Dread and Water

by Douglas Clark

  As Toinquet saw Masters into his room, he said: “Cold supper on a Sunday. You help yourself from the side table between seven-thirty and eight-fifteen. Sign the book inside the door as having eaten.”

  “That gives us a few minutes for a wash.”

  “Bags of time. You’ve got a washbasin in here as you can see. There’s a staff for making beds and so on, all as trustworthy as can be, but if you’ve got anything confidential, let me know and I’ll allot you a secure cupboard in depository.”

  “Thanks. There is one more thing, Mr Toinquet.” The Security Officer stood silent, waiting. “When I investigate a case, I do so without fear or favour. I also expect co-operation and complete candour, particularly from somebody like yourself who should—everything else being equal—be on our side.”

  “I don’t see your point—unless you think I’m hiding something.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’m a Chief Security Officer. I’ve more secrets in my head than anybody else round here.”

  “I appreciate that. Are there any of those secrets you should be sharing with me?”

  “Of course not. You may be a top policeman, but this is official secrets stuff. Nobody gets it out of me.”

  Masters considered the man for a moment. Took in his window-pane check suit with its hacking jacket long-skirted and full—too full—the club tie, the high-gloss shoes, and decided, bearing in mind that it was late Sunday afternoon and therefore time for dressing down, not up, that here was a vain man. Was it his vanity that caused him to be so prickly, or something more?

  “Hey, Widow!” Green stuck his head round the door. “Sergeant Brant can’t get in with the bags.”

  The confrontation was at an end.

  “Sorry. I’ll unlock.” Toinquet turned back to Masters. “OK, Super, I’ll be in the ante room if you’ll join me there when you’re ready.” The invitation sounded to Masters more like a challenge than a friendly gesture.

  “Like some of the better army billets,” said Green a quarter of an hour later as all four of them made their way together to the mess area. “I suppose they have to shove these places up in the Centres that are miles from anywhere—for the unmarrieds and visitors and such like.”

  The ante room was furnished from government stock. A huge red carpet with grey medallions four feet across that gave it a dusty air; chairs, all of a kind, upholstered in red and brown washable vinyl; round teak coffee tables. But the room had the comfort of an open fire. It was deserted except for Toinquet who stood, one hand on the brick mantelpiece, one foot on the scuffed curb.

  “We can have a drink in here if you want to sit, or we can go to the bar next door and stand.”

  “Bar, sir, please,” pleaded Hill. “We’ve been sitting all afternoon and I must say a drink always tastes better in a bar.”

  The bar was a small room, no more than fifteen feet square, leading off the ante room. The walls had been decorated, cartoon-like, with more amateur enthusiasm than professional skill. The bar counter took up two-thirds of one side. Behind it was a barman in a white jacket talking to his solitary customer. As the five entered, Toinquet addressed the latter’s back. “Good evening, Doctor.”

  The man turned and stared in surprise.

  “Good heavens! Masters, isn’t it? And full crew? You remember me? Partington?”

  Masters grinned. “Good evening, Dr Partington. Yes, we’re all here.” They shook hands. “Three years ago, wasn’t it? The case in Oldham where the young woman died as a result of criminal assault?”

  “That’s it. I had to help with the gory details.”

  “Yes. Nasty business, that.”

  “You all know each other?” asked Toinquet in some surprise. Masters got the impression that Toinquet was perturbed by the knowledge. But the Security Officer’s recuperative powers were working well. His next words sounded normal enough.

  “Fine. Now, what’ll who have?”

  The party broke up into small groups.

  “You’ve come to solve the mystery of our three dead boffins, I suppose,” said Partington.

  “That’s it,” replied Masters. “I must say it’s pleasant to find a face one knows in a place like this. But tell me, how does a provincial GP find himself in a research centre?”

  “I’m the resident quack.”

  “Purely medical?”

  “If you mean simply to look after the health of the hired help and their families, not quite. I do that, of course, but I’m also involved in any facet of the research that impinges on matters medical.”

  “I see. How come?”

  “As a matter of fact, that case in Oldham really started me off. Caroline Benson …”

  “The girl who died?”

  Partington nodded. “She wasn’t a girl really, you know. She was a very attractive young woman of four-and-twenty.”

  Masters looked at him closely.

  “Yes,” said Partington. “If she hadn’t been one of my patients … well, that made me slow off the mark. It was my first practice job, and I was very conscious of the doctor/patient relationship. Otherwise, I think we’d have got together …”

  “I didn’t know,” said Masters gently. “Believe me, I’m very sorry.”

  “There was nothing settled. Only hope on my side. But her death decided me. I’d always been keen on the physics side, so I applied for a two-year post-graduate course in nuclear medicine.”

  “With this sort of thing in mind?”

  “Not really. I was toying with the thought of Canada. They have a lakeside place out there—White Plains, I think it’s called—where they are concentrating on the medical side. Plenty of openings there for the properly qualified, with first-class working conditions and good pay.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “Heaven knows! Would you believe patriotism or something akin?”

  “I would. I’m very aware of it within myself.”

