Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  Green lit a Kensitas for himself and tossed one over to Hill. Then he said, ‘I suppose the bottle we’re concerned with had an extruded rubber cap stretched over the neck, and nobody could remove it and replace it without it being as obvious as a pig in a hen run.’

  ‘Quite right. The cap hadn’t been tampered with. There was only one puncture in it through which, presumably, Sally Bowker had withdrawn one syringe full on Saturday night. Anyhow, they think so, because the amount missing from the bottle was equal to the number of units of insulin she was supposed to use at each injection.’

  Hill half turned in his seat. ‘I don’t know much about injections,’ he said, ‘but I’d have thought it would be easy to empty and refill a bottle with a syringe through one hole.’

  ‘We’ll probably have to get you to put your theory to the test,’ Masters answered. ‘But until we know more, further speculation won’t get us very far.’

  They drove on in silence. Just past Pangbourne, where a stretch of the river opened out close to the road, a motor cruiser was coming downstream, mirrored in water without a ripple, but dotted with tiny splashes here and there as insects alighted or fish rose to the surface. Masters watched with envy. Stillness, peace and pleasure. No murder. The craft had a blue hull and white upperworks. A man was steering: on the cabin top an attractive girl in a yellow bikini, Mexican straw hat and sun glasses. She was stretched out soaking up the sun. She epitomized relaxation for Masters. For Hill she meant other things. He said, ‘Just look at that. I could do with taking her down the river myself. It wouldn’t take me long to become expert at berthing that little beauty.’

  ‘You haven’t seen the photograph of Sally Bowker,’ Green said.

  Masters was so surprised at the rebuke implied in this remark that without being asked he took the picture from his pocket and handed it to Hill. The sergeant looked at it for a moment, then asked: ‘Somebody did away with that bit of capurtle? I don’t believe it. No man would be that daft.’

  ‘I don’t like it either,’ Green said.

  Masters grunted and relit his pipe. Green went on: ‘I don’t like the thought of that lass getting the chop, and I like it even less because it’s a medical problem. Medicine’s not up our alley. We’re going to be hard pushed to pin this on anybody. And that’s a pity because I want to get the bastard who did it.’

  ‘Don’t be frightened of it,’ Masters said. ‘We can’t afford to be. From the outset we’ve got to keep it simple. If anybody utters as much as one word we don’t understand, we ask for an explanation immediately. If we do that we’ll stand a better chance of cutting this business down to size.’

  They went along in silence for a few moments. Hill broke it. ‘Starveall Farm. Somebody with a sense of humour.’ He got no reaction. The road started to rise and dip with the hills. There was little traffic. The sun grew hotter and the tar softer. At Masters’ request Brant opened the ventilators. Wantage came up fast and went past slowly as they crawled through the market place.

  When they were back in open country again Brant said, ‘I’ve only known one diabetic, and he told me that even ordinary doctors don’t know a lot about it.’

  ‘That’s my impression, too,’ Masters answered. ‘It’s fairly usual for general practitioners, once they’ve diagnosed diabetes, to refer the patient straight away to a consultant diabetitian at a hospital or a clinic.’

  ‘Then why was Sally Bowker’s ordinary doctor prescribing for her?’ Green asked.

  ‘What happens usually, I think, is that the new diabetic goes to the clinic and it’s there that all the tests are done and the right initial treatment decided on. You’ll remember I said the patients were balanced or controlled? When that’s achieved, the patient goes back to his family doctor, who’s been told by the clinic what prescription to give him. And this is what the G.P. does in these cases. Prescribes for his patient and keeps an eye on him between visits to the diabetic clinic every three or four months. If a change in medicine or doses of insulin is needed, the clinic makes the adjustments when the time comes.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable,’ Green commented. ‘But I still think that if the ordinary quacks don’t know all that much about diabetes, we’re going to find it as hard as little nuts to get to grips.’

