Dread and Water

by Douglas Clark

  “I don’t.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “This is my patch.…”

  “Borax!” Green scraped his dish clean and smacked his lips over the last of the rhubarb. “If it’s your patch, Widow, you want to keep it free of weeds. And anybody who wants to do that welcomes a friendly hand to help him. Let’s face it, you don’t call in an expert gardener and then try to stop him working just because it’s your bit of land.”

  “Have it your way, Greeny.”

  “Not my way, boyo. Masters’ way. And he’s a bastard. It’s no secret him and me don’t hit it off. I can just hear what he’s going to say about you in that supercilious voice of his.”

  “Oh, yes! What?”

  “Well, you’ve got to appreciate that Masters thinks he’s the ultimate, and that nobody, but nobody, could object to his presence—unless they had something personal to hide. That being so, the first thing he’s going to say about you—and he’ll have his nose in the air when he says it—is that he reckons you’ll bear watching. And when he says watching, he means hounding to death.”

  “Let him,” said Toinquet.

  “If that’s all you’ve got to say,” murmured Green, selecting a crumpled Kensitas, “where’s all this chit-chat getting us?”

  “Getting us? Getting you, you mean. All I’ve been trying to point out is that I’ve been on some of these week-end trips. I saw all those three chaps climb, and believe me, they could climb. And that’s not only my opinion, either. So why did they all fall from easy pitches? That’s what you and Masters should be asking, not hounding me. Christ, man, I’m wanting results as much as you are, even if I don’t want you here.”

  “Why were two of them climbing alone?”

  “Because they were on such easy pitches. That’s my point. We’re always talking about people not acting out of character and leopards not changing their spots. If you accept that, then you have to accept that good climbers don’t crash from easy pitches. Not three of them, at any rate.”

  “I’d still like to know why two of them were climbing alone. I’ll even accept your explanation for the first chap. But after a fatality, surely the climbing discipline is tightened up?”

  Toinquet sounded exasperated. “We’ve been through all that. The important thing in climbing is the personal element.”

  “But that doesn’t mean climbing alone,” said Green stubbornly. “All it means is that it’s up to you and your pals on the same rope to make your own decisions as the need crops up. It doesn’t mean being so free—or so high an’ mighty—that you do your own thing on your own.”

  Toinquet sighed. “You don’t know this crowd. They’re not like ordinary people. Honest, they’re not. They’re nice men and women, but they’re crackers.”

  “Intense?”

  “That’s the word. Inner driving force like a coiled-up spring. I tell you, Greeny, that this lot would go off on a difficult climb alone just out of pure pig-iron if you were to remind them of the dangers.”

  “Yeah?”

  “They’d smile and say that the higher the penalty for failure is likely to be, the greater the reward for success. And that, they will argue, is the most personally satisfying of the attractions of climbing.”

  “Something I would like to ask you about,” said Masters as he and Partington carried their coffee cups into the ante room, “is Crome’s standing in the hierarchy of boffins.”

  “I don’t think I understand you. Or if I do, I don’t know whether I’m sufficiently aware of the comparative abilities of senior scientists or the regard in which they are held by their peers.”

  They selected two chairs set well away from the others in the big room.

  “I want to talk generalisations,” said Masters. “And for that reason, I ask you, as an outsider, to give me your opinion. I don’t feel I can ask one of Crome’s own scientists—for obvious reasons—and even if I were to do so, I’d probably be blinded with parochial details I don’t want.”

  “In that case, fire away. But remember Crome is my boss, too, and I’m not entirely devoid of a feeling of loyalty simply because my discipline differs from his.”

  “He gave me to understand that Pottersby is very much in the second division of research centres; that it doesn’t compare either in facilities or standard of staff with Harwell or Porton, for instance. Is that mock modesty or fact?”

