printed. What with deaths and changes of address and so on. I tell you it’s impossible to check.”

  Masters ignored him. He said to Green: “Even if they’re as much as fifteen per cent out of date, which I doubt, there should only be about seven hundred to check more closely. They can be compared with the Company mailing list which must be almost up to date. That’ll cut the job down to size.”

  Masters left Green to get on with it. He made his way back to Hunt’s office. Hunt said: “What, you again? I’ll be thinking you really do suspect me of killing A.A. if I see much more of you.” He minced across the room, aping a pansy. “People are beginning to notice, ducky.”

  “Two things,” said Masters. “Who’s recently been promoted in Research and Development?”

  Hunt said: “Pal Joey. Joe March. Promoted a few months ago from Departmental Manager to Controller. A fiery character. He’ll bite your head off.”

  “I’ll take care. Now, second point. How many of those request cards do you print?”

  “For a blanket mailing, like with phenobarb?”

  Masters nodded.

  “I don’t know exactly, but there’s roughly twenty-three thousand G.P.s who get one each and then there’s the special list of about a couple of hundred, and we print a few over as a safety margin. I’d say about twenty-three and a half thou. But I can get you the exact figures from Publicity Admin if you like.”

  “Don’t bother. What’s this special list you mentioned?”

  “Oh, that! We have to keep everybody informed of what we’re sending out. If a rep bowls into a doctor’s surgery and the doctor says, ‘About this sample offer your firm’s making …’, it looks bad if the rep has to say, ‘What sample offer?’ D’you see what I mean? So we send all the reps a copy of everything we do. And the Directors and Heads of Departments. The reps’ copies go in their weekly post. The others are just sent round the offices by hand, exactly as the doctors receive them. It’s easier than writing a weekly information letter to keep everybody informed.”

  Masters’ next visit was to Research and Development on the sixth floor. March, the Control Manager, was big, rawboned and ginger-haired. His high cheekbones stood out so that the cheeks themselves looked hollow and unhealthy. But March gave the impression of having great strength. He was the first senior member of Barugt management that Masters had seen badly dressed. He wore a bluish tweed suit that needed cleaning and pressing. His turn-down collar was wrinkled at the corners and there was a small burn hole in the front of his shirt. Masters thought he looked like a provincial reporter out of a job.

  March said: “I’ve heard you’ve been ferreting about. Now it’s my turn, is it? You’ll be sucking a dry tit here. I know nothing about any murder — if it was murder, which I doubt.”

  “It definitely was murder. Take my word for it. As to whether you have any information about it, I’ll be the judge of that. Just at the moment I want to know what your department does. What its function is.”

  “Mostly paper research.”

  “That doesn’t mean much to me.”

  “I thought it wouldn’t. D’you know what bench research is?”

  “Laboratory work?”

  “Practical investigation. This department spends most of its time on theoretical research. We work out on paper what should happen if certain experimentation is done. It sounds simple, but it’s dam’ technical and difficult.”

  “Do you ever touch chemicals?”

  “Sometimes. We don’t spend much of our time handling them, but the development side of our work is devoted to improving existing drugs. In connection with that all sorts of odd jobs crop up which you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “I’ll give you a simple example that even a layman might understand. Have you ever heard of a giving bottle?”

  “The one that hangs upside down on the stand when a transfusion’s given?”

  “So you do know something. Not only for transfusions. For drips and all intravenous administration bigger than a syringe will take. If we produce a drug that has to be administered that way, I’m responsible for finding the best type of giving set. Right size bottle, right harness, right needle, right tube, right material that won’t react with the drug, and so on. We check them all here. In a case like that we’d handle both empty sets and full sets, so you can say we’d actually be handling the drug itself.”

  Masters said: “I’m with you so far. Go on.”

  March glared. “What for?”

  “I want to know.”

  “I’ll still try and keep it simple. If we’ve got an established drug with an excipient of a certain type of starch or sugar or what-have-you … you know what I’m talking about?”

  “Excipient? Yes. I should say base, myself, but then I’m only a layman.”

  “Smart, eh? Well, suppose — and this is always happeni
ng in this benighted country today — suppose the supplier of that particular excipient were suddenly to tell us he’s not going to make any more because it’s not an economic proposition, I’d have to find an alternative with the same inert properties and a make-up that wouldn’t affect the performance of the active ingredients. So we’d be handling those chemicals, too.”

  “In that case, I’d be right in supposing that over a period of a year or two you would handle liquids and solids, break down tablets, fill capsules, weigh powders, mix ointments and so on?”

  “All that and more.”

  “Your staff would help?”

  March said: “What the hell d’you think I keep them for? They’re not usually all that pretty to look at.”

  “Don’t be offensive,” said Masters. “I may be taking up some of your valuable time, but I’m not wasting my own, which is more important.”

  “Asking footling questions?”

  “I often do. I daresay some of your paper research turns out to be a bit footling at times.”

  “Time spent in research is never wasted.”

  “That’s my point. But all research isn’t immediately productive.”

  March said: “Ninety per cent of research results in very little. But it all adds to total knowledge.”

  “Just like my investigations. Now, to get back to cases. Does everybody who works for you get to know something about drugs and how to handle them?”

  “Everybody? Yes, they certainly do. If they don’t know how when they arrive they soon have to get stuck in. I wouldn’t keep anybody who didn’t.”

  “And your typists?”

  “Them too. There’s not all that much typing in this department. We don’t send out letters and all that tosh. Only reports, and they’re not all that frequent. So the typists have to do the non-technical jobs. Use balances and mixers. That sort of thing. If they’re frightened of getting their nail varnish chipped I sling ’em out.”

  Masters got up. “Thank you. That’s all I wanted to know for the moment. But I expect to be back. Probably after lunch.”

  “Hell,” said March. “No wonder crime’s on the increase.”

  *

  Green was enjoying himself. “It’s going to be a hell of a job, but it’s going to be worth it. I know we’re on the right track this time. So do the others. They’re working like Mary making duff.” He rubbed his hands together. “You wouldn’t like to guess in which half of the alphabet we ought to start looking, would you?”