  Masters didn’t reply. Brant slowed to turn right handed over a bridge and slip gently from Berkshire into Gloucestershire. A dozen yards inside the new county he brought the Vauxhall to rest outside the Trout Inn. Masters clambered out, saying, ‘I’ve heard that every table in this place is booked for lunch and dinner weeks in advance. So prepare yourselves for a refusal.’ He led the way into the cool interior of the old Cotswold Stone house. They were in luck’s way. After a pint of Worthington on the smooth lawn running down to the river they were called to a table and a lunch that kept even Green appreciatively free from odious comparisons with police canteens.

  By two o’clock they had skirted Cirencester, leaving it on their right, and were big-dippering along the old Roman way, straight as a Chinaman’s pigtail for sixteen miles before turning at Birdlip, where Masters ordered Brant to pull in so that they could all enjoy the view over the city. Then on and down, winding between tall trees in low gear to start the last few miles into Gloucester. At the crossroads in the centre of the city they stopped to ask the way to the station.

  Chief Superintendent Hook received them in his office. He was a large, florid man, with a neat moustache that seemed too small for his face. The heat wasn’t helping him. He had his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up above the elbows. In one hand he held a wet ball of handkerchief with which, from time to time, he mopped his brow, his bald patch, and the back of his neck. His shirt showed sweat patches under the arms and round the collar, and a great forward thrust in front over the tops of his trousers. His grip as he shook hands was firm but moist. When Hook turned to greet Green and the sergeants, Masters surreptitiously wiped his own palm on his handkerchief.

  Hook, labouring under full steam, drew up chairs for them. His charm, a surprising gentleness of manner, was enhanced by the soft, almost Welsh inflexion in his voice. ‘I’m mighty glad you’ve come. And so quickly. Curious case, this is. Not one I care for at all.’

  Masters said bluntly, ‘Why?’

  Hook stared at him for a moment. Then he said, ‘Because I don’t understand what’s going on and because I knew Sally Bowker … well, shall we say I really know her father and mother, but I knew her as well.’

  ‘So you are involved personally?’

  ‘Yes. But I’m personally involved in all crime that takes place here, because I was born and bred in this city and know practically every other person in it.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant, sir.’

  ‘I know. You’re suggesting that my judgment may be clouded because the pretty daughter of an acquaintance of mine is the victim. You’re right. I make a habit of walking round Gloucester in my uniform, carrying stick and gloves, to see and be seen. Every day I walk round about the cross in the city centre, and then out a bit to one of the more domestic areas, across the park, round the schools, near the factories—even into the swimming baths. Most people, including the kids, know me. Some of them speak. Some of them look a bit apprehensive at times. We’ve a large coloured community. They see me and, I think, realize that though I represent the law, I can go among them without causing them the least concern if they’ve given me no trouble. You get my point?’

  ‘I do, sir. It seems an admirable habit. An extension of the bobby on the beat. And I can see it doing nothing but good for relations between the police and the public and—as a bonus—for your own health. A constitutional every day is what the doctors order, isn’t it? But chiefly I’m impressed that you can make the time to be out and about so much. It says a lot for your administration that you can leave your desk and other duties so regularly.’

  Hook waved a disclaiming hand. ‘I’m as proud of the way I run things as the next man. But that aside, what I was going to say
was that though I’m widely recognized and greeted pretty often by the public, I never enjoyed my jaunts as much as I did on the days when I saw Sally Bowker.’

  Green coughed. Hook glanced at him and said: ‘I know what you’re thinking. A man of my age on the look out for a lovely young lass puts me in the dirty-old-man class. Well, have it that way if you like. But I’ll still confess that seeing and passing the time of day with a vivacious, pretty young thing like her was a real tonic to me. And there’s a lot of others round here who feel the same way. She skipped along like a kid, you know. Always had a bag on a long strap over her shoulder and swung it as she went, dodging through the crowds. Head high, laughing. I can tell you it wasn’t only men who’d turn to look at her. Women, too. She’d a flair for dress. Always simple clothes, but I reckon she’d have looked well in a coal sack with a smudge of slack on her face. I do. Honest.’

  ‘We’ve seen a picture of her,’ Green said.

  ‘Then you’ll know.’

  ‘And you’re amazed that anybody could kill—even harm—a girl like that?’ Masters asked.

  ‘I am that. Apart from me knowing her father, I mean. If I’d never met Donald Bowker, or if Sally hadn’t known me from David of the White Rock, I’d still have been nonplussed. Aye, and more than that.’