  Partington shrugged his shoulders. “He’s right, to some degree. We tend to be a jack-of-all-trades centre. But only in so far as the work is more diverse, not less technical. Nor are the problems posed and resolved here less puzzling than elsewhere.”

  “And Crome himself?” Masters felt he could safely introduce the name now Partington was talking freely. “Is he less than outstanding that he should become head of a lesser institution?”

  This time Partington chuckled aloud. “If he gave you that impression, he was pulling your leg unmercifully.”

  “Why should he do that?”

  “Even among top-flight boffins, and people who select and appoint them, there are human weaknesses which a realistic chap like yourself would find unbelievable.”

  “Try me.”

  “Directors of places such as this obviously have to be able scientists, but in addition they have to be skilled administrators and diplomats of a high order.”

  “In order to allocate work and keep a lot of highly temperamental staff sweet and friendly?”

  “That’s it. And so, in choosing a man to head up a place like Pottersby, there has to be a lot of careful selection done.”

  “And lobbying? And personal animosities catered for? And compromise? And all the rest of the ballyhoo?”

  “You’ve got the picture. Now take ability as a scientist, which is obviously the first prerequisite for such a post. How would you decide which of a dozen worthy men, all with much the same experience and the same numbers of letters after their names, should be chosen as the Director of Pottersby?”

  “I’m doubtful whether anybody could make such a choice without knowing all the candidates personally—knowing them well enough, that is, to be aware of their strengths and weaknesses. And among those latter, these days, I suppose one must consider political affiliations or bias, potential for becoming a blackmail victim, and all the other unsavoury facets of character.”

  “You’ve obviously had some experience on selection boards involving appointments where security is a factor.”

  “I haven’t. I’m trying to be the realist you very kindly said I was.”

  “Fair enough. But having satisfactorily eliminated the perverts, the incurable alcoholics and debtors, the fanatical and so on, what then?”

  “You tell me.”

  “This is where the human frailty comes in. There are usually some selectors who have favourites among the candidates. Those who are uncommitted, however, seek for a sign for guidance.”

  “In what guise?”

  “Usually in publications. A leading man who has read papers hither, thither and yon, and has appeared in print in the scientific journals, begins to get known as a leading light. So he has a head start.”

  “But?”

  “This sort of caper is all very fine for the man who is involved in work which is important but which is not cloaked in the secrecy demanded by Security. He can write and talk as much as he likes, doing his own PR job. But the chap who beavers away successfully on some work which is so hush-hush that even the Research Council members themselves aren’t aware of it, has no big drum to beat. Continuing the orchestral analogy, there is nobody to blow his trumpet in the councils of the mighty except, possibly, his own boss, should he be consulted.”

  “And the boss, presumably, would not wish to lose so useful a colleague.”

  “Quite. There ain’t no fairness. It often takes a long time for silent ability to be fully recognised, and when it is, it is not accepted without trial, as it were.”

  “I get it. Crome was a non-publisher.”

 
“He was almost forbidden to breathe. But the sheer brilliance of the man eventually broke through the clouds obscuring him. So he was sent here. He knows he’s being given an audition for a bigger role.”

  “For a Directorship at one of the major centres?”

  “One supposes so. But he would likely go as a Deputy Director in the first place. And that’s a pity, because though he’s a good administrator and diplomat, a Deputy Director is more of a quartermaster, if such illustrious men will forgive the analogy. I mean they are more responsible for providing the buildings and buying the test tubes than for directing the research itself.”

  “But even to do that one would need to know what one was about—scientifically, I mean.”

  “Naturally. But it is a housekeeping role, nonetheless.”

  Masters put his coffee cup down.

  “Thank you for being so frank. I’m beginning to get the background now. But just one more question. If Crome is on trial here, will the business I’m investigating affect him adversely?”

  “My guess is that it all depends on how you manage to play it. But it can’t do him any positive good. Scandals and publicity about a place like this are frowned on officially, and the Director is very responsible.”

  “Very responsible?”