  “I suppose you are. A chap of your calibre would be welcome anywhere. I’m surprised the FBI hasn’t lured you away. Anyway, when I got to the end of my course I decided that if I was going to apply for jobs I’d better have a reference from the head of the faculty. When I approached him he said the British government had a job for me if I would consider taking it. I agreed. After all, he’d accepted me for the course and they’d paid for my training. So I found myself here about fourteen months ago.”

  “Can I get you another drink?” asked Masters.

  “Not before we eat if you don’t mind. We can wander through now if you like.”

  As they moved, Masters asked Partington if he was still unmarried.

  “I’m to be a June groom,” he said with a grin. “The junior partner in the Pottersby Health Centre is a bonny, bouncing, well-covered Scots lassie with a degree in medicine and a belief in the National Health Service.”

  “And in you, too, by the sound of it.”

  “She keeps that aspect well hidden. Ah! Here we are. Cold cuts. That looks like rabbit. Cold beef pie—usually very good. No bully, I’m afraid … and yes, cold mutton. Help yourself. Spud salad, beetroot, pickies …”

  They loaded their plates and took places at one of the tables. By now several newcomers who had not been in the bar were entering the dining room.

  “I see the party has got back from Wales.”

  Masters looked about him. A middle-aged man in knee breeches, stockings, fell boots and roll-neck sweater was helping himself to food. A few feet away from him, a woman, square-built, in a tweed skirt and bottle-green corduroy lumber jacket, brown walking shoes and rolled-down socks, was shaking salad cream from a bottle.

  “Those two?”

  Partington nodded. “Cecil Winter and Dorothy Clay. Both walkers. Winter is secretary of the club.”

  The two selected a table some distance away. It was clear they were fond of the outdoors. Winter was scrawny, hawk-like, with a bald patch as brown and weather-beaten as his face. Dorothy Clay, Masters estimated, would be about forty.
She, too, was weather-beaten, but not unattractively so. She had a round face with a button of a nose, short-length hair and a strong, comfortable figure, not very tall, but compact.

  “Are they both living-in members?”

  “Oh, yes. Clay, I’m afraid, is a reluctant spinster …”

  “Meaning she’s reluctant to remain one or reluctant to relinquish her single status?”

  “The former. She’s feller-fond, as they say in Oldham. But in liking them she adopts so many of their mannerisms that she lessens her chances more than she increases them.”

  “Definitely one of the boys, is she?”

  “She likes her pint and her hill-walking.”

  “Winter?”

  “He’s a married man, but his wife stays on at her own home. As I understand it she was reluctant to give it up for a two- or three-year tour here in rented accommodation. And I don’t blame her. From what I hear, they own a delectable dwelling made from knocking two picturesque cottages into one and installing all mod cons.”

  “Odd, that.”

  “How so?”

  “He climbs or walks at week-ends in preference to going home. Or is it so far away he can’t get home easily?”

  “Down in Dorset. Not all that far.”

  “And what does he do here?”

  “He’s the leader of Group Six.”

  “The group the three dead men were in?”

  “Yes. But damp down your interest a bit. He’s not a bad old stick, and he never climbs.”

  Masters made a mental note to ask Toinquet whether Winter was one of those walkers who had been members of all the parties on which the fatalities had occurred. Not that walkers who were miles away from the scene of the fall in each case could conceivably be implicated. But all the ground had to be covered.

  “I haven’t yet seen the post-mortem reports on Redruth and Silk,” said Masters. “Have you got copies of the medical evidence in your files by any chance?”

  “Lord, no. There was no reason for them to be sent here. They were kept, as usual, in the localities where the accidents happened and where the inquests were held.”

  “I wonder whether you could save me the bother of asking for them to be sent down here. I shall get the one on Mailer from the police in North Wales as a matter of course now that foul play is suspected.”

  “Anything I can do to help, I will.”

  Masters pushed his plate to one side. “There is something I would particularly like. The first two, Redruth and Silk, died when they hit the ground. Obviously the post-mortems showed nothing untoward, otherwise there’d have been inquiries made at the time. So I’m going to learn nothing from them.”

  “Nor from this last one, I suspect.”

  “But there’s a difference this time. Mailer lived for some hours. A doctor must have reached him fairly soon. I want a report from that doctor.”

  “He’ll speak at the inquest. Get a transcript.”

  “I don’t want an official report. I prefer something on the old-boy net. Ask the medic what he thought had happened, not what he reported.”

  “You’re not going to get anything. Mailer may have still been alive, but he was concussed. There wouldn’t have been any verbal clues given, and broken bodies tell you little when they’ve fallen several hundred feet on to a jumble of rocks—to say nothing of hitting a few on the way down. After a post-mortem you may get a few more facts, but only as to which bones were fractured and which not.”

  Masters tapped the table. “Look, I’m up against it here. I know the business stinks of murder, but even at this early stage I know I’m on a sticky wicket. So I’ve got to explore not only reasonable possibilities, but unreasonable ones, too. And I want a spontaneous report from that doctor. Not an official one. That’s why I don’t want to ask the North Wales police to approach him.”

  “In that case, get me his name and address and I’ll phone him. But he may not be willing to play.”