  Masters said, ‘You’ve told us a lot, sir. And it’s all useful. Would you care to go a bit further and give us a verbal picture of everything you knew about Miss Bowker? I always find it a great help to know as much as possible about a victim, what she did for a living, her environment, her family, friends, and so on.’

  Hook offered him a cigarette. ‘I’ve heard how you work. That’s why I’ve been running on so much.’ Masters refused the cigarette and took out his pipe. Hook went on: ‘I’ll send for a pot of tea—unless you’d like cold squash or something? No? Right.’ He spoke into the house phone. He put it down and looked up. ‘I’ll talk all night if it’ll help, but I must have a spot of lubrication. Incidentally, while we’re waiting, I might as well tell you we’ve booked you in at the Bristol in Southgate. It’s an old inn not far from here, and it’s comfortably near the hospital if you want to chat to the staff of the diabetic clinic there.’

  Masters thanked him. The tea was brought in by a W.P.C. who poured out before leaving. As Hook stirred his tea—Masters noted he did it widdershins—he said, ‘Donald Bowker’s pretty well britched. He farms in a biggish way and runs a light-engineering works. Makes agricultural machinery, mostly. You can see it standing outside his factory all orange and blue.’

  Masters said, ‘I must interrupt you, sir, because there’s a point I’m not quite clear about. If her father is still alive …’

  ‘Mother, too. Nice-looking woman.’

  ‘Quite. Then why had Miss Bowker a bachelor flat? A girl who needed frequent medical attention would surely have been better living with her people, who could have given her help and cared for her. Especially if they live close by.’

  ‘Ah! Well, that’s it, you see. They don’t live close by any more. You came in from the east, didn’t you? Yes? In that case you probably saw signposts for places called Brockworth and Hucclecote—on your right as you come in. Gloucester’s beginning to sprawl, like everywhere else. Housing estates and shopping centres. All going up in these places outside. And roads, too. Motorways and feed roads. A few hundred yards north, and parallel to the road you used, they’ve built another great racing-track of a thing, cutting straight across good grazing and agricultural land. Donald Bowker used to farm there. Dairy farm. But some years ago, as I told you, he’d opened up his light-engineering business over near Evesham. When these roads started coming, carving up his land and running past his doorstep, he decided to sell up here and take another farm near his works. So he’s been gone the best part of three years now.’

  ‘Leaving his daughter behind.’

  Hook nodded and sipped his tea. ‘She was a visualizer or designer or whatever they call themselves these days. Sally and another two young lasses had a bit of a bright idea. They found it wasn’t so easy getting jobs, because there seem to be more of these so-called artists sculling around these days than there are places for them to fill. So they decided to set up their own little firm and concentrate on window dressing.’

  ‘On what?’ Green asked. ‘D’you mean to say that shops pay outsiders to put goods in windows?’

  ‘Apparently,’ Hook said. ‘And not only shops. There’s a raft of exhibitions taking place all the time, and people who don’t employ their own exhibition managers but who want to take a stand have to get somebody to tart things up for them. But by and large it was shop windows. You know the sort of thing. Spring fashions with banks of plastic daffodils. Winter coats with polystyrene snowmen. Sandals on pebble beaches and highly coloured price tickets stuck on the windows.’

  ‘We see it often enough in London,’ Masters said. ‘Girls wearing slacks and paddling about in their stocking feet putting model dresses on dummies. But in Gloucester …’

  ‘There’s enough big shops in Gloucester and Cheltenham to keep all the window dressers in the world busy. Take a look while you’re in these parts. Walk down Cheltenham Promenade sometime.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Masters was not a shopping man—unless visits to his tailor and frequent calls on his tobacconist counted.

  Hook went on. ‘These girls set out to provide a real service. They didn’t only dress windows, they designed the displays, and one of them actually used to make and paint the bits and bobs they used. The people who engaged them used to leave the whole thing to them. It took a month or two to get the job off the ground, but I think Donald Bowker chipped in to see they didn’t starve. And once the idea caught on! Well, I reckon you could see those girls’ handiwork in scores of shops. Not only the really big ones, either. Some of the middling-sized places, too. There’s one baby-wear shop not far from here that Sally and her friends did in the middle of last week. It’d do your heart good to see it. They’ve laid out a whole house and garden with every room showing the effect a baby has on each. They’ve even got nappies on a line with a concealed fan to blow them about. Wonderful!’