  “He is curbed and watched pretty closely in the interests of finance, security and so on. But the place, the people and the work are all his.”

  “And the results?”

  “Lord knows who they belong to! In name, they belong to the great British public who fund the work. But they’re rarely allowed to know the extent of their corporate possessions.”

  Masters got to his feet. “I’ve been neglecting my flock.”

  “I’ll bet. If I know you, you gave them instructions to make individual contacts among the few of us in mess and to pump for all they’re worth.”

  Masters grinned. “I assure you I gave no such instruction.”

  “So they didn’t need it. It’s a standing order. I noticed Green had buttonholed Toinquet before supper.”

  “They’re old buddies. Joined the force together years ago, but Toinquet moved to a security section and has stayed with the work ever since. He preferred it to being a policeman.”

  “And your sergeants? They weren’t in the dining room.”

  “That’s what I just said. I’ve been neglecting them.”

  “Right. I’ll leave you to your Bo-Peep act. I’ll not forget the doctor’s original observations on Mailer—if he made any.”

  “If he didn’t, he’s a foolish man, with the likelihood of an inquest staring him in the face.”

  “You’ve no idea just how foolish an overworked GP can sometimes be.”

  It was just after Masters and Partington had left the bar to have supper that Hill, stepping backwards to allow one of the newly returned climbers and walkers to get up to the counter, jogged the arm of another drinker.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  The man wiped a few drops of beer from his jacket. “No harm done. It’s man-made fibre. A drop of ale won’t stain it, but it’ll make it smell good.”

  “Can I get you another to top up, sir?”

  “I didn’t lose more than ten mils. And what’s all this sir stuff?”

  “Policemen are supposed to be polite to members of the public,” said Hill.

  “Copper, are you?”

  “Detective Sergeant Hill.”

  “I’m Alec Bullock.”

  “Scientist, sir?”

  “Sort of. Tame mathematician, actually, though I’m listed as Chief Statistician.”

  Hill guessed Bullock to be about forty. He had all the appearance of a middle-aged, switched-on trendy. The fair hair, though sparse, was long enough to hang over the collar of the grey-green anorak. The floral shirt peeped less than coyly from behind the zipped front; the necktie, held together in front by a brass ring, shouted at it; and the fingers that held the beer were beringed and none too clean in appearance.

  “Four of us are down here to look into the death of Dr Mailer.”

  “So I heard. Pity about Clive buying it! Not a bad chap!”

  “You knew him well, sir?”

  Bullock said: “Cut out this sir lark, Sergeant. Call me Alec, Alexander, Sandy, or simply Bullock, but don’t call me sir.”

  “Right. Did you know Dr Mailer well?”

  “What is this? An inquisition?”

  “If you like. Three scientists have been killed while climbing. Hundreds of miles apart. We can’t hope to get to know why unless we ask questions. So we’re asking questions—of everybody.”

  Bullock considered Hill for a moment, measuring him, the sergeant supposed, like an equation put down for the solving.

  “OK. I knew Clive pretty well. I did his sums for him when he wanted me to and we drank together occasionally in the village.”

  “Not in here?”

  “He was a married man. Lived out.”

  “But at lunchtimes?”

  “Clive drank very little.”

  “But you said you met him in the pub occasionally.”

  “So I did. He wasn’t a teetotaller, and his missus liked a drink in company. A lot of us use the pub. It’s one of our few recreational facilities within striking distance. The drinks are dearer than in here, but we can’t live cooped up the whole time.”

  Hill got the impression that Bullock wanted to leave it at that. His glass was empty and he seemed set to leave. But the sergeant was too much of a professional to break off a conversation which might still yield information.

  “Dr Mailer liked mountaineering? Was that to keep physically fit? Or didn’t he drink much in order to keep fit for climbing?”

  Bullock held out his hand for Hill’s glass. “Come on, have the other half.”

  “I’m doing nicely, thank you.”