  Partington was showing all the reluctance of the medical profession to interfere in matters which are not strictly their business—despite his words. Masters couldn’t see the objection. To him, the gathering of information was more important than professional reticence.

  “You were Mailer’s GP, weren’t you? You’re entitled to know all the little ethical secrets.”

  “And pass them on to you? I like that!”

  “Can I get you some more coffee?” asked Masters blithely.

  Green was eating with Toinquet.

  “Come on, Widow, out with it.” Green sawed a forkful from a slice of mutton.

  “Out with what?”

  “Your off-the-record idea about these deaths. And don’t tell me you haven’t got one. No Security man of your experience would let three of his little lambs die without having some thoughts as to how they came to get the chop.”

  “No ideas at all, Greeny.”

  “You’re a liar,” said Green complacently. “You’ll be telling me next that the thought had never occurred to you that those boyos hadn’t slipped, but were pushed.”

  “I don’t see why both you and Masters think I’m hiding something.”

  “So he thinks so, too, does he? Why didn’t you tell Crome that he should ask for an investigation?” The content of the question was pure guesswork on Green’s part, but it seemed to be right on target. “You must have had some reason.”

  “I was going to, but I was beaten to it by Whitehall.”

  “In that case, you must have had a good reason for intending to.”

  “Coincidences,” said Toinquet, sounding a little short on temper. “When things happen in threes—being paid to be a suspicious man—I naturally get suspicious.”

  “Pull the other one. If three of these blokes won a couple of hundred each on the pools in the same period it would be just as big a coincidence, but I’ll bet you wouldn’t turn a hair. But you’re turning hairs now. Your wig’s so bloody crimped you could use it for a switchback at Battersea fun fair.”

  “You’re getting clever in your old age, Greeny. So I’ll tell you. I’m into everything here, including the mountaineering and walking club. It’s obvious why. They push off alone, outside my bailiwick. It’s an opportunity some fly boy might seize to do something stupid.”

  “Like passing over a few secrets?”

  “I know it sounds daft, but it has been done; and that’s what I’m here to prevent.”

  “Any thoughts on which of them might try anything like that?”

  “No. If I had, I’d watch them closer than a dog watching a bone.”

  “No coincidences about these week-end trips to make you suspicious?”

  “Only these deaths.”

  “Do you mean that there are no coincidences, or just that there are no suspicious coincidences?”

  Toinquet waved his knife in the air. “Well of course there’ll be coincidences if I looked for them. If I analysed everybody’s movements …”

  “Hold it,” growled Green. “If you don’t look for them, how the hell do you know there are no suspicious coincidences?”

  “I meant none that spring to the eye in the normal course of events.”

  “That doesn’t square up with what you’ve just said about being into everything here in case some fly boy pulls a fast one.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “You suggested that you look closely at every activity, then you said you meant that the only coincidences you are likely to spot are those that spring readily to the eye. Which is it?”

  Toinquet put down his knife and fork. “Now look here, Greeny, you’re beginning to get up my nose.” He leaned forward, speaking quietly but venomously. “You come here and start throwing your weight around.…”

  “Who, me?” asked Green in mock surprise. “Come off it, Widow. You know the score—or you damn well should do. There’s nothing personal in this. If there was, I’d be asking you why you weren’t suspicious of the second climbing death. The first one, even. But I’m not. I�
�ve never mentioned them.”

  “You’re hinting I’ve fallen down on my job.”

  “Only because I’ve got a great respect for your ability, Widow.”

  “What does that mean?” The Security Officer sounded slightly mollified, but still wary.

  Green pulled a dish of rhubarb towards him and took up his spoon. “Well, old mate, if you say you’re into everything here, then I’m pretty sure it will be all buttoned up and there’ll be no hanky-panky going unspotted, because you know your game. But—and this is where there’s a big discrepancy …” He took a spoonful of rhubarb. “I say, Widow, this is good. When I was a lad I used to train for the school sports on rhubarb. Blood-shot celery we used to call it.…”

  “What’s this big discrepancy you were rabbiting on about?”

  “Why, the fact that there was some obvious hanky-panky going on despite the fact that you were keeping an eye on things.”

  “You haven’t proved there was.”

  “True. But you said yourself you were so sure there was that you were going to urge the Director to call in the Yard if Whitehall hadn’t beaten you to it.”

  “I said that was because of the coincidence.”

  “That’s right. You did. But you’re not going to tell me that a chap of your calibre has to wait for a coincidence to hit him in the eye before he takes action.”

  “This was three deaths. Of course it hit me in the eye.”

  “Meaning you didn’t ask yourself a few questions after the second death? Two deaths in precisely similar circumstances constitute a coincidence too, you know.”

  “What questions could I ask? I wasn’t there when the fatalities occurred.”

  “Neither were we, but we’re asking questions.”

  “Meaning I should have carried out an investigation after Redruth fell?”

  “Why not?”

  “How far would I have got?”

  “I don’t know. But even if you weren’t successful, you might have saved Mailer.”

  “How d’you make that out?”

  “The mere fact that you were going round asking questions might have put somebody off trying again. That might have saved Mailer and saved us from having to poke our noses in, which you don’t seem to like over much, Widow.”