  Masters relit his pipe. ‘So Miss Bowker stayed in Gloucester in a bachelor flat. In the same block as her business colleagues?’

  ‘No. The other two live in Cheltenham. Sally used to be there, too, until she became engaged to Brian Dent. He lives here, in Gloucester, with his parents, so she moved to be near him. I don’t think that was the only reason, though. She was, basically, a Gloucester girl, and the flat she shared with the other two in Cheltenham wasn’t really big enough for three. So when these bachelor flats went up in Gloucester, she took one. She told me some time ago it was a good arrangement. She was on the spot for the work at this end, while the other two did Cheltenham and looked after the studio which they’d been able to set up in the flat there after she moved out.’

  ‘What’s the name of her firm? And her partners’ names, too, please?’

  ‘They call themselves Show Off. The other girls are Winifred Bracegirdle and Clara Breese. They were known around about as the three Bs.’

  ‘Good. Now, sir. Miss Bowker was diabetic, she was engaged …’

  ‘Wait a bit. She wasn’t diabetic when she first got engaged to young Dent.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. She’s only been diabetic six or eight months. She was engaged a year ago.’

  Masters looked thoughtful. ‘There was no question of breaking off the engagement?’

  Hook was very definite. ‘None whatever. The wedding was postponed a bit, perhaps. That I don’t really know. I heard she was originally to be married this month, but be that as it may, it was definitely arranged for this September. Preparations were well in hand.’

  ‘Thank you. Now just one or two minor points. Who and what is Brian Dent?’

  ‘He’s the son of Harry Dent of Dent and Blackett. They’re architects, surveyors, auctioneers, house agents, insurance age
nts, and everything you can think of. They sell farms, animals, houses … the lot.’

  ‘Wealthy?’

  Hook grimaced. ‘Did you ever know one in that line that wasn’t? And they’re in a big way. The biggest for miles around.’

  ‘And what is Brian?’

  ‘He’s a qualified architect and surveyor. He took Blackett’s place when Blackett died. Harry Dent is the auctioneer of the business. A bit of a bluff old sinner. Better at knocking down furniture in the corn exchange than anything else. But not too bad if you can put up with old blowhards like him. Brian’s very different. A nice lad. Sally couldn’t have picked herself a better.’

  ‘Where do they live?’

  Hook gave Masters the address.

  ‘Now, sir, Miss Bowker’s doctor? Who’s he?’

  ‘Neville Sisson. He lives fairly close by here. Near the library and museum. Got a tumbledown old house. He’s youngish, but he’s good. Sally was in luck’s way with him because he knows a good deal about diabetes. I spoke to him about it once. He told me that the country’s pretty short of full time diabetitians—like most things—and so diabetic patients in many hospitals are the responsibility of the consultant physicians. Well, you know how they’re fixed. They have to offload a good deal of practical work on to their registrars. And that’s what Sisson was. A registrar before he entered practice. He used to run a diabetic clinic twice a week. He still helps at one of our hospitals here. So Sally was in experienced hands.’

  Masters said, ‘If it was Sisson who refused the death certificate, it shows he knew what he was about.’

  Hook helped himself to another cigarette. He dropped the match into the ash tray. ‘Aye. He knows. But I don’t. We haven’t even begun to sort it out. That’s why—after the coroner’s verdict yesterday—we sent for you and why I’m so glad to see you here. You’ve got a reputation, Chief Inspector …’ He looked round. ‘… and all of you. I hope you’ll live up to it.’ For a moment Masters thought Hook was growing moist about the eyes, but he went on talking. ‘You see, Sally Bowker used to call me Uncle Fred. I’m not strictly her uncle. Her mother’s only a distant relation of my wife’s. But I’ve already explained what I felt about her. And I want whoever did it put behind bars for the rest of their natural.’