  “A short then. I’m going to have one.”

  “Not for me. This isn’t my first, you know.”

  “I’ll get you one. A double. Bell’s.”

  Hill felt it unwise to argue further. He edged away to a less crowded part of the little room to wait for Bullock. The mathematician’s attitude intrigued him. Bullock gave the impression of not wanting to talk, but against all reason was proposing to do so—fortified by drink to make the undertaking easier. Hill felt a tingle of pleasure: the compulsive talker who really has something to contribute and is not simply a gasbag is a godsend to a policeman.

  “Here you are. I put in water—fifty, fifty.”

  Hill thanked him.

  “You asked me if Clive Mailer liked mountaineering,” reminded Bullock.

  “And you didn’t answer.”

  “How the hell could I? A soft bloody word such as ‘liked’! He was a mountaineer. A good one. And an enthusiast.”

  Bullock downed his own Scotch in a single gulp and, without another word, turned again towards the bar. When he came back he said, “I’m going to get as tight as a tick, Sergeant.”

  “Just like that?” The feeling Hill had about this man was reinforced. A reason for insobriety in the face of a police investigation could mean anything. But it had to mean something. Guilt? Guilty knowledge?

  “Why not?”

  “You must have some good reason. What I mean is … ”

  “I know fine what you mean. You can understand somebody getting tanked up, inadvertently as it were, as an evening progresses. But you can’t see the sense in announcing that you’re going to drink yourself into oblivion.”

  “That’s right. I can’t.”

  “Why don’t you add ‘when a Scotland Yard man is asking questions?’ It’s a new experience for you, is it? Well, let me tell you, Sergeant—and you needn’t stare at me to see if I’m still sober, I am—that I feel like the biggest lump of excreta there’s ever been. And shall I tell you why?”

  “I’d like to hear.”

  Bullock drained his glass. Hill wondered whether to try and stop the statistician having another so that he would remain lu
cid now that he was about to talk, or whether to lubricate him a little more to further loosen his tongue. Bullock solved the problem. He held out his glass. “Your round, I believe. Let’s have one on police expenses.” The words were just beginning to slur.

  With his third quick double in his hand and the first two already augmenting the effect of the beer he had drunk initially, Bullock showed every sign of growing confidential.

  “You were saying you were feeling at cross purposes with yourself,” prompted Hill.

  “Thass a nice way of putting it. I liked Clive Mailer. Liked him a lot.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “But I liked his wife even more.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t bloody well see, Sergeant.” Bullock took a drink. “You don’t see because you can’t. Do you know where I was when I heard that he had fallen from that bloody mountain and broken every bone in his body?”

  “Tell me.”

  “In bed with his wife. At lunchtime on Sunday! I’d been there since last night.”

  “I see.” Hill felt a surge of sour disappointment. A man in bed at Pottersby could hardly be directly implicated in a fall from a cliff in Wales. But … dead man … wife playing up … there were the beginnings of a very familiar pattern here. Perhaps the skilled mathematician had found his own way of solving the eternal triangle.

  “You see? You keep on saying you see. You don’t at all. The phone on the bedside table rang. She answered it. It was Crome to tell her about Clive. Can you bloody well appreciate the situation? Think it through, Sergeant, and then you’ll see what I mean. Another man’s wife naked in your arms, mourning the imminent death of the husband she’s just deceived. Not exactly the pleasantest way to end a dirty week-end, do you think?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Now do you see why I’m going to get paralytic? Do you?”

  Hill nodded. All he could think of to say was: “So you’re not a mountaineer, Alec?”

  The reply surprised him.

  “Of course I bloody well am. Or was. I haven’t been away with them on these Sunday jaunts for months now.”

  “Ah!” Hill thought he knew the reason. With Mailer a keen climber and, therefore, presumably away quite often at weekends, Mrs Mailer would be free to entertain Bullock. His thoughts were interrupted by Bullock.